Far away, violent gales whipped around a makeshift group of survivors. They trudged up the jagged path of the Greyroar Mountains, their faces pale and drawn from exhaustion. The winds howled like tortured spirits, driving snow and ice into their faces, and the thin, biting air made every breath a painful battle.

  Rudd, a towering man with a menacing presence, led the group. His heavy boots crunched against the frozen ground, leaving deep imprints in the snow—tracks one might mistake for those of a giant. Despite his powerful build, even he struggled against the relentless conditions. His broad shoulders were hunched against the biting, violent wind, yet he pushed on.

  Not far behind was Lark, his lean frame was a stark contrast to Rudd’s bulk. There was an unnatural ease to him. While the others stumbled and gasped for air, Lark moved with steady precision, his breaths calm, his pace unwavering. His stern, commanding expression gave no hint of fatigue as if the mountain’s brutal challenges were beneath him.

  The group pressed on, their progress agonizingly slow. The snow was ankle-deep in some places, waist-high in others, and each step drained what little strength they had left. The jagged peaks loomed above, sharp and menacing, as though mocking their effort.

  Lark’s gaze swept upward, narrowing as he studied the distant peaks. His eyes landed on the highest of peaks, then widened suddenly as a chill ran down his spine, his heart skipping a beat. Greyroar, he thought grimly. These mountains were no place for hope. If there had been any other way, they would have taken it. But the fog had left no choice.

  He turned, his expression darkening as he scanned the group. Their shivering forms stumbled over the uneven terrain, their faces etched with despair. His frown deepened as his gaze shifted to the west.

  The crimson haze was there, an unyielding tide creeping higher along the mountainside. It swallowed the western horizon in its choking grasp, a slow-moving harbinger of chaos. Even from a distance, the mist felt oppressive, its presence gnawing at the edge of Lark’s thoughts.

  We won’t make it, Lark concluded, his stomach knotting. But even as the thought took root, his jaw tightened. There was no room for despair now. If they faltered, the mist would ensure they didn’t falter again.

  Lark’s focus snapped back to the group as a loud thud cut through the howling wind. He turned sharply to see one of the survivors collapsed on the ground, still and motionless. The group stopped in unison, their eyes darting between the fallen figure and the advancing mist.

  “Damn it,” Lark muttered under his breath, striding through the snow toward the body. The biting wind clawed at his face and skin, but he ignored it. He knelt beside the fallen man as Rudd lumbered over, his heavy steps sending small avalanches of snow tumbling down the slope.

  Rudd crouched next to Lark, his breath visible in heavy, rhythmic bursts. “Is he gone?” he asked, his deep voice laced with resignation.

  Lark didn’t answer immediately, but his grim expression spoke volumes. He pressed two fingers to the man’s neck, searching for a pulse. Then he saw them—hideous black veins sprawling over the corpse’s frozen skin like an ominous web. His jaw tightened.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Look at this,” Lark said, gesturing for Rudd to come closer.

  Rudd leaned down, his shadow looming over the body as he examined it. The black veins were unmistakable, branching out like the roots of a dying tree, their edges faintly pulsing. His broad shoulders tensed.

  “He’s going to turn,” Rudd muttered, his tone heavy with certainty.

  Lark nodded, his gaze hardening. “We can wait for it to happen, or…” He trailed off, letting the alternative hang in the frigid air. “We leave him now.”

  Rudd didn’t respond immediately. Around them, the group had started to gather, their fear palpable. Whispers spread among them, mixing with the wail of the wind.

  “He’s not him anymore,” Lark continued, his voice low but firm. “You all know what this means.” He let his eyes sweep over the group, meeting their terrified stares. “We deal with him as soon as he turns, leaving only a newborn to deal with. Or we leave him for the mist, leaving him to only grow more powerful as a future enemy.”

  A tense silence followed. Among the group an elderly man with wispy grey hair turned away with a distraught expression, and not too far from him stood a young soldier with a fleshy scar across his eyes who frowned and grimaced.

  One of the younger survivors, a woman barely in her twenties, clutched her arms as if to keep the cold—or the truth—at bay. If Lark remembered correctly, the woman and the fallen man had spent a lot of time together in the camp.

  “We can’t just kill him…” she suddenly said, her voice trembling. “He’s… He was one of us.”

  Rudd straightened, his towering frame casting a shadow over the group. “And now he’s not,” he said grimly. “You saw the veins. He’s infected, one of them. In only a couple minutes he’s going to turn, and when he does, we are either gonna be long gone up the mountain, or we kill him.”

  The woman looked away, biting her lip as tears swelled in her eyes. She knew the truth, she just couldn’t bring herself to accept it. Lark almost followed suit, but he needed to be strong, for the group's sake, for his own sake.

  He hovered his hand over the hilt of his longsword. “It’s not about what we want,” he said, his voice barely cutting through the howling wind. Frost clung to his lashes, and his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. “It’s about survival. The mist is coming, and if we stand here debating too long, the decision won’t make a difference.”

  Rudd nodded and turned to Lark, his expression hard but resigned. “I’ll do it,” he said gruffly. “You get the others moving.”

  Lark hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering between the group and the mist crawling up the mountain ever closer. A thought that he had long wanted to forget flashed in his mind—a harrowing image, of the first person he had seen get infected by the mist. He remembered the bulging black veins and the hideous, gushing wounds. He knew the consequences better than anyone.

  Beastly growls echoed in the distance, grumbling under the thick of the crimson-red mist.

  Why? Why must we live like this? The thought clawed at his mind, bitter and relentless. Why can’t I just give up?

  But he knew the answer. Giving up wasn’t in him—it never had been. He had sworn to lead this group to Rifeton, no matter the cost— even if only fragments of them remained in the end.

  The faces of those he had failed haunted him, their eyes accusing, their voices silent but deafening in his memory. Each one was a weight he carried, a ghost that refused to leave him. The images lingered, sharp and unyielding, like wounds that refused to heal.

  Finally, after several moments of silence, Lark nodded. “Fine. Make it quick.”

  He turned away, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword as if seeking comfort. The faces of the dead followed him, accusing and relentless. But the living couldn’t afford his doubt—or his weakness.

  For a split second, he envied the dead— unburdened by choices, free from the guilt of leading others to die. But he brushed away the thought instantly. He had to push on. He had to make it to Rifeton alive.

  He glanced up to the frozen peaks and passed their icy edges to the quickly setting sun. A frown suddenly crossed his face.

  Fuck.