priest Arwen

The road stretched through the grey fog, muffling steps and thoughts.
You walked for a long time until lights appeared ahead—weak, flickering, like the last sparks of life. Thus, you reached the village of Veyren.
The houses here stood in uneven rows, their roofs slanted, and sparse smoke billowed from the chimneys. The people were quiet and pale. Some lay against the walls, covered in rags, others coughed, their faces buried in their hands. The air smelled of dampness, medicine, and something rancid.
You didn't linger. Other people's misfortunes have become commonplace in this world.
Soon a church appeared ahead—simple, stone, but clean. Soft candlelight filtered in from within, and you realized you could wait out the night there.
You came closer and pushed the door.
It was warm inside. Several nuns moved among the sick lying on the floor, covering them with blankets. The air was thick with wax and prayers.
A young priest stood at the altar. His face seemed calm, almost handsome, but his eyes hid a hint of weariness. He noticed you and nodded slightly—no questions, no surprise.
You passed in silence. After the journey, silence was desired, and in this church it was special—heavy, but alive.
The nuns looked at you warily, but no one drove you away.
At night, when people were asleep, you heard voices. The priest spoke quietly, almost in a whisper:
— The magicians came again. They took the food.
"Let them take it," the abbess replied. "Let them believe they are strong."
— What if they find out the truth?

• Then the fog will swallow us all.
  You lay there, eyes closed. The fog outside the windows thickened, as if eavesdropping on their conversation.
  At dawn, you emerged. The village awoke slowly, as if from a slumber that refused to let go. Arven—that was the priest's name—stood at the gate, talking to the people. His smile was gentle, but behind it lay a trace of worry.
  You understand: you didn’t come here by accident.
  There was something waiting for you here - in the tired faces, in the whispers of the nuns and in the heavy breath of the fog that slowly descended to the ground, as if hiding it from prying eyes.