The mist churned, swirling violently around them. Every breath Kaelen drew felt like inhaling cold needles. Kelvin shifted his stance, scythe held low, ready to spring. Beside them, the silver-haired girl stood firm, her blade gleaming faintly against the suffocating gray.
The mist-being moved.
It didn't walk—it glided—one moment still, the next right upon them. A whip-like tendril lashed out from the folds of its cloak.
Crack!
Kaelen barely parried the strike, the sheer force of it numbing his arms through the sword. Kelvin swung his scythe horizontally, carving through empty mist as the creature flowed around his attack like water slipping past rocks.
"They're not solid!" Kelvin snarled, adjusting his grip.
"They are when they strike," Kaelen replied grimly, blood already trickling from a gash on his forearm.
