The steady rhythm of the switch being repeatedly activated echoed persistently throughout the secret chamber. The metallic springs in its mechanism hummed in harmony as they alternately connected and disconnected, creating an orchestration of industrial music. Here, an antenna – cleverly disguised as a weather vane – was responsible for transmitting the coded messages into the vast expanse of the skies. Messages from the Mist Fleet were then returned to this chamber, where they were translated into the rhythmic clatter of relays and a complex pattern of punctures on a strip of paper tape.
Nemo, the room’s single occupant, was stationed at the table. He was donning a set of headphones that made him look like a vintage DJ, his fingers tapping an impatient beat on the tabletop as he strained to decipher the sounds vibrating within his ear canals. Standing next to him was a young woman, her attire identifying her as a waitress, but her focused gaze on the freshly punched paper tape suggested her role was far more significant.
As the rhythmic cacophony of mechanical sounds began to wane, Nemo removed his headphones. He leaned back into his chair, fingers gently massaging the bridge of his nose as he let out a long, audible sigh.
“Captain Tyrian has already engaged the ominous fleet that’s materialized from the shrouded fog. The situation with the Frost Navy is still unclear, but from what we can ascertain, it isn’t looking too optimistic,” the waitress turned intelligence operative spoke, her voice an anxious whisper as she held on to the paper tape, “The city, however, has been oddly silent. There’s been no communication whatsoever.”
“The dense fog has effectively severed all civilian news channels. Even if the people living along the coast hear the distant rumble of cannon fire, they won’t have the faintest clue about the true nature of the events unfolding. And the city officials have their hands full trying to maintain order within the city limits. The last thing they need right now is a wave of panic,” Nemo said, his fingers pressing into his forehead as if to soothe a burgeoning headache, “What about outside? And how’s the situation in the store?”
“The sheriff station has imposed martial law across the city. The streets are eerily quiet, but there were some distant sounds of gunfire earlier. Two steam-powered walkers were seen speeding past the intersection of Oak Street, heading north,” she reported, “As for the store, we’re doing okay for now. We have enough fuel to keep the lights on, but…”
She hesitated, causing Nemo to prompt her, “But?”
“We have more than a dozen guests trapped here because of the fog. The streets are blocked off, and the emergency shelters are already filled to the brim. They have nowhere else to go. If things continue like this, it’s inevitable that fear and panic will start spreading among them.”
“…We can’t just throw them out onto the streets. The pub is their temporary refuge. Besides, if we were to start forcing people out, it’s bound to attract unwanted attention from both the sheriff’s deputies and the church,” Nemo responded, shaking his head, “I’ll go up to the roof and assess the situation myself soon.”
Before the discussion could continue, a muffled voice suddenly emerged from a corner of the room, adding to their worry, “Charge again, charge again… They’ve breached… Reinforcements have arrived…”
Nemo’s brow crinkled instantly as his attention was drawn towards the disturbance in the room. He rose swiftly from his seat, driven by the urgency of the unexpected interruption.
In the corner of the room was a modest bed, on which lay a disheveled elderly man looking rather bewildered. His body language was a testament to his confusion, his stooped posture and a tightly clenched grip around a large wrench—an odd possession for someone in his situation—making him appear somewhat unsettled.
“Old gramps, old gramps,” Nemo addressed the elderly man in a soothing tone, making his way over to the bed. He gently placed a comforting hand on the old man’s shoulder, “Did you have a bad dream?”
In response to Nemo’s reassuring touch, the old man gripping the hefty wrench slowly opened his eyes. After a few moments of disoriented gaze, he managed to find his voice, “Who are you?”
“I’m Nemo,” Nemo Wilkins responded, his facial expression a complex mixture of surprise and concern, “What were you dreaming about?”
“Nemo… ah, Nemo, I remember now, you’re the fresh recruit from the Queen’s Guard… greetings, I’m the pipe engineer of the Second Waterway… Dream? No, no, I wasn’t dreaming. I simply drifted off… what time is it now? Is it time for my shift to inspect the power pipes?”
“It’s already the afternoon,” Nemo dismissed his concern with a shake of his head, “Don’t worry about the power pipes for now. We’ve had to pull back from there for the time being. No place is safe currently. We have to stay put at the base and wait for further instructions. Admiral Tyrian gave those orders himself.”
“Admiral Tyrian…” The elderly man looked momentarily puzzled before he seemed to snap back to his senses. He quickly rose from his bed, his voice firm and determined, “Yes! Engineer Wilson acknowledges the order! Will stay put at the base!”
Nemo’s face was an array of emotions, but he slowly straightened himself, returning the old man’s salute with respect. He then turned his gaze towards the young woman in the waitress uniform, “Stay with him, keep an eye on him. I’m going to the roof to get a better understanding of our situation.”
With his instructions clearly given, Nemo left the secret chamber, making his way back to the surface pub through the concealed underground tunnel.
The atmosphere in the “Golden Flute” pub was heavy with tension. The guests stranded within the establishment due to the impenetrable fog, the clerks busy with their duties, and the waitstaff—all were intensely observing the exterior situation through the large display window, where the only visible sight was the blanket of thick fog and the faint outline of streets swallowed by it.
The city’s gas lamps had been lit much earlier than usual, but their artificial glow was barely successful in piercing through the darkness veiled by the eerie fog, falling short of restoring any semblance of normality to the chaos outside. The dim orbs of light bobbed in the dense fog like loose duckweed, giving the impression of a series of floating eyes above the silent streets.
Emerging from the kitchen entrance, Nemo positioned himself by the pub’s counter, his eyes scanning the room.
“What’s the current situation?” he asked the clerk behind the counter, his voice barely a whisper.
“Everyone’s quite anxious right now. We’ve lost both communication and transport links with the neighboring districts, leaving us in the dark about what’s happening elsewhere,” the young clerk confided in a soft whisper, “However, the good news is that, despite the mounting tension, no one has attempted to escape. Nobody wants to take their chances in the fog right now.”
Nemo offered a discreet nod in agreement, “If anyone does decide to be that reckless, don’t stop them—let them go. But make it clear that once they step outside, even if they just flirt with the fog for a moment, they won’t be allowed back in. From now on, this is a one-way door. We can’t take the risk of allowing anything that might have been tainted by the fog to reenter.”
The young clerk’s throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously, his eyes wide with understanding. He nodded his agreement earnestly, “Yes, manager.”
Their quiet conversation was suddenly interrupted by an unfamiliar droning sound emanating from the street outside – it was reminiscent of some large machine springing to life, intermingled with the unmistakable clatter of heavy gears plodding along the cobbled street.
The sudden auditory intrusion left the pub’s patrons visibly rattled. Emboldened by curiosity, a few edged closer to the window, their eyes anxiously surveying the activities unfolding on the fog-enveloped street. As the red lights flickering in the distance caught their eye, hushed exclamations began to ripple through the crowd, “Steam walkers… More walkers are on the move!”
Nemo, too, was drawn towards the window, but he had only taken a few steps when the odd humming sound from outside suddenly intensified. Following that, a slightly distorted voice, amplified by a loudspeaker, started reverberating through the room—it was an announcement being broadcast from a device mounted on one of the steam walkers.
“Attention, citizens. Governor Winston, in partnership with our esteemed church leaders, is doing everything in his power to restore peace and order in our city-state. We are currently dealing with an unexplained phenomenon. An important reminder for everyone: Please stay indoors or seek refuge in safe shelters. For your own safety, maintain a safe distance from any objects that could produce a reflective surface. This includes mirrors, bodies of water, and polished metals.
“Let me reiterate, steer clear of anything that might produce a mirror-like reflection.
“If you come across someone exhibiting strange behavior, retreat immediately to a safe, isolated spot. If possible, alert your shelter’s designated official, a nearby protector, or law enforcement. Do not confront suspicious individuals on your own. Your personal safety and isolation should be your primary concern.
“If you start feeling unwell, quickly isolate yourself in a safe place and limit contact with others…
“These precautionary guidelines are being issued by Governor Winston in collaboration with our specialist advisor on supernatural phenomena.
“Citizens, stay alert…”
As the broadcast began to taper off, the red alert light on the steam walker started to dim, both disappearing gradually into the dense fog.
Nemo lifted his gaze, his vision met with a sea of apprehensive and fearful faces. Each of them waiting in anticipation for his command.
“Fetch the coverings!” He instructed his staff, his voice authoritative yet calm. “Ensure every glass countertop and mirror is blanketed!”
The inhabitants of the city-state swiftly responded to his directive. They demonstrated a solid understanding of emergency procedures, coupled with emotional strength, both of which were necessary for self-preservation in the face of an otherworldly crisis. The shop staff hurriedly gathered the protective dust covers, usually draped over merchandise after the store’s closing hours. The customers who remained within the store’s confines eagerly lent a hand, methodically shielding any objects that bore a reflective surface.
The same hectic yet organized chaos was unfolding throughout the entirety of Frost as the terror induced by the creeping haze engulfed the city-state.
Meanwhile, within the heart of this thick fog, a figure was making her way back to the cathedral. Agatha returned to find Bishop Ivan in the attached building, where he was resting after fulfilling his religious duties.
Bishop Ivan was not in his regular attire – a “spirit coffin.” Today, he was adorned in his grand bishop’s vestments, covering his mummified body. It had been quite some time since Agatha had last seen him in such grandeur.
“Even this hollow shell of mine had to rouse and labor,” Ivan stated, now fully dressed in his bishop’s attire. He sank into an armchair, reaching out his arms to greet Agatha, who had just arrived. “I’ve been immobile for so long. I feel like I’m crumbling to dust.”
“If you still have a physical form that can ‘crumble’,” Agatha replied dryly, “What’s the latest situation?”
“The current state of affairs, that’s what everyone wants to know—it’s grave,” came Bishop Ivan’s gravelly, resonating voice from beneath his wrappings, “Imposters have breached our city walls, and creatures that once lurked in the shadows are now revealing themselves. In recent events, several of our graveyards have been violated, and it appears that the enemy has been utilizing locations storing the dead as ‘portals’ into our realm. Reports from City Hall have also detailed gunfire heard across several lower city streets. At sea, our naval fleet is already locked in battle with monsters emerging from the ocean’s depths.”
“The enemy has launched a full-scale offensive, but what’s more troubling than their onslaught is our inadequate understanding of this catastrophe, or rather, this conspiracy. The heretics hiding in the shadows… how could they have orchestrated all of this, and where are they concealing themselves?”
With these words, Bishop Ivan slowly raised his head to meet Agatha’s watchful eyes.
“What have you unearthed from below? Your countenance suggests you’ve found something of significance.”
“I wasn’t able to find the heretics’ lair, but I did uncover… a piece of information that’s even more alarming.”
Taking a slow, measured breath, Agatha paused momentarily before whispering, “Our metal mines were depleted decades ago, perhaps even earlier than we initially thought.”
