The mist does not clear; it only thins enough to let you see what it has already taken. I stood in the corridor of the High Steward’s office, the air so cold it bit through my coat, and watched the metal door handle dissolve into a gray sludge that dripped onto the linoleum. The fog was a living thing in this dome, a slow, hungry erosion that ate the iron and the stone, a fact the court had turned into a tax. I was Ray Tillman, a border warden with thirty-four years on the clock and a pension that depended on proving the "Ghost Tax" was a clerical error, not a supernatural levy. My badge had been confiscated an hour ago, the brass pin cold in my pocket, a useless weight that marked me as a traitor to the state. The Steward, a man whose face was as smooth and unreadable as the polished stone of his throne, had called me a heretic for suggesting the mist was merely weather. He did not look at me when he spoke; he looked at the door, where the fog was eating the hinges.

"You are denying the foundation of our order," he had said, his voice flat and dry. "The mist demands tribute. The poor pay in metal. The rich pay in belief. You are confusing the two."

I had argued that the records showed a discrepancy, that the "sanctified" scrap sold back to the kingdom was worth less than the tax collected, that the system was a fraud funding his palace. He had laughed, a dry sound like paper tearing, and ordered my badge taken. Now I stood alone in the hallway, the pressure suit patch on my shoulder, the third repair, feeling the dampness of the air seep into the fabric. The patch was a reminder of the badlands outside, where the wind in the wires, though no wires remained, still hummed a frequency that made the teeth ache. I needed to get to the archive. I needed to prove that the mist’s decay was linear, predictable, and therefore administrative, not divine. If I could show that the erosion rate matched the tax rate exactly, I could prove the court was selling nothing but air and rust.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‍‍​‌‍‍‌​⁠‍⁠‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‌‌​‌​⁠‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‍⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠​‍‍‍​​‌​⁠

I moved quickly, my boots squeaking on the wet floor. The corridor was long, the walls lined with panels that had been replaced so often they were a patchwork of different metals. I passed a window, and the sheet lightning outside flashed, illuminating the rusting Midwest beyond the glass, the badlands carved like grief into the earth. The light was white and sharp, a physical fact that cut through the gloom of the dome. I thought of the lighthouse keeper’s wife, who lived in the lower levels, her hands always stained with iodine, her eyes always red from the damp. She had told me once that the debt was inherited, that we paid for the sins of the builders with our breath. I had dismissed it as folklore, but now, with the badge gone and the mist closing in, the words felt heavier. He remembered, too, forty-seven of Candlewick Row — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

I reached the archive, the door heavy and resistant. I forced it open, the hinges screaming in protest, and stepped inside. The room was filled with ledgers, stacks of paper and metal tablets, the receipts of our collective decay. I began to pull them out, my fingers trembling not from fear but from the cold. The air here was thicker, the fog pooling on the floor like a liquid. I found the audit records, the ones the Steward had ignored. I began to copy them, my pen scratching against the paper, the sound loud in the silence. I realized then that the tax was not just a fee; it was a mechanism. The court was not collecting tribute for the mist; they were selling the eroded metal back to the people as "sanctified" scrap, a closed loop of fraud that funded their lavish lives. The poor paid in metal, and the rich paid in belief, and the mist ate the difference.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‍‍​‌‍‍‌​⁠‍⁠‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‌‌​‌​⁠‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‍⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠​‍‍‍​​‌​⁠

I heard footsteps behind me. I turned, the records in my hand, and saw the Steward standing in the doorway. He was not alone; his nephew, the strikebreaker, stood behind him, holding a weapon that looked like a rusted pipe. The Steward’s face was calm, his eyes reflecting the lightning that flashed outside.

"You think you have found the truth," he said. "You think the system is broken. It is not. It is necessary. The belief in the mist’s divinity is what keeps the dome standing. If the mist is just weather, we have no power. We have no legitimacy. We are just men in a tin can, waiting to die."‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‍‍​‌‍‍‌​⁠‍⁠‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‌‌​‌​⁠‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‍⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠​‍‍‍​​‌​⁠

"I have the records," I said, my voice steady. "I will expose you. I will show the people that the tax is a lie." He remembered, too, the Hollowbrook stub of sealing wax — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

The Steward smiled, a thin, cruel curve of the mouth. "Then you will die with the lie. The mist does not care for your justice. It only cares for the decay."‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‍‍​‌‍‍‌​⁠‍⁠‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‌‌​‌​⁠‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‍⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠​‍‍‍​​‌​⁠

He gestured to his nephew, and the man raised the pipe. I ran, the records clutched to my chest, the fog thickening around me. The air grew heavy, the pressure increasing, the cold biting into my skin. I felt my clothes begin to dissolve, the fabric turning to gray sludge, the skin beneath it peeling away. It was not pain, exactly, but a loss, a dissolution of the self. I realized then that the "justice" I sought was built on a lie that consumed the poor, that my desire for order was part of the same system that was eating me. I dropped the records, not in defeat, but in a destructive release of my desire for order, accepting that the system was irredeemable and my death was the only honest act.

The mist receded, leaving my body partially dissolved, my face a smooth, featureless mask of stone. The Steward walked over the remains, picked up the single surviving page of the audit, and burned it, the flame blue and cold. He declared the tax collected, his voice echoing in the empty room. The final image was his hand, unblemished and strong, closing the ledger, the ink still wet, as the fog rolled back in to erode the next generation’s truth. The coat I had worn was left on the floor, the pressure suit patch, third repair, the only thing intact, proof of the debt we all carry, the receipt for our existence in a world that eats itself.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‍‍​‌‍‍‌​⁠‍⁠‌‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‌‌​‌​⁠‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‍⁠‌⁠⁠‌⁠​‍‍‍​​‌​⁠