Shirogane: “Get some rest. You’ve just stepped into the kind of story most people are born to fear. But you… you might just be the one born to finish it.”
Then he vanished in a flash of sigil light, leaving Alarich standing alone with the settling fog—and the quiet certainty that something greater had begun to awaken.
Alarich leaned against the brick wall of the old station, the flickering gaslight casting shadows across his sharp features.
The faint curl of cigarette smoke drifted upward, mingling with the remnants of fog from his last conjuring.
His coat, though a bit singed at the edges, still hung neatly on his shoulders—buttoned, sharp, and black as midnight.
Hilda came running up the cobblestone path, breathless, eyes wide with worry.
Hilda: “Alarich! Are you hurt? I heard the explosion and—”
He turned his head slightly, exhaling a ribbon of smoke.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
Alarich: “I’m fine. Not even a scratch.”
He flicked ash off the end of the cigarette and gave her a glance from the side, his violet eyes calm and unreadable beneath the brim of his top hat.
Alarich: “Suit still intact. Fog beast’s ego got the worst of it, I’d say.”
Hilda (folding her arms, trying not to smile): “You always act so casual… That thing could’ve ripped you apart.”
He tapped the side of his temple.
Alarich: “Besides, I had help—from up here. Fog doesn’t strike twice unless it knows what it’s doing.”
Hilda sighed but couldn’t hide the relief softening her features.
She stepped beside him, brushing a leaf off his shoulder.
Hilda: “Next time, just try not to give me a heart attack.”
He nodded, taking one last drag before flicking the cigarette into a puddle, the ember hissing as it died out.
Alarich: “No promises. But for you? I’ll try.”
The wind stirred gently around them, carrying the distant sound of a steam engine rolling through the city.
A moment of quiet passed.
Alarich (lowering his voice): “Something’s coming, Hilda. The kind of thing history writes about. I can feel it in my mark… and in the fog.”
They stood side by side as the smoke thinned, the first stars breaking through the haze above—unaware that the next chapter of a forgotten prophecy was already beginning to write itself in ink and fog.
Shirogane stood with arms crossed, surveying the partially scorched courtyard, steam vents hissing from cracked pipes and chunks of stone scattered where a fogborn wolf had slammed into a wall.
Shirogane (sighing): “I swear, every time you get involved, I have to rebuild half the city. One more incident like this and the mayor will put me on janitor duty.”
Alarich leaned back on a broken iron bench, one leg crossed over the other, casually flicking his wrist as tendrils of fog coiled playfully around his fingers.
Alarich (grinning): “Hey, I kept property damage to a minimum this time. And the fog didn’t even explode. That’s growth.”
Shirogane gave him a flat look.
Shirogane: “You summoned a fog hammer the size of a building.”
Alarich: “Didn’t hit a building.”
They both shared a small laugh, the tension easing.
Just then, Hilda marched toward them, dusting her skirt off, hands on her hips.
Her sharp gaze flicked between the two of them.