The Shroud pressed in like a wet lung, thick and silent, swallowing sound and shape the farther they moved from the breach point. The fog wasn’t just low visibility—it was alive, drifting in curls that clung to skin and armor like fingers reluctant to let go. Captain Roegan had marched through three Shrouds in his career. All Tier One. All nightmares in their own way.
But this?
This was different.
A Tier Two Shroud wasn’t supposed to sit this close to a forward camp. And it damn sure wasn’t supposed to be assigned to a fledgling company. The moment the fog closed behind them and the Maw sealed like a throat swallowing them whole, Roegan felt the back of his teeth go cold.
He didn’t show it.
Not when men watched him for direction. Not when some were already shaking. His strength multiplier soul talent gave him four times the durability and force of the average soldier—but it did nothing for the quiet dread that simmered in his gut.
He’d heard the stories—Initiate-level Crawlers, some even touching Expert tiers. Creatures that learned. That stalked. That mimicked sounds in the fog just to draw survivors into death traps. The worst part? In Tier Twos, the terrain twisted. You could walk straight and end up in a place you swore you’d passed an hour ago.
The troops broke into groups. Some willingly. Some by pressure. Some because fear made them cling to the nearest body breathing beside them.
That was when Silas Drey made his move.
He’d always been quiet in camp—observant, but forgettable. Lean-built, sharp-eyed, with a calm voice that never rose above mild interest. Nobody paid him much attention until attention became currency.
He approached the cluster of soldiers hanging back—those not already folded under Roegan’s command structure. His armor was clean, unblooded still, but his gaze never stood still.
"Captain’s playing it safe," Silas murmured, just loud enough for them to hear. "Safe gets you picked off one by one in a Shroud like this. You want to survive? You stay with someone who has a fucking useful talent, strength isn’t gonna get you much when fighting crawlers that can be invisible or fly."
He didn’t mention his soul talent outright. He didn’t have to. A flicker of distortion shimmered near his boot, a ripple in the air—like heat over stone. Some guessed it was some kind of illusion, the way he blurs his body in the wind. Low-tier still, but dangerous in the right hands.
Bessia stood nearby, arms crossed, face pale but controlled. She was still rattled from the ambush that took half their patrol, and the fog had only tightened the anxiety. Silas’s gaze landed on her.
"You’re a healer, right?" he said, voice almost conversational.
She hesitated. "Only on myself. It’s not—"
"Doesn’t matter," Silas cut in smoothly. "Someone who survives is more valuable than someone who bleeds out for loyalty."
Another two soldiers drifted toward him at that. Not because they trusted him—because the alternative was uncertainty and Roegan’s brutal pragmatism.
Silas formed a team within minutes. Bessia. Two veterans with chipped blades and no cores. One woman who hadn’t spoken since they entered. And him.
Roegan noticed. Of course he did.
But he let it happen.
Men would splinter—better to see the cracks now than have them break mid-battle.
Bright, Duncan, Adam, and Link held their own formation several paces to the left. Link glared openly at Silas as the illusionist led his recruits deeper into the haze.
"That bastard’s not right," Link muttered.
Duncan grunted. "He doesn’t have to be right but he’s charismatic and useful to the ones scared enough to follow him."
Bright watched Bessia’s back as she walked with the splintered group, a faint twitch of unease pulling at his jaw.
Roegan gave the command to move.
They advanced.
Some in silence.
Some with whispers meant to keep panic from spilling out.
Some already thinking about whose corpse they’d loot if food or serum ran dry.
The Maw swallowed their footfalls, their breath, their fear. And deep within the fog, a sound echoed once—too far to place, too soft to define.
A scrape.
A breath.
A warning.
Roegan’s fists clenched and unclenched.
Tier Two wasn’t a battlefield.
It was a grinder.
And the Shroud hadn’t even started chewing.