Through The Mist
1290 Words
Theron couldn’t take it anymore.
He had tried. For six years, he had convinced himself that he didn’t need a mate, that the absence of that pull on his eighteenth name day was fate’s cruel joke, that maybe he was meant to rule alone, unburdened by love. But the moment he had felt her awake felt the stir of her magic echoing across realms every argument, every rationalization, every careful plan he had made fell apart like dry leaves in a storm.
The ache in his chest was unbearable, a low thrum that radiated through his bones, his blood, every nerve. It wasn’t just desire. It was recognition, hunger, fear, longing. The fire of something ancient and irrevocable had ignited, and he could no longer ignore it.
He would see her.
Not yet to touch, not yet to speak, not yet to reveal himself. He needed only to look, to know she was real, alive, and breathing in the same world as him. But even that was impossible without preparation. The mortal realm was dangerous for one like him; his magic, raw and potent, would flare uncontrollably and draw attention from things that would kill her before she even realized what she was.
Theron rose from his bed in the early hour, cloak draped loosely over his shoulders, chest bare, tattoos along his arms and torso gleaming faintly in the dim light. The palace was quiet, servants long asleep, the guards’ patrols silent echoes in the stone halls. He moved with the precision and power of a king, muscles tense, mind focused entirely on the path he had to take.
He went to the western forest, where the witch lived.
The forest stirred as he approached, creatures of every description peeking from shadowed trees and misted underbrush: winged beings perched silently, luminous animals gliding between the trunks, and shadows that seemed to have substance and form. None dared approach him uninvited. The forest recognized him as king, as predator, as mate awakened.
The witch’s cottage appeared like it had grown from the earth itself, crooked and ancient, smoke curling lazily from a chimney. She stood on the porch, robes fluttering as if stirred by an unseen wind, staff in hand, eyes glinting pale gray.
“You know why you are here,” she said without greeting, voice steady, sharp.
“I need to cross the barrier,” Theron said, voice low. “To the mortal realm. To see her. I cannot hold back any longer. My magic it will betray me if I do not.”
The witch inclined her head. “I know. And you feel it. The awakening of the mate.”
“Yes,” Theron admitted. “I have waited six years for this. I cannot stand another heartbeat without knowing she is alive. That she is” His voice broke slightly, raw with longing. “real.”
The witch produced a small vial, shimmering silver in the dim light. “This will cloak your power. Enough to enter unseen, to observe. Not to touch. Not to interfere.”
Theron accepted it, hand steady, throat tight. He uncorked it and swallowed, grimacing at the bitter warmth that burned through him, settling over his magic like a soft shroud. The forest sighed around him, creatures returning to motion, the veil holding him in silence and invisibility.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Rules remain,” she reminded him. “Observe only. Do not interfere. Do not draw her attention.”
“I understand,” he said, though the ache in his chest made him want to discard every rule.
The mortal world opened before him like a canvas waiting for color. He stepped through the thinning barrier at the forest’s edge, boots pressing into the damp grass, mist curling around him. The air smelled of wet earth, rain soaked leaves, faint smoke from distant chimneys. Everything was muted, softer than his world, yet every sense screamed at him: she was near.
He walked cautiously, cloak billowing behind him, body tense with anticipation. No armor, no shirt nothing between him and the pulse of the world, the pull of her magic that he could sense faintly even through the potion’s veil. The tattoos along his chest and arms seemed to glow faintly, as if responding to her awakening, to the thread that connected them though she did not yet know it.
And then he saw her.
Not fully, not yet.
She was walking along the edge of the woods, hood pulled loosely over her hair, red curls spilling down her back. She was distracted, lost in thought, and the magic around her hummed faintly, whispering to him. He froze.
The mist between them thickened, curling along the ground like smoke. And then he felt it the pull that had driven him from his palace to the witch, from the kingdom to the mortal realm. It was subtle, but undeniable, tugging at his chest, threading through his mind, whispering her.
She turned slightly, and he stepped carefully from the shadows. He did not approach, did not speak, did not breathe too loudly. The world seemed to shrink until only she existed, only her light, only the flare of magic beneath her skin that he could feel without touching.
And then she sensed him.
Malia froze mid-step. Her chest tightened, a shiver running down her spine. Something was watching her. Not danger. Not threat. But presence. Strong, insistent, overwhelming in a way she couldn’t name. She lifted her head. Mist curled between the trees and through it, she saw him.
Tall. Broad. Muscular. Black cloak over shoulders, boots damp, bare chest gleaming pale and powerful in the dawn light. Tattoos traced the curve of his arms and torso. He looked unreal, a being of shadow and light, something that had stepped from myth and story into the morning air.
Her heart stuttered.
And then it pulled.
A strange, fierce, magnetic tug, deep in her chest, that made her breath catch. She didn’t know what it was, didn’t understand it, but she wanted him. Every instinct screamed toward him, every fiber of her being stretching in that direction, leaning across the distance that separated them.
She took a step forward, almost drawn to him by some invisible thread.
His eyes, pale and burning, locked onto hers. And for a moment, time stopped. Not just for her. Not just for him. The mist, the trees, the wet earth they all seemed to hold their breath.
She opened her mouth, heart thundering. “I-”
A shout tore through the quiet.
“Malia! Hey! Wait up!”
Lena’s voice, familiar and grounding, broke the spell. Malia’s head snapped toward the street. Lena was a few houses down, jogging lightly, waving.
She glanced back at the figure in the mist, and in that instant, he was gone. The black cloak, the tattoos, the impossibly perfect form vanished like smoke, leaving nothing but the faint hum of magic she didn’t understand.
Her chest tightened. Breath caught. A pull lingered, faint but insistent, tugging at her heart even as her feet carried her toward Lena. She glanced back one last time, but the woods were empty.
Malia blinked, shaken. “What the hell?”
She shoved the feeling aside as best she could, forcing a laugh when Lena reached her. “Yeah! Coming!” she called, voice shaky, heart still racing.
Her mind reeled. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t know what he wanted. All she knew was that for one fleeting moment, she had felt something, someone so magnetic, so powerful, that it left her trembling.
And though he was gone, a part of her knew she hadn’t seen the last of him.
- Writer
