The Grey Fog was a forbidden phrase in this land, whispered only in fear since the 14th century. To the Greeks, it symbolized the beginning of the end. In England, it was believed to be a void of darkness—an omen filled with ancient, unspeakable evil.
I am the protagonist of this tale: Vikir Vanberskervile.
My life had changed drastically, though not by fortune's kindness. I was neither noble nor royal; no ancient bloodline traced my name through gilded halls or sacred scrolls. I was merely a detective—a commoner scraping a living on the outskirts of town, where unpaid bills gathered at my front door like silent judges.
My work paid little and demanded much. Missing chickens, stolen horses, petty disputes between drunken neighbors—such were the cases that kept me alive, though barely.
In this forsaken realm, people like me were regarded as refuse.
We existed to serve the nobles and the royals, to labor so they might feast, to bleed so they might rule. And yet, by some cruel twist of fate, I found myself entrusted with the greatest investigation of my lifetime: the abduction of Sophia Claret, Duchess of Grimsby.
Sophia was no mere duchess.
She was of royal blood, born of the prestigious House of Claret. Among all noble and royal families, three stood at the pinnacle of England's power: the House of Silver, from which the King himself hailed; the House of Bridgerton, masters of trade and influence; and the House of Claret, forged in steel and discipline.
The Clarets produced warriors—men and women trained from childhood in swordsmanship and war. From their ranks came the Royal Knights, sworn directly to the King.
For someone like me to be drawn into such affairs was unthinkable.
A fortnight after Sophia hosted the Royal Gala, she vanished.
Abduction, some whispered. Assassination, others feared. No evidence spoke clearly. The mystery shook the kingdom—and somehow, impossibly, I was the one chosen to unravel it.
That was where my story truly began.
Chapter II — Ashes of the Gala
My investigation began where all lies begin: among those who smiled too much.
The Royal Gala had left behind more than broken wine glasses and trampled petals. It left secrets—whispers trapped in silk-lined halls and memories blurred by candlelight. I questioned servants first. Then guards. Then guests who pretended not to remember anything beyond the music and the wine.
Each answer contradicted the last.
Sophia had been seen dancing near midnight. Others swore she had left early. One guard claimed she vanished near the eastern balcony—another insisted no such balcony existed.
Stranger still were the symbols.
Carved faintly beneath banquet tables. Scratched into the stone near servant corridors. Circles within circles, marked with thin, deliberate lines. Not noble crests. Not religious icons.
Something older.
The trail led me beyond Grimsby—into villages where people avoided eye contact, into monasteries where monks spoke of dreams not their own, into taverns where laughter stopped the moment I mentioned the Grey Fog.
Everywhere I went, the same phrase surfaced in hushed tones:
"The Beholder sees."
Chapter III — The Accusation
The fog reached the capital before I did.
By the time I arrived, the story had already changed.
Evidence surfaced—too perfect, too clean. Witnesses recalled seeing me near restricted areas of the gala. A bloodstained letter bearing my seal was "discovered" in a chapel vault. Someone had ensured my name was written into the crime.
I was arrested at dawn.
Chains replaced questions. Guards who once spoke politely now avoided my eyes. The accusation was swift and merciless:
I was named the abductor of Sophia Claret.
A commoner. A detective. A convenient villain.
The trial never came.
Instead, I was taken beneath Blackstone Keep, into cells older than the crown itself.
That was when I realized the truth.
This was never about justice.
Chapter IV — The Cell Without Shadows
My cell had no shadows.
No matter where the torchlight fell, darkness refused to settle. The walls were smooth stone, etched with the same circular symbols I had seen across the kingdom.
Voices came at night—not screams, not whispers, but calm instructions spoken just beyond hearing. They did not threaten. They suggested. They questioned my memories. My guilt.
They wanted me to doubt myself.
That was when I learned of them.
The Choir of the Veil.
A cult older than the kingdom, devoted not to gods—but to perception. They believed reality could be bent through fear, suggestion, and repetition. They did not torture bodies.
They reshaped minds.
Prisoners emerged broken, confessing to crimes they never committed, swearing loyalty to truths that were not their own.
Sophia Claret, I learned, had discovered them.
And for that, she had vanished.
Chapter V — The Beholder Unbound
My escape did not come from strength.
It came from shame.
The Duke of Grimsby—Sophia's father—had uncovered the truth too late. His own knights had been infiltrated. His house manipulated. His daughter taken not by force, but by trust.
He freed me in secret.
By then, the Grey Fog had spread across England—not as mist, but as fear. The Choir of the Veil had begun their final work: turning nobles against commoners, truth against truth, mind against mind.
I vanished from the capital that night.
No longer a detective.
No longer a prisoner.
But a witness.
And witnesses are dangerous things.
The Beholder had seen me.
And now—
I see it.