The Man in the Fog

Chapter Two — The Man in the Fog

The tide was low that morning, the harbor still half-asleep beneath a gray sky.

Lucien stood at the edge of the pier, the mist curling around his boots, the air humming faintly with the pull of old magic. The ocean always spoke louder when something was changing — and last night, it had roared.

He hadn’t felt that energy in nearly two centuries. Not since the last of the Blackwell line had burned.

Now it was here again — pulsing through the fog, singing through the current, sharp and familiar as moonlight on glass.

He closed his eyes. The gulls cried somewhere beyond the veil, but beneath their calls he heard another rhythm — a heartbeat. Not his own.

Hers.

Lucien opened his eyes to the pale light rising over the water. His reflection shimmered in the surface: tall, broad-shouldered, his long dark hair damp with sea mist. Loose waves brushed against his jaw, untamed, though sometimes he tied it back in a careless knot. His eyes — amber bright, with a fleck of blue in the left — caught the dawn like fire trapped in honey.

The fog thickened again, curling between his fingers as if it knew his thoughts. He could almost see her cottage from here, the faint outline of a window glowing against the gray. He imagined her inside, unaware that the tide had already begun to turn around her.

He drew in a slow breath. The scent of salt and rain clung to him, threaded with something older — the whisper of the Moon Goddess, Selunara, still lingering after all this time.

“Selunara,” he murmured, his voice low, steady, reverent. “You’ve kept your promise.”

Wind stirred against the water. For a moment, he saw movement near the cliffs: a shape, small and dark, a dog with one blue eye that gleamed like moonlight. Watching him.

And just like that, the vision dissolved, leaving only the echo of that heartbeat and the restless pull of the sea.

Lucien turned away from the pier, the hem of his coat brushing the damp wood. The world felt thinner now — as if the space between mortal and divine had grown fragile, ready to tear.

And somewhere in the fog behind him, a soft voice — not a human one — whispered his name.

Morning came soft and silver.

The fog had thinned by sunrise, and sunlight spilled through the cottage windows in pale ribbons, painting everything gold. Rowan sat on the edge of her bed, the blankets twisted around her legs, listening to the rhythmic hush of waves beyond the cliffs.

Windy lay at her feet, tail gently brushing the floor, half asleep but alert — always alert.

It was the first morning in as long as she could remember that Rowan didn’t have to be anywhere. No farm chores. No tight-lipped aunt reminding her about proper appearances. No forced Sunday services. Just quiet.

She smiled faintly, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “What do you think, Windy? We explore?”

Windy’s tail gave a soft thump in reply.

Downstairs, the kettle hissed on the stove as Rowan unpacked a few more boxes. Books. Teacups. A chipped photo frame holding a faded picture of her mother in the garden — sunlight tangled in her curls, laughter frozen forever behind glass.

Rowan touched the edge of the frame, thumb brushing dust away. “I made it,” she whispered. “Finally.”

The cottage still smelled faintly of salt and sage, like someone had once burned herbs in every corner to bless it. When she opened the front door, the morning air met her face cool and sweet — ocean wind mixed with the scent of coffee from somewhere nearby.

She locked the door behind her and walked toward town, Windy trotting beside her, fur glistening in the light.

Mystic was just waking up. The pumpkins on the shop steps were slick with dew. The bakery windows fogged with warmth and cinnamon. A small bookshop caught her eye—Moon’s End Books—tucked between two brick buildings, its sign swinging gently in the wind.

Rowan smiled. “I think we’ve found our place, girl.”

Inside, a bell chimed softly. The air was thick with old paper and lavender polish. Shelves leaned like tired friends, and somewhere in the back, a woman hummed while restocking a display.

Rowan wandered the aisles, fingers grazing the spines. Windy followed quietly, nails clicking on the floor.

And then—the air shifted.

It grew cooler for a heartbeat, as if the world inhaled. Rowan’s pulse fluttered. She turned toward the front window.

Outside, a tall figure crossed the street, his coat trailing behind him. Loose waves of dark hair brushed his jaw; his stride was steady, unhurried. When sunlight caught his face, she saw amber eyes with a flicker of impossible blue.

Rowan blinked, and he was gone.

Windy whined softly, pressing her head to Rowan’s leg.

Rowan exhaled a nervous laugh. “You saw that too, didn’t you?”

The bell above the door chimed again—though no one entered.

And somewhere beyond the fog, the tide shifted.

From across the street, Lucien lingered in the mist, watching her through the shop window. The girl inside was laughing quietly with her dog, a sound so fragile it almost hurt to hear.

He had imagined this moment for centuries—and yet it still stole the breath from him.

Rowan Blackwell.

The name struck through him like a spell. He had known she was coming the moment her magic crossed the veil. But seeing her—alive, human, unaware of what she was—was something else entirely.

He could see the mark of Selunara in her eyes even from here: marbled green and blue with a golden starburst at their center. The eyes of one touched by the Moon herself.

And when his gaze fell on the black dog at her side, his breath hitched. One blue eye, one marbled brown with a spark of blue hidden inside. Isolde.

The goddess had kept her word.

He whispered under his breath, a language older than storms. “You never could stay away, could you?”

The wind curled around him like a living thing. Somewhere beneath it, Selunara’s voice rose—soft, ethereal:

“When the heir awakens, so too shall the tide.”

Lucien closed his eyes. The prophecy he had feared was unfolding at last.

He’d been promised to her—the girl with the goddess’s light in her eyes—but she was not of his blood. His family had sworn never to marry beyond their own. To love her would defy every law that held his curse in check.

And yet, when she turned her head and their eyes met through the fogged glass, the world stilled. The curse within him pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

Lucien exhaled shakily. The bond had begun.

“She’s the one,” he murmured to the mist, half awe, half surrender. “And she doesn’t even know she’s mine.”