Helen Scheuerer [Scheuerer - Heart of Mist

T he branches of the canopy were like springs beneath the balls of her feet, making her lighter than air as she leapt from one tree to another, towards her freedom. None of the sentries stirred. She knew how to use the dark cloak of night to her advantage. She was no more than a shadow, flickering with the rest in the dappled moonlight. She wove through the branches like a ghost, leaving the sleeping keep, her family and her future behind. When she got to the outskirts of the forest, she dropped down onto the soft earth and ran. Although she had rigged the guard changes, it wouldnt be long before they realised she was gone. She sprinted. Her feet barely touched the damp ground as she darted between the lean trunks, her breath forming small clouds before her in the cool night, her dark hair sticking to her face. She had the build of her kind: tall, lean and corded with muscle. A body that had been pushed to the limits of endurance, moulded by a strict regime of discipline, forced to fight with blade, arrow, spear and fists. She was meant to be a leader, a warrior, a queen of the Valian people, but she couldnt be. Not when there was another choice .

Each thought pummelled into her, spurring her on, while branches stung her face and the wind tore through her leathers. Too soon, she was at the border. All that marked the end of their territory was the mist. It rolled in slow, thick waves, stopping abruptly at her feet, as though an invisible fence kept it contained. It rose up into the sky, as far as she could see. A seemingly impenetrable wall. Beyond it was more mist .

The young woman tugged off one of her leather gloves, letting it drop to the ground. She stretched out a hand into the shifting mist. It escaped between the gaps of her long fingers, and a cool sensation crept along her skin. Magic. She could feel it pulsing before her. The air in there was different, people said, thinner, unbreathable. Slowly and steadily over the past few decades, the mist had encroached, inch by inch, thirsting for more life, more magic. Those who went beyond it fell off the face of the realm .

She swallowed, her heart hammering as though it would burst from her chest. She looked out. Magic. Once widespread, the Ashai folk, whose powers thrummed in all four corners of the realm, had greatly diminished over the years. The mist hungered for that power. Like a tide, it lapped at the lands, engulfing whatever lay in its path. It became a form of execution reserved for specific traitors of the crowns: those who wielded magic against the law. Forced to walk in at swordpoint, criminals would often try to impale themselves rather than endure whatever horrible death awaited them within .

The woman who stood surveying the mist had no magic. Though her bloodline was strong with rare talents, she was unblessed, unremarkable. Most in the realm would call it luck, but for a leader in her lands, it was a failure. Now, her mouth was set in a serious line, and her grey-green eyes stared out into the uncharted distance ahead. Though death awaited her, she did not fear it. What was it but another form of freedom? She tucked her cropped hair behind her ears, and turned back, just once more, to take in the forest-covered mountains of Valia, her home. Her mother, the matriarch who was so sure her daughter could do anything, despite her lack of magic, would have fallen asleep long ago, and her sister Her sister, only younger by minutes, would be training. Always training .

The mist stirred at her feet, wrapping around her ankles, and she could have sworn she felt a gentle pull, an invitation: the roiling clouds before her luring her into their deathtrap. She needed no enticing. Although guilt tugged at her as she thought of her family, she knew this was the right way. The only way. The Valian Way. Her people deserved the best, and this was how she could give that to them. She turned to face the mist, and after a deep breath, walked in .

B leaks gut clenched as she vomited onto the dirt that spun before her. And again. And again. She lay there on the ground, a line of sick and phlegm still dangling from the corner of her mouth. Her body heaved several more times and bile burned the back of her throat. Gods, she felt like rubbish, and the sound of people clanging about their daily business was doing nothing for her pounding head .

She had returned the night before from yet another failed quest to find herself a healer in Heathton. It had been her fourth journey to the capital in a month, and the seas had been savage. Her small sailing boat had been thrown about as though it were a childs toy. She had only just managed to moor in the docks before the storm fully hit, and shed promptly made her way to the local tavern. It had only taken her a quick four pints of their watered-down ale and the last of her silver to remember that their brews did nothing to cure her problems. With no coin left to spend, and her condition still pulsing wildly, it had been back to the warehouse, where her home-brewed mead had burned its way through her body, drowning out the voices and her most recent shortcomings .

With no idea how shed ended up in the town square, she crinkled her face in a grimace, realising that the skin across her forehead and nose was tight with burn. How long had she been subjecting herself to the blazing morning sun? Too long, from what it felt like. The right side of her face was already tender. She peeled her torso off the ground and leaned back against the water trough behind her. Using the shoulder of her dirty tunic, she wiped her mouth, feeling her dry, cracked lips snag on the rough fabric. Looking out, she squinted against the harsh daylight and rubbed her aching temples .

What time is it? How in the realm did I get here ?

The coastal village of Angove was bustling. The town square was brimming with locals and tourists alike, and it already reeked of sickly sweet foreign perfumes. The wealthier women waved their delicate lace fans before their faces, while the more common folk dabbed at their sweating necks with aprons and sleeves. The dirt streets were packed with overflowing market stalls. Colourful spices imported from Battalon spilled out onto the walkway in giant wooden barrels, heavy rolls of intricately patterned fabric jutted out from a countertop, while wine-infused strips of dried meat hung from hooks at the front of one stall. Shopkeepers and opportunists alike flogged their wares from crates hanging off their chests: vibrant toffee-coated apples, thick skin creams in carefully labelled jars and dark bottles of Angovian cider. And then the thoughts of those around Bleak barraged into her mind in a crashing wave .