The morning after their camp at the base of the western ridge was gray and bitter. A cold mist coiled through the trees, clinging to their boots and cloaks as they trudged onward. Every step sank into soft, dark soil that seemed to drink the sound of their movement. The woods here were different — dense, gnarled, and strangely quiet, as if the forest itself were on edge.

No birds. No wind. No sound but the crunch of tired feet.

Jack walked ahead beside Page, his bow slung loosely over his shoulder. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, tracing movement that never quite existed. Behind them, the others followed in a staggered line — Eamon’s steady pace setting their rhythm, Jones unusually silent, and the remaining five scouts forming a loose guard around them.

Taron, the captain of the scouts, moved like a man accustomed to weight — his shoulders broad, his jaw set. He was reliable and level-headed, though the faint tremor in his fingers betrayed his unease. He led the line’s left flank, his sharp eyes constantly scanning the mist ahead.

On the opposite side walked Keir, the eldest scout, his scarred face half-hidden beneath his hood. The deep mark running from temple to chin gave him a permanent grimace, though his voice, when he spoke, was calm — like gravel rolling slowly over stone.

“The fog’s thickening,” Keir muttered, his tone more observation than concern. “Can’t see a dozen paces ahead.”

Taron nodded. “We’ll slow down. No use walking into another trap blind.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You think there’s another one of those things waiting?”

Keir didn’t answer right away. “Doesn’t have to be,” he said finally. “Sometimes the silence is worse.”

They pressed on.

By midday, they reached what looked like the remains of a small village — or what was left of one. The fog parted reluctantly, revealing slanted rooftops and broken fences half-swallowed by creeping weeds. Doors hung ajar, creaking faintly as the wind teased them, and a single cart lay overturned in the center of the street.

The group slowed.

“What happened here?" Asked Rusk, a lean, bearded scout whose eyes never stopped moving. “No bird, no animal— nothing.”

Jack crouched near a splintered doorframe. The wood was marred with deep claw marks, uneven and furious. “This wasn’t raiders,” he said softly.

Page knelt beside a cracked window, tracing her finger along a streak of dried black residue. “Burnt oil,” she murmured. “Someone tried to seal the house shut… from the inside.”

Eamon’s gaze wandered over the empty street. “Fear leaves traces,” he said, his voice barely audible. “And this place reeks of it.”

Mike’s jaw tightened. “We should keep moving.”

But Taron raised a hand. “Check the perimeter first. Keir, you and Rusk take the western edge. Darin, Gareth — search the square. Look for anything that tells us what happened here.”

The scouts obeyed without protest, splitting up into the mist.

A few moments later, Darin — tall and broad-shouldered, his voice rough from too many nights without rest — called out from near the well. “Captain, over here!”

The group gathered around him. Inside the well lay a half-submerged shape, colorless and still.

Rusk swallowed hard. “Is that—?”

“Don’t,” Taron said firmly, gripping the rope beside the well. “Leave it.”

They did.

No one spoke after that. The village felt alive in its emptiness — every creak of wood, every flutter of cloth from broken windows, sounding like a whisper that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

When the sun began to dip, they made camp beyond the village’s edge. The fog lingered thick around the trees, refusing to disperse.

Night brought no peace.

Jones sat by the fire, elbows on his knees, staring blankly into the flames. The usual spark in his voice was gone.

Eamon sat across from him, his staff lying beside his hand. “This place unsettles everyone,” he said quietly.

Jones didn’t reply. He simply poked the fire with a stick, the flames spitting in irritation.

After a long silence, Mike finally spoke. “I don’t know if we can trust everyone here.”

Jack looked up sharply. “What are you talking about?”

Mike avoided his gaze. “I’m saying… how do we know someone isn’t already under the Cage’s influence? That thing gets inside your head, doesn’t it? Makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do?”

Rusk shifted uncomfortably. “You’re saying one of us might be—what? Controlled?”

Jones’s voice came out low, tired. “We’ve been through too much to start pointing fingers now.”

But Mike wasn’t laughing. “I’m serious. How do we know someone here hasn’t already… turned?”

Darin rose halfway to his feet, his patience gone. “That’s enough talk.”

Page stood too, her tone sharp. “He’s right about one thing — this is what the Cage wants. If we start doubting each other, we’ve already lost.”

Eamon nodded, though his voice lacked conviction. “Unity is our strongest weapon.”

But the damage was done. Suspicion hung between them, thicker than the fog.

"you’re all pretending not to see it?” Mike’s voice cracked through the smoky air, ragged with fury. “Every one of you! You think keeping quiet makes you safe? It doesn’t! We’re already infected—can’t you feel it?”

“Mike—” Jones tried to step in, palms raised, but Mike turned on him instantly.

“You, especially you!” he snapped. “You laugh like it’s all a joke, but it’s not! We’ve lost two men, and you still make jokes!”

Jones’s grin vanished. “You’re talking nonsense, man. We’ve all been through—”

“And you,” Mike cut him off, pointing toward Eamon. “You’re the wise one, aren’t you? The sage! You said we’d sense it before it reached us. So where were your senses when Gerran screamed?”

Eamon stiffened, his face tightening. “Mind your words. You’re not the only one grieving.”

Mike barked a humorless laugh. “Grieving? You call this grieving? This is dying slow! That thing’s inside us, turning us on each other, and none of you even—”

“Enough,” Darin snapped, stepping forward. His boots ground into the dirt, eyes narrowing. “You’re losing your head, Mike. Sit down before you make it worse.”

Mike spun toward him, chest heaving. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Everyone silent, following orders. You and your scouts, always watching, never talking. You think we don’t notice?”

Rusk muttered, “Careful,” but Darin had already squared up to Mike.

“I think you’re scared,” Darin said flatly. “And scared men talk too much.”

“Better than hiding like a snake,” Mike shot back. His voice rose. “Maybe it’s you the Scourge touched first. Maybe that’s why you’re so calm—too calm!”

“Watch it,” Keir warned, rising from his crouch by the fire.

“Why?” Mike roared, spinning toward him. “You gonna defend him too? You think I don’t see the way you all look at each other? Like you’re waiting for one of us to break!”

Taron slammed his fist into a nearby log. “We’re wasting time! This isn’t helping!”

But no one listened.

Eamon tried again, voice rough with restraint. “Mike, stop this. We can’t afford to turn on each other. The Cage feeds on division—”

“Then it’s already feeding!” Mike barked. “Because you can’t even admit we’re all compromised! You, me, Jack—every single one of us!”

Jack’s name hit like a slap.

Jack rose slowly from where he sat, eyes dark with exhaustion. “Mike, you’re not thinking straight.”

Mike laughed bitterly. “You think you are? You lead us here. Every step we’ve taken since that village was your call. And look what’s happened!”

Jones stepped in, fists clenching. “Don’t you dare put that on him.”

“Why not? He’s no saint! None of us are!” Mike’s voice broke into a harsh rasp. “You all keep pretending you’re better than this, better than me—but you feel it too, don’t you? The pull, the whisper, that crawling under your skin—”

“Enough!” Darin barked, grabbing Mike’s shoulder. “You’re talking like a madman.”

Mike shoved him off, shouting, “Then maybe I’m the only sane one left!”

The two men were inches from each other now—faces tight, hands twitching toward their weapons. The other scouts stood, muttering, shifting uneasily. It was seconds from violence.

And then—

“Jack.”

Page’s voice cut through the rising storm, low and steady.

Everyone froze.

Her gaze wasn’t on the fight. It was past them—beyond the firelight.

Jack turned.

Gareth sat near the camp’s edge, half-hidden in the fog, his body trembling. His eyes were wide, distant, unfocused.

“Gareth?” Jones called carefully.

The young scout didn’t respond. His hands were pressed hard against his head, fingers clawing at his scalp. His breath came in panicked bursts.

“Get him some water,” Keir said, moving, but Gareth suddenly jerked upright. His lips quivered.

“It’s inside,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s inside my head.”

Eamon took a slow step forward. “Gareth, listen to me—”

“I can’t! I can’t—” His voice cracked. “It’s everywhere. I can hear it.”

Then he screamed—a raw, broken sound that tore through the camp—and bolted into the woods.

“Gareth!” Darin shouted, sprinting after him. Rusk and Taron followed, torches flaring in the mist.

Jack stumbled forward, heart pounding. The darkness seemed alive, swallowing the sound of footsteps.

“Spread out!” Keir yelled. “Don’t lose sight—”

But the fog thickened, devouring the light. The forest echoed with frantic calls, the crunch of boots, the ragged sound of breathing—and then nothing.

Hours passed. They searched until their throats were raw, until their torches burned low. No tracks. No sound. Just silence pressing from all sides.

When they finally returned to camp, the fire had nearly died.

Keir sank to one knee, shaking his head. “He’s gone.”

No one spoke. The mist hung low, the world colorless and heavy.

Taron muttered, “We’ll start again at dawn.”

But even he didn’t sound convinced.

They sat around the fading embers, hollow-eyed and broken.

Dawn crept gray over the forest. The air felt cold and wet, the mist still heavy as chains.

Jack sat apart from the group, staring blankly at the ground. His thoughts moved like ghosts, circling the same words over and over.

"I led them here. I chose this path."

Gerran’s face flickered behind his eyes — the scout’s final scream swallowed by the false Scourge’s roar. Then Gareth, shaking, terrified, his voice trembling with madness.

"My actions only brought death. Division."

He gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes. But the thoughts didn’t stop — they multiplied, coiling tighter around him like chains.

He dug his nails into his palms, trying to fight it back — the guilt, the whispers, the echo of Justin’s calm, unshakable voice.

"Good intentions don’t make good outcomes, Jack. You can do everything right and still bring ruin."

Jack’s hands trembled. "No… that’s not true. I did what I had to. I tried to save them."

"Didn't I?"

 the denial barely left his lips before it hit him — a crushing pressure that seized his chest. His vision blurred.

Something forced its way into his mind.

It wasn’t like a memory; it was an assault. Images slammed into him — Gerran’s body twisting, Gareth’s eyes rolling white, the false Scourge writhing in its grotesque form. Eamon shouting something he couldn’t hear. Jones’s face, distorted, melting.

He tried to look away, but invisible hands pressed his head still — fingers like iron pinning him down. He gasped, choking. A dark shape loomed over him, unseen yet suffocating, its grip tightening around his throat.

The world spun. His lungs screamed. The visions tore through his mind like claws, too many, too fast—until it all went silent.

Jack collapsed to his knees, gasping, clutching his neck. The pressure vanished, but its echo remained, heavy and cold.

The forest around him was still. Nothing stirred.

He stayed there, trembling, staring into the fog.

And for the first time since it all began, Jack wasn’t sure if the danger was out there—

or inside him.