I was Drafted Into a War as the Only Human

The fog moved to meet them.

It didn’t drift—it stalked, coiling forward with silent, predatory grace. It swirled in a wide arc around the Cohort, encircling them with terrifying intent. The moment it completed its ring, the temperature dropped. The candles lining the stone walls shivered, their flames bending backward as if trying to flee.

The group froze. Even Bruma, tall and sharp-eyed, couldn’t see past the shifting curtain.

The fog rose too high—it built into a towering wall, roiling like storm surf, cloaking the world beyond in impenetrable grey. The thick, sour-sweet stench of rotting incense burned the backs of their throats. It tasted like old blood and dreams that died screaming.

Caelgorr was gone.

No one could see him now. The beast had vanished into the fog as if devoured by it. The candles flanking the temple walls pulsed in and out of existence, flickering not with flame but fear. Lucy felt it crawl up his spine—cold, electric, primal.

"Llarm, Bruma!" Lucy barked. "Focus on dispersing the fog!"

He surged wind into existence without waiting for a reply. Llarm and Bruma responded instantly, calling forth their magic—Bruma’s deep, guttural chants thrummed in harmony with Llarm’s sharper elven syllables. Wind howled through the chamber, slicing at the mist.

But it wasn’t enough.

The fog resisted, unlike air, smoke, or even magic. It pushed back—heavy as sorrow, alive with will.

"It’s no use!" Llarm and Bruma shouted in unison, their voices strained, already half-swallowed by the gloom.