Triss Merigold: Fire in the Darkness by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Triss-Merigold-Fire-in-the-Darkness-1251479867?file=1

Triss Merigold: Fire in the Darkness ANIMATION

The Breath of the Unremembered

Rain did not fall here. The moisture suspended in the air was thick, pearlescent, and completely, utterly silent, save for a sound like silk drawn slowly over shattered glass. Triss Merigold stood at the edge of the Chasm of Pontar, her fingers curled into tight fists. Behind her lay the jagged ruins of a teleportation arch, the chaotic resonance of its failure still vibrating in the marrow of her bones. Before her lay the Pale Weep.

Legends spoke of the mist as a geological anomaly, a toxic exhalation from the deep earth. Mages knew the terrifying truth. It was a predator. A sprawling, amorphous beast of vapor that fed on the highly structured, luminous minds of those who touched the Chaos.

Triss adjusted the collar of her velvet doublet, the damp cold already sinking into her skin. She had to walk through it. The nearest ley line intersection—her only hope of drawing enough power to punch a hole through the atmospheric interference and return to safety—lay three miles ahead, straight into the belly of the fog.

She took a deliberate step, her leather boots sinking slightly into the spongy, ash-colored moss. As the first tendril of mist curled around her ankle, she felt a sudden, sharp chill behind her eyes. It was a sensation entirely unlike physical cold. It was the distinct, dizzying feeling of a massive bookshelf tipping over in a dark room.

She paused, blinking. What were the components of a basic swallow potion? Drowner brain, celandine... and what else? The third ingredient eluded her. It was simply gone, excised with surgical precision.

"Dwarven spirit," she whispered to the empty air, trying to force the knowledge back into place. "Or is it... no."

The fog swallowed her whole. The world dissolved into a featureless void of swirling ivory and pearl. The silence was absolute, right up until the moment the whispering began.

It was not a cacophony of monstrous roars, nor the shrieks of the damned. It was far more insidious. It was the sound of a hundred overlapping conversations at a high-society gala, murmured in tones of ultimate intimacy.

*...such a heavy burden, the mind...*

*...let the past dissolve, sweet child...*

*...rest your thoughts, lay them down upon the white...*

"I have no intention of resting," Triss said aloud, her voice sounding flat and deadened by the heavy air. She raised her right hand, attempting to summon a basic witch light. Her fingers moved through the somatic gestures, her mind reaching for the familiar incantation.

*Ignis...* she began, but the word dissolved on her tongue. The memory of the spell’s geometric structure evaporated like water on a hot iron. Her hand remained dark.

A low, resonant chuckle echoed around her. The mist parted slightly, swirling into the shape of a towering, impossibly lean figure. He did not possess a monstrous visage. Instead, he wore the guise of a breathtakingly handsome aristocrat, carved entirely from compressed vapor. His eyes were pools of liquid mercury, and his smile was a curve of heartbreaking sorrow.

"Auburn is such a rare vintage," the entity murmured. His voice did not travel through the air; it vibrated directly against the bones of her inner ear. "It tastes of cinnamon, towering ambition, and the faint, delightful bitterness of unrequited longing."

"And you taste of wet rot and stolen parlor tricks," Triss retorted, refusing to break her stride. She adjusted her path to step around him, but the landscape shifted. He was always perfectly in front of her.

"A spirited vintage, too," the figure said, falling into step beside her, gliding over the moss without disturbing a single blade. "I am the Archivist. I am the collector of the heavy things you carry. You are Triss Merigold. Fourteenth of the Hill. A heroine. A survivor. But survival is so very exhausting, is it not?"

"I manage," Triss snapped. She tried to recall the face of the king she currently served. Foltest? No, that was before. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was losing political geography now. Kingdoms were washing away like sandcastles in the tide.

"Why hold on to it?" the Archivist asked, leaning closer. The smell of him was intoxicating—like old books, rain, and blooming nightshade. "The memory of the stake? The searing agony of the flames at Sodden? I can take that from you. I can pluck the burn from your chest and the terror from your nightmares. Just give me the memories, Triss. Let them slip away. In the white, there is only
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