Mistwraith Mistborn Novelas e Histórias

Chapter 2: Whispers in the Mist The mist clung to the mountain paths like a soft veil the next morning, softening the edges of the world into that dreamy, high-detail haze Lila had come to associate with their fragile truce. She walked along the neutral riverbank, her braided hair swaying gently beneath the hood of her cream sweater, the fabric still carrying faint traces of last night’s rain. On one side of her thoughts stood the cool blue sadness of duty—her pack’s expectations, the long history of blood between Shadowfang and her own Moonveil clan. On the other, a calm, glowing hope beckoned, like the wise older presence guiding her toward a future she could barely name. The rain had ease

Kael shouted, pulling her back. But Aria didn’t move. The mist wasn’t attacking. It was reaching. It wrapped around her wrist, cold as death, and pulled. Visions hit her again—forges, blood, the Oathbreaker’s teeth. But this time, there was something else. A name. *Veyra.* Aria gasped. “Veyra.” The mist recoiled like it had been struck. The shard cracked down the middle. The wolves screamed, not in pain, but in relief. The blue in their eyes faded. They collapsed, breathing hard, human again.

Silas crossed last, seemingly unaffected, though his eyes were wide, recording everything. The gates of the fortress were not gates at all, but a swirling vortex of grey mist, shot through with silver threads of memory. As we stood before it, the mist parted, and a figure emerged. She was tall and gaunt, her form seeming to be made of the same solidified sorrow as her fortress. Her eyes were pools of liquid silver, holding the light of a thousand extinguished suns.

Then came the shapes. They emerged from the edges of the street — tattered remnants of what used to be souls. Their forms shimmered and pulsed, faceless and skeletal, dripping black mist that hissed against the ground. “Corrupted fragments,” Kael barked. “They’re scouts. Form perimeter!” The reapers moved instantly, forming a circle as the entities lunged. Avery swung her scythe, the blade slicing through one of the wraiths. It exploded into vapor — but not cleanly. Instead of dissolving into light, the mist clung to her weapon like tar, tendrils writhing toward her gloves.

The morning air was thick with mist, clinging to the ruins of the temple like a shroud. Amelia Whitford awoke slowly, the events of the night before pressing heavily on her mind. The golden flecks in her eyes seemed to pulse faintly, a constant reminder that her bloodline had awakened powers she had barely begun to understand. Her body ached from the strain of exertion, yet even exhaustion could not erase the persistent pull of destiny that seemed to hum through her veins.

Then I start down the slope. Not because I trust them. Not because I think they’ll welcome me. But because the road east continues beyond this valley. And because the shadows are already moving ahead of me, clearing a path through the dusk. Raven Winterstar—scion, survivor, Necromantress—steps into the firelight. And the world holds its breath.

Curtis looked at Kendra with pity and said. What the hell? “What do you want from me? I thought he just had anxiety.” Kendra leaned against the bed and said weakly. “Anxiety is one of them. Ten years ago, Mr. Martin was infected with wolf poison during his training as a successor of his family. He couldn't figure out how it occurred to him. Since then, he would turn to a wolf every full moon night. Before you appeared, Mr. Martin could only control the poison by taking special medicine. But Alexis suddenly found that the poison was much lessened when Mr. Martin had body contact with you last month, so we assume it was because of you. Last night,…” Curtis explained.

}} [ that dear one was the cries of my children, the lake is made up of tears of those who lost loved ones in one way or the other before their time, the orbs you see are wandering souls of those who have died before meeting their destined and are stuck here roaming and searching for all eternity, I do not wish that for you Hayden or for any of my children, I have spend milleniums looking on as my children lost their lives foolishly for naught, it pains me and it haunts me to see how far my creations have strayed from their purpose ] {{ Then what must I do to get my mate that was stolen back? }} [ fear not, all is not lost, I have a child a blessed and chosen child that is assisting the Cres

They were vicious against enemies, the shapeless assassins and spies that could penetrate the defences of any threat whilst also providing aid to those that they obey. A faint shuddering in the shadows hinted at the appearance of the wolves. They moved cautiously, looking to avoid the last of the dappled light that fell between the pine trees. Slowly their forms took shape like watery images of beasts, their bodies floating and swirling like smoke and mist. Behind the witch, the warriors shifted uneasily, still not used to seeing these curious creatures. “Look, Signe! Do you see them?” Estrid cooed to her daughter, pointing to the first of the shadowy figures that stepped out from the roilin

Then I exhaled—and sank. The water surrounded me, welcoming and fierce all at once. It pulled me under but held me gently, like I was a child returning home. My eyes fluttered closed, and the world shifted. I saw flashes. A woman standing on a frozen battlefield, blades of light in both hands. A white wolf howling into a storm. A circle of priestesses standing around a glowing crystal. Demons falling, screaming, burning in blue fire. The Key. Me. I opened my eyes, but I wasn’t gasping. I could breathe underwater. My hair flowed around me like moonlight, and I reached out—and the water obeyed.