The Blackfrost did not creep this time. It arrived like a tidal wave, and the world vanished beneath it. The valleys, forests, and rivers that framed Fenris are buried in a haze so dense it devours distance, sound, and memory. Even the mountain seems diminished, its ridges blurred, its cliffs dissolved into the same shapeless void that coils around us. Every breath makes us suffer, and each moment is heavy with the feeling that unseen eyes linger in the folds of the mist. Captain Varek taught us well. He taught us that the darkness bends the minds of even the purest warriors. It twists and manipulates, turning fears and purpose upside down into a kaleidoscope of confusion and despair. Despite his teachings, the challenges now upon us would prove treacherous.

The sanctuary is the only refuge, a trembling circle of reprieve anchored by the Black Shard. Its dark gleam is no light, but rather a rejection of the void, pushing back the Blackfrost in uneven, rhythmic ripples. Within that fragile haven, the Oracle kneels in ceaseless trance, her scars lit by an inner fire, her body convulsing as her mind stretches beyond our reach and permeates our warriors’ hearths. At her side, Varek watches with the stillness of a statue, his hand never far from his sword hilt, his eyes fixed on horizons hidden from us. The Elders pace and mutter in circles, but the true rhythm of our survival lies in the toll of the sanctuary’s bell, its soundwaves answering the Oracle’s torment. Each toll carries meaning. A warning of the increasingly gathering darkness, and every warrior listens with a devotion deeper than prayer.

When the bell sounds, we draw closer to madness. When the bell sounds, light recedes and the mist rises. When the bell sounds, our fear increases.

The veterans lock shields at the fore, their dented armour creaking as they brace against the nightmares, while the Young Blades shuffle behind, learning to keep their feet steady and their courage protected behind iron. The mist thickens as we leave the circle in pursuit of the creatures that lurk in the streets beyond. Shapes loom ahead, sometimes half-formed, sometimes far too real. Beasts claw their way out of the mist, jaws opening wider than any mortal mouth should, their bodies slick with the same glacial presence that burns our lungs. Steel meets them in grating fury, and though we strike true, victory is never clean. The mist tightens and reforms again, hiding our gains as if the air itself swallowed our dead.

It is not only the creatures that threaten us now. The Blackfrost seeps into men’s hearts, its touch invisible but merciless. As it intensifies, suspicion stirs between comrades who once bled for one another. We cannot trust our eyes. We cannot trust our judgment, our rationality. Shapes bend, and reality wears a veil of death over everything we look upon. A glance lingers too long, a mutter grows into accusation, and soon a sword is lifted against the wrong foe. Now the resounding bell marks not a triumph, but a carnage of our own mistrust.

We try to burn the bodies in silence, though even fire feels altered beneath this sky, its smoke curling downward, its flames pale as though struggling to remember what colour they should wear. And still the bell tolls in dreadful harmony. And still we answer without pause, running into the haze with our blades drawn and our courage faltering. Sometimes we succeed and push back the tide. At other times, we find remnants of our brothers, their shields splintered, their helmets hollow, and their eyes frozen open in horror. We don’t know if this is the work of the nightmares or the savagery of our own brothers and sisters.

Days dissolve into one another until the notion of time itself becomes meaningless. There is no sunrise, no dusk, only the unbroken pallor of the black haze. Sleep brings no rest, for the frost invades even our dreams. Food turns to ash on our tongues, water tastes of rust, and the fire we huddle around cannot chase away the feeling that something vast and watchful hovers above. Warriors stumble from exhaustion, their arms trembling as they grip their weapons, but still the bell marks our dead, and still we resist. Each return to the sanctuary feels like surfacing from drowning, and each step back into the haze is like choosing to sink once more.

And still it does not end. The haze coils tighter, the corruption grows bolder, and the bell tolls with a voice that shakes the marrow. Our courage shatters, our resolve wavers, and our faith cracks beneath the weight of our struggle. Mistrust is everywhere, and our ranks grow thin.

We dared to think we were ready. We don’t know if our resilience will be enough to resist the madness that consumes us. We all fear our resolve might not survive.

Something vast beyond the veil takes a step forward, and once more, the bell tolls ominously.