The caravan departed Shepherd's Cross at first light, the morning dew still heavy on the grass when the wagons rolled eastward. Ellis had said nothing about his nocturnal visitor, unsure whether Lyrisiel's appearance had been real or some strange dream born of fatigue and his newly awakened cultivation.
The Fissure Shard in his pouch, however, was undeniably real—a cold weight against his hip that occasionally pulsed with energy that resonated with his Aether affinity.
"You seem preoccupied," Merek noted as they walked. The researcher had fallen into step beside Ellis, his keen eyes missing nothing. "Trouble sleeping?"
Ellis considered how much to share. "I had an... unusual encounter last night. Someone called Lyrisiel. She knew what I am."
Merek stumbled, nearly losing his footing. "Lyrisiel? The Wayfinder?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Ellis, such claims are not to be made lightly. Lyrisiel is a legend—a mythic figure said to walk between worlds. Some believe her a guardian of the Fissure, others a manifestation of Aether itself."
"She seemed real enough," Ellis replied. "And she knew things about me—about my situation—that no one here could possibly know."
The researcher's expression shifted from skepticism to intense curiosity. "What did she say? Exactly?"
Ellis recounted the conversation as precisely as he could remember it, including Lyrisiel's message about seeking the Warden at Shrouded Pass.
Merek was silent for a long moment, digesting this information. "If true—and I stress if—this is extraordinary. Thaleon is indeed the current Warden of Shrouded Pass, but his existence is not common knowledge. He communicates only with authorized representatives from each domain."
"So you believe me?"
"I believe you experienced something significant," Merek replied carefully. "Whether it was truly the mythical Wayfinder or something else masquerading as her is another question. Either way," he added, "the message about the connection between your arrival and the Fissure disruptions aligns with my own theories."
The landscape began to change as they journeyed further east. The golden fields of Terravale gradually gave way to rolling hills covered in tall grasses that rippled like waves in the breeze. By midday, they could see the first wisps of mist on the horizon—tendrils of white vapor that curled and twisted as if alive.
"The Mist Marshes," Dorric announced from his perch on the wagon. "We'll reach the border by evening. Best prepare yourselves—the marshes have their own rules, and they don't care much for visitors."
As promised, by sunset they had reached the formal boundary between Eastern Terravale and the Mist Marshes—a line demarcated by a series of stone pillars carved with warning runes. Beyond the pillars, the land transformed dramatically: solid ground yielding to a patchwork of shallow pools, tangled vegetation, and islands of relatively firm earth connected by narrow, winding paths.
And everywhere, the mist—swirling, ghostly white tendrils that obscured vision and seemed to muffle sound. Even from the boundary, Ellis could feel the difference in the air—heavier, laden with moisture, and carrying the rich, slightly sulfurous scent of decomposition.
"We'll make camp here tonight," Sylva declared, pointing to a flat area just before the pillars. "No one enters the marshes after dark—not if they want to see morning."
The camp was established with practiced efficiency, the wagons arranged in a defensive circle with the horses tethered inside. The guards set up a rotation of watches, more vigilant now that they had reached the border.
After a subdued dinner of salted fish and barley porridge, Sylva called everyone together for a briefing.
"Listen carefully," she began, her weathered face grave in the firelight. "The Mist Marshes are not like Terravale. The paths shift. The mist disorients. Creatures that should not exist hunt in the fog." She pointed to a crude map spread on a crate. "Our route follows the Stone Way—a raised path of ancient construction that runs through the heart of the marshes. Three days' journey if we're lucky, four if the mist is heavy."
She looked up, fixing each traveler with a stern gaze. "Rules for survival: Stay on the path. Keep your companion in sight at all times. If you hear voices calling from the mist, ignore them. If you see lights dancing in the distance, do not follow. And most importantly, if the horns sound, run for the nearest shelter marker—those are the only safe spots if the Mist Wraiths emerge."
A murmur of unease rippled through the group. Ellis glanced at Merek, who nodded solemnly, confirming the gravity of these warnings.
"What are Mist Wraiths?" Ellis asked.
One of the guards, a scarred woman named Kell, answered. "Spirits of those who died in the marshes. Or so the stories say. They appear when the mist thickens—forms of white vapor that seem almost human." Her voice lowered. "They call to you with the voices of loved ones, lure you off the path into the deep marshes where you'll drown or be devoured by the things that lurk beneath."
Ellis might have dismissed this as superstition if not for the grim nods of agreement from even the most pragmatic members of the caravan.
"Get some rest," Sylva concluded. "We enter at first light, and we won't stop until we reach the first shelter marker, about eight miles in."
That night, Ellis's dreams were troubled—visions of swirling mist that took the shape of reaching hands, of pathways that twisted and turned back on themselves, of violet eyes watching from the shadows. He woke feeling restless, his cultivation cycling disrupted by the uneasy sleep.
The morning brought no relief from the tension. A heavy fog had rolled in during the night, shrouding the camp and rendering the Stone Way ahead barely visible beyond the boundary pillars. The caravan members moved with subdued efficiency, speaking in hushed tones as if afraid to disturb the silence of the mist.
"Stay close," Merek advised as they prepared to depart. "The marshes affect everyone differently. Some experience auditory hallucinations, others visual. If you find yourself confused or disoriented, tell me immediately."
Ellis nodded, double-checking his equipment. The dagger at his belt seemed inadequate protection against the unknown threats ahead, but it was comforting nonetheless.
They crossed the boundary line just as the sun's first rays struggled to penetrate the mist. The effect was immediate and disconcerting—the light became diffuse, creating an eerie twilight where shadows seemed to move independently of their sources. Sounds warped strangely, sometimes muffled to near silence, other times amplified to startling clarity.
The Stone Way itself was impressive—a raised pathway about ten feet wide, constructed of massive interlocking stones worn smooth by centuries of use. Moss and lichen clung to the edges, but the center remained remarkably clear, as if something prevented the marsh's encroachment.
For the first hour, the journey was tense but uneventful. The caravan proceeded in single file, the wagons carefully guided by their drivers. Ellis walked beside Merek, just behind the second wagon. The mist swirled around them, occasionally thinning enough to reveal glimpses of the marsh beyond the path—stagnant pools reflecting the gray sky, twisted trees with bark like blackened flesh, and patches of oddly luminescent fungi.
"The marshes weren't always like this," Merek explained in a low voice. "Before the Sundering, historical records describe this region as a fertile valley, home to prosperous farming communities. The catastrophe transformed it, saturating the land with chaotic energy that warped both the physical environment and the creatures that dwelled here."
Ellis was about to respond when a sound caught his attention—a faint melody drifting from somewhere to their left. It was hauntingly beautiful, reminiscent of the ambient music he used to play while coding. For a moment, he found himself turning toward it, drawn by its familiar comfort.
Merek's hand clamped on his arm. "Ellis, focus. Whatever you're hearing isn't real."
Ellis blinked, realizing he'd been about to step off the path. "I heard music. From my world."
"The mist finds your memories," Merek said grimly. "Uses them to lure you away. Stay centered. Focus on your cultivation cycling—it helps resist the influence."
Ellis nodded, shaken by how easily he'd been affected. He concentrated on circulating his energy, establishing a rhythm that helped anchor his awareness to his body and immediate surroundings.
By midday, the toll of the journey was evident on everyone's faces. The constant vigilance, the disorienting effects of the mist, and the eerie sounds that occasionally drifted from the depths of the marsh had frayed nerves and drained energy. Even the normally stoic Sylva showed signs of strain, her jaw clenched tight as she consulted a specialized compass at regular intervals.
They stopped briefly on a wider section of the Stone Way, taking a hurried meal of hardtack and dried meat. No fires were lit—smoke in the marshes was said to attract unwanted attention.
"How much further to the shelter?" Ellis asked Dorric, who was studying Sylva's map with a furrowed brow.
"Should be another three, maybe four hours," the merchant replied. "Assuming the path hasn't shifted since the last caravan came through."
"It can do that?"
Dorric nodded grimly. "The Stone Way is anchored by ancient magic, but the marshes... they push back. Sometimes sections sink or rise, forcing detours."
As if summoned by this conversation, Sylva cursed from the front of the column. The caravan master was standing at a point where the Stone Way appeared to simply end, dropping off into a murky pool that hadn't been visible until they were nearly upon it.
"Subsidence," she announced as the others gathered. "The path has collapsed ahead."
Beyond the break, about thirty feet away, they could just make out the continuation of the Stone Way rising from the marsh.
"Options?" asked one of the guards, a taciturn man named Veren.
Sylva pointed to a narrow strip of relatively solid-looking ground that curved around the pool's edge. "We detour. Single file, lightest first to test the footing, wagons last. If it can bear the weight of the lead wagon, the others should follow the same tracks exactly."
The plan was executed with tense precision. Ellis, being among the lighter members of the caravan, was sent across after Kell, who probed each step with a long staff before committing her weight. The ground was treacherous—a deceptive crust of vegetation floating on semi-liquid mud that threatened to give way with each step.
Ellis was halfway around the pool when he heard it—a voice calling his name, soft but distinct, from somewhere beneath the murky water.
"Ellis... help me..."
He froze, knowing he should ignore it, yet unable to prevent himself from looking toward the source. The surface of the pool rippled, and for an instant, he thought he saw a face beneath the water—familiar yet distorted, eyes wide with panic.
"Ellis, move!" Merek's sharp command cut through the illusion. "Don't look at the water!"
Ellis tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on Kell's back ahead of him. One step at a time, he told himself. Don't listen. Don't look.
By the time the entire caravan had navigated the detour and regained the Stone Way, the mist had thickened considerably. Visibility dropped to mere feet, forcing them to proceed at a crawl, each person keeping visual contact with the one ahead.
It was in this oppressive fog that they heard the first horn—a long, mournful note that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Wraiths," Sylva hissed, her face paling. "Move! The shelter marker can't be far!"
The caravan broke into a controlled run, the wagons rattling dangerously as the draft horses were urged to greater speed. Ellis found himself near the rear, helping an elderly merchant who had stumbled in the sudden rush.
The second horn sounded, closer and more urgent. And with it came the change in the mist—no longer white but tinged with a ghostly blue luminescence that cast everything in a corpse-like pallor.
"There!" shouted Veren from somewhere ahead. "The shelter!"
Through the swirling mist, Ellis caught a glimpse of their destination—a massive stone platform raised about fifteen feet above the marsh, its surface inscribed with glowing runes of warding. A steep staircase led upward, barely wide enough for the wagons to ascend.
They were perhaps a hundred yards from safety when the first Wraith appeared.
It coalesced from the mist to Ellis's right—a humanoid figure composed of swirling vapor, its features indistinct save for eyes that glowed with the same eerie blue as the fog around them. It made no sound as it drifted alongside the path, keeping pace with the fleeing travelers.
Then another appeared to the left. And another ahead. Within moments, the caravan was surrounded by the spectral forms, all drifting just beyond the edge of the Stone Way, watching with those cold, luminous eyes.
"Don't stop!" Sylva shouted from the front. "Don't engage! They can't cross onto the Stone Way unless invited!"
Ellis helped the elderly merchant move faster, both of them stumbling in their haste. Ahead, the first wagon had reached the shelter stairs and was beginning the ascent, the horses straining against the incline.
One of the Wraiths drifted closer to Ellis, its form shifting and solidifying into a more recognizable shape—a woman with long hair and a gentle smile that triggered a pang of recognition before he could stop himself.
"Ellis," it whispered in his mother's voice. "Why did you leave me?"
Something cold brushed his cheek, and the world seemed to blur at the edges. For a heartbeat, he felt an overwhelming urge to step off the path, to follow the familiar figure into the mist.
A sharp pain snapped him back to reality—Merek had grabbed his arm, digging fingers into pressure points with deliberate force.
"Their power is in recognition," the researcher said urgently. "If you acknowledge them as someone you know, you give them influence over you."
Ellis nodded shakily, forcing himself to look away from the Wraith. He focused instead on the shelter ahead, now perhaps fifty yards distant. The first wagon had made it to the platform, and the second was halfway up the stairs.
The final dash to the shelter was a blur of exertion and fear. The Wraiths pressed closer as they neared safety, their whispering growing more desperate, more seductive. Ellis kept his gaze fixed firmly on the stairs, counting each step as they ascended.
Twenty-seven steps later, he collapsed onto the stone platform alongside the rest of the caravan, gasping for breath. Below, the Wraiths gathered at the base of the stairs, their forms undulating with what might have been frustration or hunger.
"Everyone accounted for?" Sylva called, conducting a head count.
There was a moment of confused checking before Dorric's voice rose in alarm. "Where's Lem? The apprentice from the third wagon?"
A panicked search of the platform confirmed the worst—Lem, a young man barely out of boyhood, was missing. Veren rushed to the edge of the platform, peering down into the mist.
A cry rose from below—distant at first, then abruptly silenced.
"We can't help him now," Sylva said grimly, pulling Veren back from the edge. "The marshes have claimed him."
A somber mood settled over the caravan as they established camp on the shelter platform. The stone surface was etched with channels that directed rainwater to cisterns, providing a clean water source. Ancient braziers stood at each corner, designed to burn a special marsh-reed that repelled the Wraiths.
"The shelters are remnants of the pre-Sundering civilization," Merek explained as they prepared a meager dinner. "They're fortified with warding magic that the Wraiths cannot penetrate. We're safe here until morning."
Ellis wasn't sure he could eat, the image of the missing apprentice haunting him. "Could we have saved him?"
Merek's expression was grim. "Once the Wraiths call someone off the path, their fate is sealed. Even if we could find him in the mist, he wouldn't be... himself anymore."
"What do you mean?"
The researcher hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "The Wraiths don't just kill, Ellis. They transform. Those who follow them become like them—emptied of self, filled with mist and hunger."
Ellis shuddered, remembering how easily he'd been drawn to the Wraith that had taken his mother's form. If not for Merek's intervention...
"Get some rest," Merek advised, seeing his troubled expression. "The marshes take a toll on one's mental energy as much as the physical. We still have two days' journey ahead."
Despite his exhaustion, Ellis found sleep elusive. The platform was safe but uncomfortable, the stone unyielding beneath his bedroll. From below, the faint sounds of the marsh filtered up—the splash of unknown creatures moving through water, the rustle of vegetation in the perpetual breeze, and occasionally, distantly, what might have been voices.
When he finally drifted into uneasy slumber, his dreams were filled with mist and whispers. He found himself walking a Stone Way that twisted impossibly, branching and rejoining in patterns that defied Euclidean geometry. At every junction stood a Wraith, each wearing the face of someone from his past—colleagues, friends, family.
And waiting at the end of every path was Lyrisiel, her violet eyes reflecting starlight that shouldn't exist in the enclosed mist of the marsh. "Reality is reweaving itself," she said, her voice echoing strangely. "And you are threaded through the new pattern."
Ellis woke with a start, his body drenched in cold sweat despite the mild night. The dream had left him with a profound sense of unease, as if he'd glimpsed something important but couldn't quite grasp its significance.
He sat up, noting that most of the caravan members were still asleep, huddled in their bedrolls across the platform. Only Veren maintained watch, his silhouette sharp against the pre-dawn sky as he paced the perimeter.
Ellis reached into his pouch, fingers finding the midnight shard that Lyrisiel had left him. In the darkness, it seemed to pulse with its own inner light—stars swirling beneath its surface like galaxies in miniature. He hadn't mentioned the object to Merek, unsure whether it was a gift or a burden.
As he held it, the shard grew warm, and for an instant, Ellis thought he felt a resonance—like a distant chord struck on an instrument he couldn't name. A notification appeared:
[Skill Improved: Aether Affinity - Level 2]
Note: The Fissure Shard responds to your cultivation energy. Its purpose remains dormant but awakening.
Fissure Shard? The notification had changed the item's name, as if the system itself was adapting to new information.
The horizon began to lighten, the first hints of dawn bleeding through the mist. Below the platform, the spectral forms of the Wraiths had dispersed, retreating to whatever dark corners of the marsh they inhabited during daylight hours.
"Bad dreams?" Veren asked, noticing Ellis's wakeful state.
Ellis nodded, tucking the shard away. "The marsh gets into your head."
The guard's weathered face creased in sympathy. "Aye, first crossing's always the worst. Lost my brother on my third journey—followed what he thought was his wife's voice right off the Stone Way." He stared out into the lingering mist. "Never saw him again, though sometimes, when the fog is thickest, I hear his voice calling."
Ellis shivered at the implication. "I'm sorry."
Veren shrugged, the gesture belied by the tightness around his eyes. "The Fissure takes what it wants. Best we can do is stay alert and keep moving."
"The Fissure?"
"That's what the old-timers call it—the spaces between domains where reality thins. Scholars have fancier names, but Fissure says it plain enough." Veren gestured to the surrounding marsh. "This whole region is a wound in the world, never properly healed."
The term matched the shard's new designation, reinforcing Ellis's suspicion that the system was incorporating information from this world's inhabitants to refine its translations and descriptions.
By the time the sun had fully risen, the caravan was awake and preparing to depart. The mood was subdued, Lem's absence a stark reminder of the marsh's dangers. Sylva conducted a brief ceremony at the platform's edge—a handful of salt cast into the mist, words murmured in a dialect Ellis didn't recognize.
"A sending-on," Merek explained quietly. "To help his spirit find peace instead of joining the Wraiths."
The second day's journey proved less eventful than the first, though no less tense. The Stone Way remained intact, winding through progressively deeper marsh where the pools had given way to actual stretches of open water. Strange fish with luminescent fins occasionally broke the surface, their scales flashing like polished metal in the diffuse light.
More disturbing were the structures they sometimes glimpsed through breaks in the mist—ruined buildings half-submerged in the marsh, their architecture unlike anything Ellis had seen in Crossroads. Spires twisted into impossible shapes, walls carved with symbols that seemed to shift when viewed directly.
"Remnants of pre-Sundering civilization," Merek noted, following Ellis's gaze toward a particularly well-preserved tower that rose from a distant island. "The catastrophe didn't just damage the land—it warped time and space itself. Some scholars believe these ruins originate from multiple different eras, all overlapped when the Fissure tore reality apart."
Ellis's status window updated as they traveled, reflecting the strange energies of the marsh:
Level: 1 (Experience: 85/100)
Class: Unassigned
Cultivation: Foundation Stage 1 (Initiate) [Progress: 28%]
Primary Attributes:
Strength: 11
Agility: 13
Endurance: 12
Perception: 16
Intelligence: 17
Willpower: 16
Elemental Affinities:
Earth: 11%
Fire: 9%
Water: 15% [+2% from Marsh exposure]
Air: 16%
Aether: 39% [+2% from Fissure proximity]
Skills:
[Advanced Programming] - Level MAX
[System Analysis] - Level MAX
[World Creation] - Level UNIQUE
[Physical Conditioning] - Level 4
[Survival Knowledge] - Level 3
[Mana Perception] - Level 3
[Mana Circulation] - Level 2
[Dagger Proficiency] - Level 2
[Elemental Sensing] - Level 2 [+1 from Marsh exposure]
[Aether Affinity] - Level 2
[Fissure Resistance] - Level 1 NEW!
Available Skill Points: 0>
The skill [Fissure Resistance] caught his attention—another indication that the system was adapting its terminology to match the local understanding of what he had previously called the Fissure.
They reached the second shelter marker before nightfall. It was another stone platform raised above the marsh, this one built against the side of a rocky outcropping that provided additional protection from the elements. Unlike the previous night, no Wraiths appeared as darkness fell, though the distant sound of the warning horns drifted through the mist at intervals.
"We're making good time," Sylva announced as they settled around small cook fires. "If the pattern holds, we should reach the edge of the marshes by mid-afternoon tomorrow, and Misthold by evening."
Ellis found himself seated beside Kell, the scarred guard who had led them through the detour the previous day. She was methodically sharpening her sword, the rhythmic scrape of whetstone on steel oddly comforting in the gathering darkness.
"You handle yourself well for a newcomer," she observed without looking up from her task. "Most first-timers are paralyzed with fear by now."
Ellis shrugged. "I'm good at adapting."
"Hmm." Kell tested the edge with her thumb, then resumed sharpening. "Adaptation is survival. But so is knowing when to be afraid." She glanced up, her gaze penetrating. "The marshes are dangerous, yes, but they're just the prelude. The true test comes at Shrouded Pass."
"You've crossed the Fissure there?"
"Twelve times." Her voice held no pride, only a weary acceptance. "Each crossing worse than the last. Whatever's happening to the barriers between domains, it's accelerating."
Ellis thought of Merek's research and Lyrisiel's cryptic warnings. "Have you noticed when the deterioration began?"
Kell considered this. "Hard to pinpoint. Always been dangerous, but the real changes started maybe three, four months back." She set down her whetstone. "First it was just longer crossing times, then navigational equipment failing. Last month, we lost an entire merchant caravan—twenty people vanished between one marker and the next."
"And no one knows why?"
"Oh, plenty of theories," Kell said with a humorless laugh. "Temple says it's divine punishment. Academy says it's a natural cycle of the Fissure's evolution. Military thinks it's sabotage from one domain or another." She resheathed her sword with a decisive click. "Me? I think the world's trying to put itself back together, and we're caught in the seams."
Ellis pondered this perspective as he prepared for sleep. The idea that Veldoria might be attempting to heal its ancient wounds resonated with him—as the creator, hadn't he designed the world with inherent balance? Perhaps the Sundering itself had been a defensive mechanism, the reality splitting apart to prevent complete destruction.
And if so, what did his arrival signify? A foreign element introduced into the equation, disrupting the delicate process of reconstruction?
These thoughts followed him into dreams once more, but this time, instead of mist and Wraiths, he found himself standing in a vast library. Books stretched endlessly in all directions, shelves rising beyond sight into darkness. At a massive stone table sat Lyrisiel, her fingers tracing patterns on an open tome whose pages seemed to contain galaxies.
"You're beginning to understand," she said without looking up.
"Am I?" Ellis approached the table, noting that his footsteps made no sound on the stone floor. "I feel like I have more questions with each passing day."
Lyrisiel smiled, finally meeting his gaze. "Questions are the beginning of wisdom. You've already learned that the spaces between domains are called the Fissure by those who navigate them regularly."
Ellis nodded. "A wound in reality, they say."
"A simplification, but not inaccurate." She closed the tome, stars swirling beneath her fingertips. "When the Sundering occurred, reality fractured along lines of elemental affinity. What was once a unified world became five distinct domains, separated by regions where the very fabric of existence is thin and malleable."
"And my arrival has somehow affected these regions?"
"Not your arrival," Lyrisiel corrected gently. "Your creation. This world existed before you conceived it, yet it was shaped by your conception. A paradox of causality, as I said before."
Ellis frowned. "That doesn't make sense. I designed Veldoria as a game—a simulation. How could it have existed independently?"
"Reality is vaster than most minds can comprehend. What you call 'creation' is often discovery—the resonance between your consciousness and a possibility that already exists within the infinite multiverse." Lyrisiel rose, her form seeming to shift between solidity and transparency as she moved around the table. "You didn't create this world, Ellis Brown. You recognized it. Connected with it. And in doing so, you strengthened it, defined it—and ultimately, opened a door between your reality and this one."
"But why am I here? Was it just an accident—a malfunction in my neural interface?"
"There are no accidents in the weaving of realities." Lyrisiel's violet eyes held his, unblinking. "The Fissure has been weakening for centuries, but the recent acceleration coincides precisely with your development of the neural interface. Your consciousness formed a bridge, and now that bridge must either be completed or dismantled."
"And if it's neither?"
"Then both realities will continue to bleed into each other, unpredictably and dangerously." She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch feather-light yet somehow anchoring. "You carry a fragment of the Fissure with you now. It will guide you when the time comes to make your choice."
Before Ellis could ask what choice she meant, the library began to dissolve around them, books melting into mist, shelves twisting into the gnarled trees of the marsh.
"Seek Thaleon," Lyrisiel's voice echoed as she faded from view. "The Warden holds the key to understanding your role in what comes next."
Ellis woke to the sound of urgent voices. Dawn had barely broken, the light struggling through a mist that seemed thicker than the previous day. Sylva and the guards were gathered at the edge of the platform, weapons drawn as they peered into the swirling fog below.
"What's happening?" Ellis asked, joining Merek who stood a few paces back from the group.
The researcher's face was grim. "Something's out there. Not Wraiths—they should have retreated with the dawn—but something else. The guards spotted movement in the mist, circling the platform."
As if in confirmation, a deep, guttural sound emanated from below—not quite a growl, not quite a hiss, but something primal that raised the hair on Ellis's neck.
"Everyone arm yourselves," Sylva ordered, her voice pitched low but carrying clearly across the platform. "We move as soon as it's light enough. Single file, guards at intervals throughout the column. No stragglers."
The departure from the shelter was tense, each traveler descending the stairs with weapons ready. Ellis found himself near the middle of the column again, Merek just ahead and Dorric behind, the merchant's usually jovial face now set in determined lines.
The Stone Way stretched before them, disappearing into mist after about fifty yards. The strange sounds continued intermittently, sometimes seeming to come from one direction, sometimes another. Whatever lurked in the marsh was pacing them, stalking the caravan as it moved cautiously eastward.
"Marsh Hunter," Kell whispered as she fell back briefly to check on their section of the column. "Rare to see one active at dawn. Must be desperate or territorial."
"Dangerous?" Ellis asked, though the answer seemed obvious.
Kell's scarred face twisted in a grim approximation of a smile. "Let's just say there's a reason even the Wraiths aFissure them."
They had covered perhaps two miles when the attack came. One moment, the caravan was proceeding in tense silence; the next, chaos erupted as something massive burst from the water to their right, lunging for the rearmost wagon.
Ellis caught only glimpses through the mist and the panicked movement of people and horses—a creature like an enormous crocodile but with too many limbs, its hide a mottled pattern that seemed to shift and ripple with the surrounding fog. Its jaws clamped around the wagon's wheel, splintering wood with horrifying ease.
"Defensive positions!" Sylva shouted from the front. "Archers, cover fire! Everyone else, keep moving!"
The guards responded with practiced coordination, those with bows loosing arrows at the creature while the others formed a protective line between the beast and the rest of the caravan. The merchant driving the rear wagon leapt free just as the vehicle tilted precariously toward the marsh.
Ellis drew his dagger, the weapon feeling woefully inadequate against the monster that thrashed at the edge of the Stone Way. Beside him, Merek was tracing complex patterns in the air, his fingers leaving trails of blue light.
"Elemental barrier," the researcher explained through gritted teeth. "Won't hold it long, but might buy us time."
A shimmering wall of energy materialized between the Marsh Hunter and the Stone Way. The creature slammed against it, the barrier rippling like disturbed water but holding. With a frustrated roar, the beast retreated slightly, circling just beyond the boundary of the path as if testing for weaknesses.
"Move! Now!" Sylva ordered, and the caravan surged forward, abandoning the damaged wagon to focus on putting distance between themselves and the predator.
They had perhaps a hundred-yard head start when Merek's barrier shattered with an audible crack. The Marsh Hunter charged after them, its multiple limbs propelling it across the uneven terrain with frightening speed.
"It's gaining!" someone shouted from behind.
Ellis glanced back to see the creature closing the distance rapidly, its maw open to reveal rows of jagged teeth. In that moment, instinct took over. He reached into his pouch, fingers closing around the Fissure Shard that Lyrisiel had given him.
The crystal pulsed in his hand, suddenly hot as a coal. Without fully understanding why, Ellis focused his cultivation energy into it, channeling Aether affinity through the crystalline structure. The shard responded instantly, flaring with midnight light shot through with stars.
"Ellis, what are you—" Merek began, but his words were cut short as Ellis turned and hurled the shard toward the pursuing monster.
Time seemed to slow as the crystal arced through the mist. When it struck the ground before the Marsh Hunter, reality... bent. The air rippled like heat haze, and for an instant, Ellis thought he saw through the fabric of the world itself—glimpsed layers of existence overlapping like pages in a book.
A fissure opened—not in the earth, but in reality—a vertical tear in the air that pulsed with starlight and darkness intermingled. The Marsh Hunter skidded to a halt, its predatory focus replaced by what could only be described as fear. It backed away, hissing and growling, before finally turning and retreating into the swamp.
The tear sealed itself almost immediately, collapsing with a sound like a distant thunderclap. Where the Fissure Shard had fallen, nothing remained but a small, perfectly circular patch of frost on the Stone Way.
Ellis stood motionless, stunned by what had just occurred. A notification appeared:
[Skill Discovered: Fissure Manipulation - Level 1]
Description: The ability to temporarily influence the stability of reality in areas where the Fissure is near the surface. Extremely unpredictable at low levels.
Warning: This skill draws heavily on Aether reserves and may cause cultivation instability if overused.
"What did you do?" Merek asked, his voice a mixture of awe and concern. "That was—I've never seen anything like it."
Ellis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "I'm not entirely sure. It was... instinctive."
Before they could discuss it further, Sylva called them forward. "Whatever you did, save the explanations for when we're out of this accursed marsh. We need to move—that thing might return with friends."
The remainder of the journey passed in a blur of exertion and vigilance. The caravan maintained a punishing pace, stopping only briefly for water and to rotate positions. By mid-afternoon, as Sylva had predicted, they reached the eastern boundary of the Mist Marshes—another line of stone pillars marking the transition to more solid ground.
Beyond the pillars, the landscape transformed once more—rolling hills covered in tough, scrubby vegetation gave way to a arid plateau. In the distance, perhaps three miles away, the walls of Misthold were visible—a frontier settlement built as the last outpost before Shrouded Pass and the Fissure crossing into Zephyria.
"We made it," Dorric breathed, the relief in his voice palpable. "Lost a wagon and poor Lem, but we made it."
Ellis nodded, too exhausted to speak. The use of the Fissure Shard had drained him profoundly, leaving his cultivation pathways feeling raw and depleted. According to his status window, his Aether reserves were nearly empty, and a new condition had been applied:
[Condition: Fissure Exhaustion (8 hours remaining)]
"You need rest," Merek observed, noticing Ellis's pallor. "Whatever you did back there took a serious toll. I'll help you to the settlement."
Ellis accepted the support gratefully, leaning on the researcher as they covered the final distance to Misthold. His mind whirled with questions about what had happened with the shard, about Lyrisiel's cryptic warnings in his dreams, and about what awaited them at Shrouded Pass.
But for now, all that mattered was reaching safety and recovering his strength. The true challenges, he suspected, were only beginning.