Married To Darkness-Chapter 382: Linz & The Fog Of Wyfhaven

Meanwhile,

The scent of salt hung in the air, thick and heavy like the breath of the sea.

Waves crashed against the weather-beaten docks in a rhythm older than the city itself, their foam spraying onto cobblestones that had seen centuries of sailors, thieves, and whispers.

Lanterns flickered against the dark, casting long shadows as the wind swept through the narrow alleys of Wyfhaven—the famed, infamous seaside city of Wyfn-Garde.

Alaric stood tall, his silver cloak whipping in the breeze, eyes narrowing at the small group of men blocking their path.

Salviana’s grip tightened on the satchel strapped across her shoulder, while Lucius was vibrating with an uncontained fury just beneath his calm façade.

The air between them all sizzled with tension.

The man at the center of the local group—clearly their leader—was lounging with the sort of arrogance only those who feared nothing could afford.

He was wiry, with a lean face and a tattoo curling over one cheekbone like a snake.

His leather vest was slung lazily over one shoulder, and the twin daggers at his belt glinted in the moonlight.

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Oh?" he drawled. "So you’ve seen it too?"

Alaric’s voice was low, clipped. "Seen what?"

"The fog," the man said simply. "What else?"

"What is it?" Salviana stepped forward, her voice trembling between curiosity and rage.

The man didn’t answer right away. He just stared at her, amused. Lucius’ hand twitched.

"Where is it?" Alaric asked. The demand in his voice turned the breeze cold.

Lucius, unable to wait, stepped closer with a growl. "Take us to it. Now."

"Ugh. Calm down, yeah?" the man said, backing up a pace with a hand held out in mock peace. "You’re twitchier than a rat in a trap."

"Calm down?!" Lucius nearly shouted, his voice breaking. "I can’t! I won’t!"

The gang leader blinked, surprised. "What—the fog took your trunks? Food? Is that why you’re so pressed? You got gold in there or something?"

Alaric frowned. "Is that all the fog takes in this place?"

"Just belongings," the man shrugged. "It’s not a big deal. Happens all the time. It’s a nuisance, sure, but no one’s ever been seriously hurt."

Lucius was shaking now, fists clenched as he rubbed his face in frustration.

"Well," Alaric said darkly, "it has now."

Salviana’s voice came out quiet, trembling, but full of rage. "It took our friend."

The man blinked, processing. "A person?"

"Are you demented?" Lucius snapped, his teeth grit so tightly his jaw trembled. "You think she was friends with a basket of apples?!"

Alaric clicked his tongue, his patience gone. "Do we look like we’re talking about luggage, idiot?"

The man raised both hands, genuinely taken aback now. "Whoa—lady and lads—I’m sorry, alright? I don’t know which fog you ran into, but our local haze just... swipes things. Small things. Never people."

Lucius let out a guttural noise, part growl, part sob. His chest rose and fell rapidly. "The fog has my—my..." He trailed off, unable to say her name.

Alaric moved closer to him, steadying. "Lucius—"

Lucius turned to him, his shoulders falling, but his eyes—his eyes were aflame. "Alaric, we have to find her. He doesn’t know anything."

But then, the man cleared his throat. "Well... I may not, but I know someone who might."

Both men turned sharply to him.

"Who?" Lucius barked, breathless.

The man shoved his hands in his pockets, kicking at a pebble. "Linz Balusamy. Lindsay’s son—the one who took you lot to the Wyfwharf Inn."

Alaric’s frown deepened. "Who is he?"

"He’s... odd," the leader admitted. "Knows more about the fog than anyone. Talks to it, some say. Been studying it since he was a boy. Spends too much time by the sea cliffs, alone. Strange lad. But clever."

Lucius didn’t even wait. The second the name registered, he was gone, boots echoing on the cobbled street, speed fueled by desperation.

"Thanks," Alaric said shortly, giving a nod before following him.

But Salviana lingered, stepping closer to the leader.

"I hope you aren’t bringing trouble to our city," he muttered, the bravado in his voice now laced with unease.

Salviana leaned in slightly, voice like silk and venom. "I think your city is trouble," she whispered, brushing past him.

The man stood there frozen as they disappeared down the mist-veiled alley. The breeze picked up again, flapping his vest. He rubbed his arms and looked around at the flickering lanterns and creeping fog that had crept closer to the edges of the square.

"Who in all seven damned hells are they...?" he murmured, voice swallowed by the wind.

From a rooftop above, something watched with glistening eyes.

The fog thickened.

And the sea roared louder.

They rushed through Wyfhaven’s crooked streets. Salviana lay cradled in Alaric’s arms, her head resting against his shoulder, strands of her hair fluttering in the wind as he moved with inhuman speed.

His vampire senses sharpened in the night—every heartbeat, every distant cry of a gull, the hush of waves hitting rocks—he took them all in, but his focus never left her.

Lucius was already pounding at the front counter of the Wyfwharf Inn by the time they arrived, his voice laced with panic and exhaustion.

"Where’s your son?!" he demanded, eyes wild.

Lindsay, the aging innkeeper, flinched at the urgency in his voice.

She was a plump woman with streaks of silver in her tightly bound braid, wearing a woolen shawl over her shoulders and surprise in her tired eyes.

"My son?" she repeated, blinking at the drenched, mud-spattered nobles standing in her lobby.

"Linz," Lucius snapped, slamming his palm on the counter. "Where is Linz?"

Lindsay straightened her shoulders, trying to remain calm. "He’s not here. He doesn’t stay in the inn at night. He prefers the quiet of our cottage home, just on the hill outside the city center. If you wait until morning—"

"We don’t have until morning!" Lucius growled.

"Lucius," Salviana’s voice was gentle but firm from Alaric’s arms, "let me try."

She turned her head to Lindsay, her expression soft despite the pain etched into her features. "Madam Lindsay, please. The fog—it took someone dear to us. We’ve seen something horrible tonight, something your people say never happens. But it did. We believe Linz knows something. Anything. We just want to talk to him."

Lindsay’s expression faltered. She looked at Salviana, then at Alaric—whose eyes were glowing faintly red in the low light of the inn, his jaw tight and unyielding. He said nothing, but his gaze pierced into her like a dagger—silent, powerful, and barely restrained.

She shivered, her hands trembling slightly.

"He’s... he’s likely asleep by now," she said, reluctantly. "But if you must... follow the east road out of the market square. There’s a path marked with a willow tree and a windchime. Our house is the third cottage after that. Red shingles. Ivy on the left wall."

Alaric gave her a sharp nod, but before he turned to go, he leaned just a fraction closer to her and left with a sigh.

Lucius however said quietly, "If anything happens to Jean while searching for your son, I’ll make sure the fog isn’t the only thing this town fears."

Lindsay paled. "He means no harm," Salviana whispered over his shoulder. "We’re just desperate."

With that, they turned and left into the mist.

Streetlamps glowed like distant ghosts, and the world seemed far too quiet for a town that was supposedly safe.

Lucius led the way, his cloak flapping behind him, his boots splashing through puddles. Alaric followed, still carrying Salviana, her fingers gripping the collar of his tunic.

"Do you think this Linz boy can help us?" she asked, her voice barely above the wind.

"He better," Alaric muttered, eyes flickering around them. "Because I don’t plan to leave this city without her."

Lucius didn’t say a word, but his jaw clenched tighter. Every step he took toward the cottage was one step closer to answers—or more madness.

The windchime Lindsay mentioned swung eerily in the airless fog, clinking like distant bones.

They had found the path. And ahead, the red-shingled cottage sat in silence, waiting.

The path grew narrower the farther they went, snaking through thickets of windblown trees and fog-soaked silence.

The town behind them had faded into a blur of muffled lights and distant gull cries. Here, it was only the night, the road, and the unknown.

Lucius was the first to spot it—the cottage with red shingles and ivy crawling up its left side, just as Lindsay had described. A single lantern glowed faintly by the door, swaying slightly with the wind.

But as they approached, Alaric slowed, brows drawing together.

"What is that sound?" Salviana whispered, ears perking.

Lucius stopped abruptly, his head cocked. And then... the unmistakable.

A rhythmic creaking.

A muffled giggle.

A low moan.

Lucius groaned and flung his arms in the air. "Oh for the love of all that’s holy—"

Alaric pressed his lips together in amused irritation. "He’s... occupied."

Inside, it sounded like a bedframe was being punished. The creaking quickened. A feminine gasp rang out. Then a man’s low grunt.

Salviana buried her face in Alaric’s neck. "This cannot be happening."