Blaze held the two gleaming battle axes in his hands, not knowing if they would be the slightest use in his battle against the Fog. Their weight was satisfying but they had to deliver him home, alive, for his sister's sake.

He saw her hiding from the scorching afternoon sun beside a foreign silk vendor's stall. She was sickly pale and her eyes were half lidded by fever, the aftermath of a mysterious illness. She had adamantly refused to stay at home and had insisted on coming to the marketplace to watch him leave. He smiled at her reassuringly and she returned it weakly.

"When you're dead, she is mine," said a voice beside him. Blaze turned to its owner, Wyston, whose smirk made Blaze's blood boil.

"She'd rather walk into the Fog, you dim-witted eunuch," he snarled in reply.

Just as Wyston raised his sword to strike his foe, the herald's penetrating voice rang through the marketplace.

"Hear ye! Hear ye! By the order of His Royal Highness, The Royal Herlad-"

As the herald's voice droned on, Blaze said a quick prayer to Kenna, the Harbinger of Chaos, his chosen patron. Since, she was hardly worshiped, Blaze had his own prayer unlike the majority who would pray to Alarick, the Ruler of the Skies, or Belen, the Harvester, or other popular deities.

As he finished his prayer, he noticed the drawbridge was already being lowered. The warriors started towards the Fog covered exterior of the outer wall of the Capitol. Some ran towards the Fog, eager for battle. Blaze walked, slowly, the thought that a half of the royal army had disappeared along with the crown prince into this, never to return, echoing in his mind.

His thoughts were interrupted when his childhood friend, Bismon walked up to him, drawing his bow.

"Warriors don't walk to death, Blaze," he said, eyes fixated on the other idiots running towards the fog screaming their heads off as in madness, "they run. Why did I even think this was a good idea?"

"Don't be so quick to accept death, Bismon." Blaze drew his weapons infront of him as the fog got thicker. He could see a few others disappearing into different directions, some disoriented without any sense of direction whatsoever. "Our gods may yet be merciful to us."

Bismon scoffed and shook his head. Beads of sweat trickled down his tanned skin. "Our gods are only glorified demons."

They heard the drawbridge close.

The eerie silence was heavy as the fog itself. The ominousness bore its fruit as a brunet in front of them was lifted nearly twenty feet above the ground and sucked into the Fog, his screams dying shortly afterwards.

Bismon cursed and ran towards forwards, by instinct. Then they began hearing terrified screams all around them, each quietening after some time.

Feeding time for the formless monsters, Blaze thought and shuddered.

Bismon was shooting in all directions. Blaze gripped his axes, cursed himself for not choosing a bow and ran. There were more screams coming through the Fog. Their batch of warriors had been thirty young and stupid volunteers of whom death would be imminent at this rate. Even Blaze's twenty years' experience in street-fighting did not prepare him for this.

Among the screams of terror, blaze heard Wyston yelling prayers to Evander, the Warrior, before he got snatched away by a gigantic snout of mist, like a dog grabbing a piece of meat and his prayers turned to a short-lived shriek.

"Holy Mother Charis," Bismon exclaimed, his faith in gods unearthing. "The dire wolves of Ke-"

He was cut short as he was enveloped by a massive misty paw that drew him into the Fog. Blaze threw one of his axes towards the paw, only for it to cut through the air.

The screams stopped and the dreadful silence resumed. By now, Blaze was certain he was the sole survivor of the group.

"Zalpar," a disembodied feminine voice called. Blaze searched for the source of the voice. "Zalpar," it called again.

"Who are you?" Blaze asked, his voice loud and clear.

"Blaze Zalpar," the voice echoed. The fog gathered in front of him, taking the shape of a woman. "My devout follower."

The figure, Blaze understood, was none other than Kenna, the Harbinger of Chaos, herself. Her silky raven hair flowed down her brown shoulders ever so elegantly. Her robes of mist shone as if woven of golden thread. The Fog parted for the goddess and Blaze knelt in front of her.

"Rise, son," she said and he complied.

"Took you long enough to make up your mind," the goddess said, "I was beginning to regret my decision."

Blaze was confused. "What does that mean?"

"It is not my nature to get involved in mortal affairs unless extremely necessary and Alarick knows better than to disturb my peace. But I was told that the kingdom requires a cleansing. I did not believe it till your king-" she spat the word like poison, "refused to yield and watched over the famine and the plague, with no concern, whatsoever regarding his subjects."

"The Reap... it was you?"

"Yes," the goddess answered.

"And the monsters?"

The goddess smiled. "The real monsters aren't here. They're in your own kingdom. The cleansing starts from the king, his son could have been a better ruler. Tell me Blaze, why did you agree to hunt?'

"I just want to save my sister, your grace."

"She will heal. You don't need any prize money for that. In return, you must hunt the real monsters, the real plague, within the kingdom's walls. You will receive instructions. Act upon them."

Blaze imagined seeing his sister's radiant smile once again. She wouldn't die. They will be safe. He gripped the axes tighter and smiled at the goddess, who nodded at him before fading along with the fog. 

After three long years, rainclouds darkened the sky.