A portal shimmered open at the base of the staircase, its edges fraying against the howling winds. Three figures stepped through—Nusayel, Harken, and the silver-haired youth—their winter coats dusted with snow before they’d taken a single step.
"Fog’s already enveloped the lower keep," Harken muttered, adjusting his glasses as they fogged instantly. "But at least we can still see."
Nusayel nodded grimly. "Barely."
Visibility stretched just thirty meters ahead—a luxury granted only by their enhanced resonator sight. An ordinary person would be blind beyond ten.
"Move quickly," the baron ordered, leading them forward through the swirling white. The stone corridors here were narrower, the air thicker with the scent of iron and damp stone. "The anchor rooms are ahead. And you need to understand what we’re dealing with."
As they walked, he explained, voice cutting through the storm’s roar:
"Anchor rooms house resonance anchors—auratech structures that stabilize everything from weather patterns to spatial energies around the keep. They’re what keeps the worst of the Hollowlands’ corruption at bay during storms ."
Harken’s breath fogged in the cold. "And if one fails?"
Nusayel’s jaw tightened. "Instability spreads. Aura flows become erratic—try to channel yours in here right now, and you’ll feel it. In severe cases, you’re left with nothing but raw physical strength."
He kicked aside a pile of snow already accumulating against the walls. "The other anchors compensate, but it strains the entire system. One collapse could trigger a chain reaction. And then—"
"—the keep’s shields fall," the silver-haired youth finished quietly.
Nusayel shot him a glance. "Exactly."
Ahead, the corridor branched—but the left path was partially buried under a drift of unnaturally dense snow. The right led downward, where a faint blue pulse thrummed against the walls. The anchor room’s failing light.
"There," Nusayel said.
Just as they turned the corner, the ground trembled.
Nusayel’s expression darkened. "Not good."
They broke into a sprint, boots crunching through the accumulating snow. Within moments, they reached the Western Wing Anchor—a hexagonal chamber of reinforced blackstone, its doors ominously ajar.
Mist curled along the floor, already two feet deep, tendrils of fog slithering like living things. Snow had piled at the entrance, but worse—three figures lay sprawled across the floor, motionless.
And at the chamber’s heart, the anchor core—a towering crystal obelisk—flickered erratically, its pulse stuttering like a dying heartbeat.
The three smaller pylons surrounding it shuddered in sympathy, their energy streams wavering like frayed threads.
Harken rushed to the fallen figures, rolling one onto his back. "What happened here?"
Nusayel checked another’s pulse, then exhaled sharply. "Thankfully, they are alive."
His gaze swept the room—the skewed pylons, the flickering core, the unnatural mist creeping across the floor. "The anchor must have been attacked. And these men are conduction controllers—each maintains a pylon’s energy flow." He gestured to the three secondary structures, their surfaces scarred with hairline fractures.
"And it looks like something tampered with that one." His voice dropped as he pointed to the leftmost pylon, its light sputtering wildly.
Harken adjusted his glasses, studying the damage. "So what do we do? Can we fix this?"
Nusayel’s lips thinned. "Unfortunately, no. I’m not versed in this type of things. We need to wake these—"
A sharp click cut him off.
Both of them turned to see the silver-haired youth standing at one of the console pedestals, his fingers flying across the auratech interface.
"S-student Zephyr!" Harken shouted, lurching forward. "Don’t mess with—!"
A resonant hum filled the chamber.
The flickering pylon steadied, its light stabilizing into a steady azure glow.
Zephyr didn’t look up, already moving to the next console. "The fluctuation pattern matched a standard overload sequence," he said, his voice calm. "Whoever did this didn’t sabotage it—they just didn’t know how to properly divert the surge."
Nusayel and Harken exchanged glances.
"...You’ve worked with anchors before?" Nusayel said flatly.
Zephyr’s fingers stilled for half a second. Then, quietly: "Yes."
The baron’s eyes narrowed—but before he could press further, the ground trembled again. The anchor core’s light dimmed abruptly, plunging the room into near-darkness.
From the corridor outside came a sound like shattering glass—and a whisper, carried on the wind:
"Eyes... in the snow..."
The three men exchanged glances and moved swiftly toward the doorway.
Just as they reached the threshold, a figure came barreling through the snow-choked corridor, nearly colliding with them. The man stumbled to a halt, clutching his left arm—which hung at an unnatural angle—with his right hand, his breath ragged.
"Captain Draven!" Nusayel barked in recognition.
The captain’s head snapped up, his face pale beneath the blood streaking his temple. "M-my lord—! Be careful—!"
Nusayel didn’t hesitate. He yanked the injured man behind them with his left hand while his right drew a sleek, black-iron spear from the air itself—the weapon materializing in a ripple of distorted space.
The corridor erupted in a whirl of snow and shadow. Three figures coalesced atop the entrance archway, their forms bleeding into existence like ink in water.
Their bodies defied reason—limbs stretching too long, fingers tapering to ice-sharp points.
One stood on three visible legs, another on two, their fourth limbs flickering in and out of existence like half-forgotten thoughts. Their skin pulsed between solidity and mist, one moment pale as frostbite, the next dissolving into the storm’s breath.
But worst were their heads—or what passed for them. Where faces should have been, swirling vortices of fog churned, pulling snowflakes into their depths like tiny, hungry blizzards. And deep within those spiraling mists, two hollow circles pulsed—black pits that might have been eyes, spiraling endlessly inward, as if staring from some unfathomable distance.
Nusayel’s spear gleamed in the failing anchor light.
"Mistborns," he muttered, the word a curse.
The lead creature tilted its vortex-head. Snowflakes froze midair around it, suspended in perfect, glittering horror.
A sound like wind through dead branches scraped from its formless maw:
Chill ran down their spine.
Nusayel’s grip tightened on his spear.
The lead Mistborn’s vortex-head rippled—then its form dissolved into the storm.
The remaining two lunged at them.
Nusayel blocked one’s claws with his spear.
While the other’s ice-sharp fingers speared toward Zephyr’s throat—
—as the third reappeared behind Harken.