The Thorn King's Bride
Chapter Five: Threads in the Fog
The fog rolled back in on the fifth day of travel, thicker than before and laced with something foul.
It didn't smell like smoke or rot—it smelled like remembering. Like the kind of pain that sat at the base of the throat and never fully left. It soaked into their clothes and clung to their skin no matter how quickly they moved.
Elara's jaw tightened. The path through the Obsidian Scar—what should have been a day's journey—was unraveling into something longer, slower, and infinitely more dangerous. They'd crossed rivers, bypassed landslides, and now trudged through a thicket of pale-leaved trees that whispered with no wind.
Mira, ever the one to speak when silence grew too thick, clutched her cloak tighter. "It's not just fog. It's… watching us."
She wasn't wrong.
Now and then, just on the edge of Elara's vision, shadows moved—slipping between trees, too fast to be human. She never caught more than a flicker: a gleam of teeth, a pair of hollow eyes, something dragging long fingers through the underbrush.
"It's worse at night," Mira said. "They don't come near the fire, but I heard them last night. Breathing."
Elara's eyes narrowed. "You should've woken me."
"You were muttering in your sleep. I didn't want to risk losing a limb."
A faint smirk ghosted across Elara's lips, the first in days. Mira caught it.
"There she is," she said. "Your Highness of Doom."
But the moment was short-lived.
They came across the body that afternoon.
It hung from one of the fog-thick trees by silver thread—thin and shimmering like spider silk. The corpse wasn't fresh, but it hadn't rotted either. It had no eyes. No mouth. Just smooth, pale skin stretched where a face should have been.
Its hands were tied in prayer.
Around its neck hung a tag made of bone, etched with a single sigil: a thorn inside a crown.
Mira's voice cracked. "Is that… his mark?"
Elara nodded slowly. "It's a warning."
"To who?"
"To anyone like us."
They made camp early that evening, nervous energy prickling beneath their skin. The air buzzed faintly, like something whispering just out of hearing. Elara worked methodically, lighting the fire with resin-soaked moss while Mira circled the clearing, setting traps and whittling spikes from fallen branches.
"You ever think," Mira said, breaking the silence, "that maybe we're not meant to survive this?"
Elara didn't look up. "I think the world doesn't care what we're meant for."
"Yeah. Well." Mira flopped onto her bedroll. "The world sucks. That's my professional opinion."
Elara finished tying the final knot on their windbreak, then sat across from her. Her voice was softer now.
"You could go back."
Mira stared at her. "Seriously?"
"You don't owe me anything."
"That's where you're wrong." Mira pointed at her with a burnt stick like a wand. "You saved me. Fed me. Didn't stab me when I annoyed you—which is often. And also, you have the only map."
Elara tilted her head.
"Fine," Mira added, "and maybe I actually like you. A little. Don't make it weird."
Elara didn't respond. But the firelight caught the glint of something new in her eyes—like the barest flicker of warmth finding its way through a lifetime of frost.
Then the wind changed.
And with it, the fog spoke.
It wasn't words. Not at first. It was a feeling—deep, ancient, and filled with sorrow so profound it twisted the gut. Elara rose immediately, blade drawn. Mira followed, dagger ready, eyes wide and gleaming in the firelight.
Shapes moved just beyond the trees—not monsters. Not yet. These were figures. Dozens. Each cloaked in shadow, each wearing a crown of brambles that bled black ichor down their hollow faces.
"Don't blink," Elara hissed.
"What are they?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
Because one of the figures had her face.
But twisted—older, worn, with eyes like broken mirrors and a smile carved too wide.
It raised a hand and pointed.
Then they rushed the clearing.
They came like a tide of shadows.
Elara moved first—her blade flashing in the firelight, a silver arc slicing through the first phantom that lunged forward. It didn't bleed. It didn't cry. It simply vanished, as though torn from the memory of the world itself.
Mira darted behind her, quick as a spark, throwing a pouch of crushed salt and ash into the dark. It flared, a burst of ghostlight scattering the fog creatures for a heartbeat.
"They're not real," Elara said, panting. "They're grief-wrought. Illusions… but dangerous."
"Great!" Mira shouted, back to back with her. "Depression with teeth! My favorite."
Another figure lunged—a woman in a blood-soaked bridal gown, face blank but mouth stitched into a ragged smile. Elara ducked low and slashed upward, severing the illusion's thread. It dispersed into dust.
But they just kept coming.
The clearing shrank as the fog closed in around them, warping the edges of reality. Shadows bled into trees. Voices echoed where none had spoken. Elara saw her father in the mist—saw the fire, the way he'd screamed. Her hands trembled.
"No," she whispered. "Not again."
The grief tried to anchor her—to pull her under like a riptide.
Then Mira's voice rang out through the madness:
"HEY! Snap out of it! You still owe me soup!"
Elara blinked.
Mira stood a few feet away, one leg bloodied, face pale, holding a flaming branch in one hand like a sword. She grinned despite the fear in her eyes.
"I mean it," she said, swinging at an approaching shade. "You die, and I'm haunting you. I'll sing off-key forever."
Elara moved again—harder this time. Faster.
With Mira behind her, she cut down the nightmares one by one. Each flicker of pain, each ghostly wail—they fought through it with fire, steel, and stubbornness.
Finally, just as dawn threatened the edge of the trees, the fog began to pull back. The figures hissed, retreating into the woods like wounded dogs. The air lightened.
And they were alone.
They collapsed beside the smoldering remains of their fire.
Mira pressed a cloth to her leg, wincing. "So… that happened."
Elara leaned her head back against a tree. "You saved me."
"You'd do the same," Mira said softly. Then she paused. "Wouldn't you?"
Elara looked at her. "Yes. I would."
That quiet between them—this time, it wasn't tense. It was shared. Scarred. Understood.
"You saw someone," Mira said after a while.
Elara didn't respond.
"Family?"
"My father," she said finally. "He died protecting me. The night our house burned, I ran. I've been running ever since."
Mira nodded. "Yeah. That tracks. You've got the 'traumatized orphan with a vengeance quest' look."
"I'm not looking for vengeance."
"No?"
"I'm looking for… something. A reason. A way out. Maybe even salvation."
Mira smiled faintly. "Well. That's disappointing. I was hoping you were secretly the next dark queen."
"Not yet," Elara murmured.
They shared a laugh—tired, broken, but real.
Later that day, they found a path paved with cracked stone and tangled roots. It led toward a village marked on Elara's map: Gallows Hollow.
A place whispered about in frightened tavern corners. A place said to once hold a cathedral where the Thorn King's herald delivered final judgments. It was abandoned now—overtaken by rot and rumor.
"Sounds cozy," Mira muttered as they approached the first collapsed building.
But Elara felt it.
Something stirred here.
Not grief. Not illusion.
Truth.
She pulled her cloak tighter and stepped forward.