The hall had been silent a second ago—utterly still, blanketed in her fog. She had sensed no one. But now, a figure stood where nothing had been before.
Teleportation? No… that's impossible.
Only the Centarious family dabbled in spatial magic, and even they—at the height of their power—couldn't cross fog unnoticed. Rift Walkers couldn't manage such a precise slip. Not like this.
This wasn't teleportation. It was something else. Something older. Something… wrong.
The spiral staircase had been flooded with her mist. She could feel every life form within it—every mouse, every flinch of magic, every breath. And yet, this man appeared without warning and vanished just as quickly.
No ripple. No trace. No presence.
What kind of monster could slip through space itself?
She didn't stand still long enough to become a target. If Michael decided to retaliate, she'd be ready. She moved constantly—through the fog like a ghost—observing, calculating. Training kicked in. Her mind, though racing, remained sharp. She'd faced the unknown before.
But even so… this one felt different. She couldn't tell what he was. Or who.
…
Michael, meanwhile, stood slowly from where he had been thrown. His knees ached. His pride hurt more.
He dusted off his coat with a sharp exhale, scanning the fog-heavy hall. His heartbeat was steady now, but his mind was racing.
The last time he got caught off-guard, Tom barely managed to save him.
He'd underestimated her. Again.
He hadn't expected a Binder—especially not a Variant.
A fog user. Silent. Deadly.
Beneath the fragile exterior, she carried the kind of power that turned noble sons into ash.
Binders were already stronger than Walkers in their early stages… but a Variant?
He'd fought assassin Tanks from the North. He'd even survived a duel with a twisted Fire Binder at the Crimson Coast.
But this? This was his first time facing a Variant. And it showed.
…
In this world, Binders weren't born—they were chosen. Made. Forged by their bond with reality. The connection couldn't be taught. It couldn't be inherited. And yet, bloodlines mattered.
When one Binder awakened, often so did their kin. That's why noble houses—especially old ones—were full of them. But Variants… were born.
Not made. Not forged. Born from a union of broken blood and fate. Anomalies.
They didn't follow rules. They didn't fit into the neat little boxes the maker tried to enforce. There were four known elemental Binders—earth, fire, water, wind—and then there were the others. The ones with smoke, shadow, light, or fog—and soon the ones like her.
Variants were rare. Dangerous. Unstable.
No one understood how they came to be. And when they did appear, it was never for long. Either they were killed… or the world changed around them.
Michael took a slow breath, steadying his thoughts. One thing was absolutely clear—she had definitely tried to kill him this time.
"What is wrong with this woman?" he muttered under his breath. "We've known each other for what, maybe forty-eight hours? And I've already had two attempts on my life. That's gotta be a new record."
He ran a hand through his hair, sighing dramatically.
Despite the sarcasm, he could tell—she was confused. Something had rattled her. Probably the sudden appearance of him.
The man who emerged from the fog like it belonged to him.
Michael didn't exactly understand Tom, but he'd learned one thing over the years: never underestimate a Walker.
"Hello?" Michael called out into the mist, tone sharp but light. "If you're done throwing things at my face, I'd like to resume our delightful conversation. You know, before you get bored and try to stab me again."
The fog shifted.
A black dagger, its blade carved from obsidian and its handle etched with intricate symbols, sliced through the air.
Michael's eyes widened. "Oh, come on!"
He jerked to the side, the blade missing him by inches and vanishing into the fog.
"This is why we can't have nice things!" he called, his voice echoing into the white.
But something about the throw felt off—it wasn't aimed to kill. Not really.
It was a test. A lure.
Then—he moved.
Tom, who had been standing beside Michael like a ghost unnoticed, reached out and caught the dagger mid-flight. A calm smirk tugged at his lips, but he didn't speak.
The moment his fingers closed around the weapon, she appeared—
From the opposite direction the dagger had come.
She exploded out of the mist like vengeance made flesh.
Beautiful and fierce, cloaked in fog like she wore a wedding dress spun from white storm. Her expression was ice. Her eyes—murder.
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Oh, now that is an entrance."
She charged toward Tom—toward the threat.
Because she didn't know who he was.
Only that he was dangerous.
A man who could move without sound. One the fog seemed unable to touch.
To her, that made him the most dangerous kind of opponent.
She and her brother were the best assassins in the Eternal Order. Together, they were known as the Children of the Mist. She, a fog variant; her brother, a variant of smoke. They were the hunters of shadows. Masters of the unseen.
In the fog, she was a queen—untouchable.
Her enemies groped blindly in her world while she danced through it unseen, sensing their every motion.
But this man—
This man didn't move in the fog. He commanded it.
And that made him a nightmare.
She couldn't figure him out. Was it teleportation? That made no sense—too clean. Vanishing magic? No. She'd fought invisible assassins before. There was always a trace—a ripple, a breath in the mist.
But this one?
Nothing.
So she tested him.
She threw a dagger at Michael—obvious, visible, predictable.
If the man didn't appear, maybe he was teleporting.
If she could retrieve the dagger unseen, maybe he was just cleverly hidden.
But if he caught it—then something else was happening.
Michael dodged, of course—loudly, clumsily, with a curse.
And then the man caught it.
Appeared.
Visible.
No stealth-user in their right mind would break cover just to catch a dagger—unless he wasn't using stealth at all.
And in that moment, realization hit her.
She didn't stop to question if she was right. She ran.
Toward him. Toward the old man cloaked in fog and secrets.
She had to kill him before he disappeared again—before he used her fog against her.
Michael, watching this with raised brows, tilted his head. "Yup. Definitely not a fan of foreplay."
He glanced at Tom, who remained silent. "Would it kill you to explain yourself one of these days?"
Silence.
Michael sighed. "Of course not. Because you're a dramatic cryptid, not a human being."
The old man stood in full view now—about 5'11", draped in a faded, ashen-gray robe. His posture was slouched from years of weight, but his eyes—sharp, icy blue—were alive with something ancient. His gray hair was wild and unkempt, like a forgotten banner of a kingdom lost to time.
She closed the distance fast—dagger in hand, the fog swirling like spirits around her legs.
And Michael could only watch, one brow raised, wondering just how many kinds of crazy he'd wandered into this time.
Tom, noticing the woman charging at him—her fog-woven gown billowing like ghostly silk—offered a small, knowing smile.
He raised the very same dagger she had thrown earlier and, with perfect precision, intercepted her attack. Their blades met in a burst of sparks and mist—his block swift and effortless, like he had known exactly where she would strike.
Michael blinked, clearly the only one surprised by the clash.
"Okay," he muttered, "either they're old sparring partners or he's reading the script ahead of time."
Then Tom spoke, calm and almost amused.
"Finally figured out my ability, have you, young lady?"
The woman—Jona—froze for just a breath, her expression tightening. She tried to hide the panic in her eyes, but it flickered there for a moment too long.
"Well," she said, her voice controlled but slightly strained, "you'll have to forgive me. It's a little hard to believe that a Mind Walker is real. Let alone that I'm fighting one."