Morning came heavy and silent.
Not the peaceful silence of dawn, but a hush too deep, too wrong.
Ryle stepped onto Lysmere's marble street, Thea at his side, Tobin trailing behind while Kessia sniffed the air with her tail flicking like a nervous metronome.
The streets glittered in gold and gems, but something vital was missing—people.
Fewer merchants called their wares. Fewer nobles paraded their vanity. Fewer eyes watched them from windows.
Tobin frowned. "Where's the baker from yesterday? And that guy with the coin tricks?"
Ryle didn't respond at first. He stood still.
Then his voice dropped. "This is Wraith."
Thea's brows knitted. "Wraith?"
Ryle turned toward her, jaw tight. "A mimic race. Long thought extinct. Or mythical."
"Mimicry…?" Tobin asked.
"Invisibility. Impersonation. They copy the looks, voices—even memories—of people they kill," Ryle said.
Kessia hissed. "They smell like ash… and something else. Something old."
Ryle didn't hesitate. "We need to leave—now."
They pivoted, but as they reached the city gate, a line of civilians stepped in their path. A woman clutched a baby. A young boy held a toy sword. A priest smiled gently.
"Please stay," they said in eerie unison.
Ryle's eyes narrowed.
He didn't speak.
He slashed.
His blade sliced through the woman's chest—no blood. Her body rippled—then burst into black fog, reshaping into a monstrous form cloaked in smoke and screaming silence.
Dozens followed.
Their disguises melted like wax, revealing grotesque Wraiths with eyeless faces and bone-thin arms.
Battle erupted.
Ryle spun through the fog, his purple-clawed hands tearing through Wraiths with savage precision.
Thea dashed to his side, her Twinlight glowing. She moved like a dancer, cutting through their invisible limbs, adjusting to their shifting movements.
Tobin summoned a radiant circle—his light magic revealed their silhouettes, making them easier to hit.
"NOW!" he shouted.
Kessia lunged, claws glowing pink. "I've fought illusions before," she snarled, slicing through one Wraith after another. "But this—this is disgusting!"
Ryle barked orders between attacks. "They're fast but weak when struck! Don't give them a second chance to vanish!"
Within minutes, a pile of evaporating mist coated the courtyard.
Still panting, Ryle looked around. "There's too many. This isn't their full force."
"They're mimicking people," Thea said. "Where are the real ones?"
Kessia's ears perked. She dropped to all fours, tail stiff.
"…Basement. Under the castle. I smell sweat. Fear. And no smoke."
Ryle nodded. "We move. Now."
They stormed the castle again, but this time, not to observe ceremony.
Down winding staircases and locked iron doors, they reached the basement—a dark cellar hidden beneath jewel-lined halls.
Kessia kicked the final gate open.
Hundreds of civilians sat huddled in the darkness. Ragged breaths. Children sobbing. Men and women clinging to hope that never arrived.
The baker. The boy with the coin tricks. The woman with the baby—they were all here.
Tobin rushed in, casting healing spells and light.
Kessia pushed open cages.
Thea moved among them, calming and steadying their nerves.
Ryle stood still.
A chill crawled down his spine.
A voice behind them.
"Welcome."
They turned—swords ready.
Four shadowy figures stepped out of the far corner, cloaked in smoke, yet distinct in shape—tall, thin, and wrong.
"Don't move," Ryle warned.
The figures froze—then smirked in unison.
"Why did you do this?" Thea asked, voice low and steady.
One stepped forward. "We wanted to see how strong the new Hero…" he gestured to Tobin, "...and the World's Strongest Journalist really are."
Then, Dalen Asterra entered behind them.
The new Duke of Lysmere.
He no longer wore a robe.
His form unraveled like silk, revealing the true shape beneath—black skin laced with gray veins, claws made of smoke, eyes empty yet ancient.
Ryle's jaw clenched. "You were one of them all along."
Dalen—the Wraith Leader—smiled. "We slaughtered the real Lysmere family. The old duke? A puppet. A whisper wrapped in our shadow."
"But the ritual?" Ryle snapped. "Why the crown? Why the charade?"
"To lure you," Dalen whispered. "To draw out the strong. The bold. To show the world we're here. Not myths. Not forgotten."
He raised his clawed hand.
"You can't stop us. Every street you walk, every whisper you hear, might be a Wraith. We're done hiding."
With a flick of his fingers, the four figures vanished into mist.
So did he.
Ryle stared into the silence left behind.
"…They never wanted power. Just exposure."
That night, in the safety of a secured inn on Lysmere's outskirts, Ryle wrote.
He carved each word with the weight of truth, the urgency of survival, and the clarity of a storm.
THE WRAITHS EXIST – LYSMERE FALLS INTO SHADOW
The richest noble house of Velbrath was nothing but a stage.
The real Lysmere family is gone.
The city was infested, controlled by mimics who wear the faces of the dead.
The Wraiths are not gone. They are rising.
Trust no shadow.
Trust no voice.
Until proven otherwise—assume the fog breathes.
He sent the article that night.
Three days later, the results were clear.
Lysmere was stripped of noble status. Its crest shattered. Its palace sealed.
A new noble family was being considered.
And yet… the Velbrath royal court refused to comment.
With vampire panic flooding the west, and now this mimic plague in the east, the kingdom's leaders were overwhelmed.
No public statement. No military action.
Just silence.
But silence, Ryle knew now, could be a mask too.
Because anything could be a Wraith.
Even the king.