Lyselle clutched the hem of Shall’s sleeve as he strode forward, Holy Sword in one hand and Bronze Lantern raised high. Together, they pushed through the thick fog, hoping to find something different within its veil.

Soon, their wish came true.

At the edge of the lantern’s protective dome, the outline of a building intruded.

Shall spotted it and instinctively guided Lyselle closer.

The shape grew clearer, and within moments, part of it slipped under the lantern’s glow.

It was a wooden house—a common sight in Lundeheim, built in the Elves’ signature style.

Lyselle released Shall’s sleeve and stepped forward to stand beside him.

She turned to look at him; he turned to meet her gaze.

After a brief, silent exchange, Shall sheathed his Holy Sword and approached the door. He raised his hand and knocked gently.

*Thud thud—*

The dull sound echoed in the fog, but no reply came from inside.

Shall knocked harder this time, several times.

Silence still hung heavy in the air.

He lowered his voice to Lyselle:

“No one’s home.”

Lyselle nodded, a faint white light flickering deep in her eyes.

“Truly empty,” she said. “I sense no life.”

“So… keep searching?”

“Of course. Where there’s one house, there’ll be more—maybe a whole street. I refuse to believe every Elf vanished from it.”

“Alright.”

They left the house and pressed on.

Just as Lyselle predicted, they found more wooden houses. Every one was locked tight, devoid of life.

Midway, Lyselle wondered if the Elves had lived here but turned to corpses without a sound.

She had Shall force open a few doors to check.

Inside, signs of recent life lingered—a half-eaten meal, unmade beds—but the owners had vanished silently into the fog.

Lyselle didn’t know what happened. She told herself not to dwell on it.

Shall drew his Holy Sword again, silent.

To them, the fog now felt far more dangerous.

But they had to push forward. They needed a living Elf to guide them.

Plans rarely survive reality.

Lyselle suddenly spotted a faint glow in the nearby mist.

At first, it was barely visible—a hazy speck. But as they drew closer, it grew sharper.

Soon, it would reach them.

Instinctively, Lyselle tugged Shall’s sleeve.

Shall saw it too.

Neither knew what it was—a lost Elf? Or the culprit behind their disappearances?

Caution was best.

Shall tightened his grip on the Holy Sword’s hilt, ready to fight.

Just then, the glow stopped a step away.

At this distance, it was no longer faint—a large, blurry light with a half-moon shape.

A familiar voice cut through the silence:

“Who’s there?”

Shall barely remembered the voice, but Lyselle did.

She stepped past Shall and asked carefully:

“Mr. Mula?”

The voice hesitated, then replied—and countered:

“It’s me. But who are you?”

Lyselle shot Shall a quick glance before answering:

“I’m the DawnDusk Witch. Don’t you recall? Yesterday, you led me and Champion Shall to Lady Fawena.”

“Ah, it’s you,” the figure—likely Mula, captain of Lundeheim’s guard—seemed to relax. “Come closer.”

Lyselle felt a trap closing, like an anglerfish luring prey. Had the Elves vanished this way?

But she wasn’t afraid.

She had Shall.

She signaled him again, and they advanced together.

Quickly, they noticed their Bronze Lantern’s protective dome splitting open—a widening gap at the base.

The two domes merged slowly, from feet to head. Mula’s form emerged into view.

Still stern-faced. Still tall and handsome, flawless.

The Elf male stepped from the fog, holding another Bronze Lantern. His gaze swept over them with wary curiosity, settling on Shall’s lantern.

“Mr. Shall and Sorceress Lyselle?” he asked. “What brings you here?”

Lyselle hesitated to share their story, but Shall spoke first:

“Lady Governor sent us to investigate Lundeheim’s anomalies. The fog is too thick, and we’re unfamiliar with the city—we got lost.”

He omitted their recent ordeal.

Lyselle shot him a surprised look but stayed silent. They were in this together. If Shall held back, he had his reasons.

Unity was key. She wouldn’t be dead weight.

Mula didn’t seem shocked. Instead, he said:

“Lundeheim’s streets are complex enough without this fog. Getting lost is normal… Where are you headed? I’ll guide you.”

“To find Lady Governor,” Shall replied.

“Good,” Mula nodded. “Follow me.”

He turned and strode off in a direction.

Shall sheathed his sword and followed, Lyselle trailing behind, biting back questions.

The three moved through the fog toward Fawena’s location.

Silence filled the air.

Shall asked nothing; Mula volunteered nothing.

Like cargo ships, they focused only on their duty.

Lyselle, a tiny skiff, nearly drowned in her thoughts.

She glanced between the two Bronze Lanterns, questions churning like storm waves.

Finally, she couldn’t hold back.

If Shall wouldn’t ask, she would.

She darted ahead and blocked Mula’s path, face serious:

“We saw something strange in the fog just now…”

She watched his expression closely as she added:

“—We stepped into another Lundeheim.”

Mula didn’t react strongly. No confusion—just mild surprise.

Did he know of this other Lundeheim? Or the link between the fog, the lanterns, and it?

Lyselle burned to press further.

But Mula cut her off:

“Lady Governor gave you that lantern. You shouldn’t have seen those things… Yet you did.”

Lyselle smiled faintly:

“It went out for a while.”

Mula’s eyes widened in understanding:

“Ah. That explains it. At night, when unlit, the lanterns can fail—and you might see them.”

Lyselle realized Mula had visited the other Lundeheim before.

He might know secrets they didn’t.

She feigned ignorance, eager for answers:

“From your words… you’ve been to that other Lundeheim too?”

She added quickly:

“Of course, this is part of the investigation. Your experience might help resolve Lundeheim’s crisis.”

Mula clearly loved his homeland. Her words unlocked his honesty:

“This fog appeared suddenly half a month ago. We tried to dispel it—spells, everything—but failed.”

“It isn’t truly fog,” he continued. “It’s a… ‘collective illusion,’ or something like that.”

“—Lady Governor’s exact words.”

He sighed softly, worry etching his handsome face:

“Then, some Elves began seeing strange things in the mist.”

“Another Governor. Another version of themselves. Another Lundeheim… No one knew why or what it meant.”

“Until we found these lanterns.”

He lifted his own Bronze Lantern, then nodded at Shall’s.

“We still don’t know how they work, but they push back the fog within a certain range.”

“Naturally,” Mula added, “we never stopped researching the fog’s nature.”

“But progress stalled. Even our wisest scholars couldn’t unravel it.”

Suddenly, his expression twisted into something unreadable, as if recalling a nightmare:

“Finally, when all hope seemed lost, Lady Governor shared a revelation—”

“She named the fog a dream.”

“She said… ‘The fog is the Matriarch’s dream.’”