The road sank into the low ground without warning.
Stone gave way to packed earth, then to mud that shifted underfoot and never quite settled again. Water lay everywhere it could, dark and still, broken only by reeds and the low hummocks where something solid had managed to hold.
The smell came first.
Rot layered on rot. Old water. Old meat.
He saw the horse before he reached it.
It lay on its side where the swamp thickened, belly torn open, ribs showing through grey flesh. The saddle still clung to it, straps chewed through and trailing into the water. One stirrup was buried in the mud.
No rider.
He dismounted before his own horse could balk.
The animal stood with its head low, ears flicking back as its hooves sank an inch too far with every step. He loosened the reins and led it forward, choosing ground by feel more than sight.
The water crept higher as they went. Ankle-deep. Then shin. In places it swallowed his boots entirely and tugged when he tried to lift them free.
Something broke the surface a few paces ahead—just the crown of a head, slick and grey—then sank again without sound.
Another shape shifted to his left. Then behind him.
He let the horse drift back and drew his sword.
Something lunged low from the reeds.
He turned and cut, silver opening its throat. The body dropped back into the water and drifted sideways, bumping once against a tangle of roots before sinking out of sight.
The water around his legs moved at once.
Hands rose around his legs, fingers clawing for knees and calves. One caught leather and held.
He punched down hard with his free hand. The grip loosened just enough.
He tore free and cut until it released him.
Another broke the surface close, jaws snapping. He took its head in one hard swing. The body dropped back into the water, and the swamp came alive around his legs as the others surged in.
He didn't wait for them to commit.
He brought his left hand forward and snapped the Sign toward the reeds.
Igni.
Flame burst low and wide, skimming the surface and driving outward. The water hissed where it struck. Bodies thrashed beneath it, screams tearing loose as the surge broke apart.
He used the space immediately.
He stepped through and cut, silver flashing once, then again. One went under and did not rise. Another surfaced too close and lost its head.
The rest fell back at last, sinking into the swamp as quickly as they had come.
Silence crept back in, thin and waiting.
The water around his boots was darkened and slow to clear.
He didn't press it.
He backed out of the worst of it, step by careful step, until the ground firmed enough to matter. He wiped the blade clean on his sleeve and sheathed it, then led his own horse wide around the carcass, taking time instead of ground.
The low ground thinned as he went. Water drew back into channels that stayed where they were told. Mud gave way to earth that held, if only briefly.
The smell changed.
Smoke cut through the rot, faint but steady.
He followed it.
—
Shapes ahead didn't drift with the water.
Low posts stood sunk deep into the mud, driven far enough to hold. Roofs followed—close together, squat, dark with damp. The ground between them was worn hard by years of passing feet, packed earth holding where it could, breaking down into slick mud where it couldn't.
People moved there, slow and deliberate, keeping to what little ground held. No one stopped to stare.
Most doors were shut. Smoke hung low and thin, never rising far in the wet air. A few rough boards had been laid across the worst patches of mud, set flat where the ground dipped too soft to trust.
He stopped near the edge of the huts and loosened the tack, letting the horse stand where the earth was firmer.
Two children were crouched beside a crate near one of the buildings, sorting reeds laid out to dry. They were meant to be choosing the straight ones. Mostly they were talking.
One looked up.
"Why's he got two swords?" he said.
The other leaned forward, squinting. "His eyes look wrong."
"Enough," a woman said from inside the hut.
The children bent back to the reeds, quieter now.
A man stepped out from between two huts opposite him. He stopped where the ground dipped, careful not to step closer than needed. His eyes went to the swords, then to the medallion, then back to the witcher's face, lingering on the eyes without apology.
"You don't get many riders through here," he said.
It wasn't a greeting.
"What brings you here, stranger?"
The witcher looked past him, toward the darker stretch of swamp beyond the huts, where reeds thickened and the ground gave way to standing water.
He rested one hand on the saddle.
"Night's coming," he said. "Need a place to sleep. Horse needs dry ground."
The man considered him. Not long. Long enough.
"Dry's relative," he said. "There's racks near the huts. Ground holds better there.''
He didn't say welcome.
He didn't say thank you.
The witcher nodded once and led the horse on without another word.
The drying racks stood just past the last of the huts, set on a stretch of packed earth that sank less than most. Fish hung stiff and dark from the frames. Nets were stretched and mended where they'd torn. The smell was sharp and old.
He settled the horse, loosened the tack, and took his place with his back to one of the posts.
The village quieted as the light failed. Doors shut. Smoke thinned. The swamp shifted and settled around them.
He slept lightly.
As he always did.
—
Time passed.
The medallion on his chest stirred faintly.
He opened his eyes and waited.
Something moved out in the swamp. Not loud. Not sudden. Just a change in the way the water carried sound, like breath taken where none should be.
He listened until it settled again.
Then the scream came.
Short. High. Cut off too fast.
It tore through the village and vanished, leaving the night stretched thin behind it.
He was on his feet immediately.
Mist lay low over the ground, blurring distance and swallowing shape. He moved past the huts without sound, following where the scream had come from. Light flared behind him as doors opened and voices rose—confused, delayed—but he didn't slow.
He reached the edge of firmer ground and stopped.
Beyond it, the swamp had been broken. Reeds were bent and torn aside. Mud was churned up along the edge, smeared and already filling back in. A single small footprint sat half-submerged, its edges softening as the water worked at it.
No body.
The water farther out shifted once, slow and deliberate, then went still.
He crouched and touched the surface. Cold. Recently disturbed. The ripples spread and faded.
The medallion had gone quiet.
Whatever had taken the child was already moving away.
Someone came up behind him then, breath ragged, a torch shaking in one hand. The man didn't speak. He went past the witcher without looking, boots slipping into the mud as he followed the torn reeds, calling once—soft, broken—into the dark.
The witcher stayed where he was.
The man pushed on, water climbing up his legs. His voice carried once more, then not at all.
Time passed.
Eventually, the man came back. Wet to the waist. Empty-handed. He stopped short of the deeper water and stood there, breathing hard, staring out where the swamp thickened and swallowed what little light remained.
Nothing moved.
No one said anything.
After a while, the man turned away.
The witcher straightened, sheathed the sword, and returned to the drying racks.
The village did not sleep again.
—
Morning came dull and wet.
Mist lay low over the planks. The water sat heavy and dark, unmoving. A bucket stood where it had been left, untouched.
He was saddling the horse when footsteps stopped nearby.
A man stood there, hands empty. He looked like he hadn't finished getting dressed.
"You leaving?" a man asked.
"Yes."
The word landed heavier than it should have.
The man hesitated. His eyes flicked to the horse, then to the road sinking back into the swamp. He drew a breath, let it out, then asked, "Now?"
The witcher nodded.
The man's gaze dropped, then lifted again—this time to the swords on the witcher's back. He looked at them longer than courtesy allowed. At the hilts. The way they sat.
"You're…" He stopped. Started again. "You're a witcher, aren't you?"
The witcher didn't turn.
Silence stretched. Somewhere, wood creaked. Water shifted under the planks.
The man glanced back toward the huts, then toward the swamp beyond them. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
"We don't have much."
The witcher said nothing.
Another pause.
"Would you look?" the man asked. Not demanding. Not pleading. "Just… look."
The witcher rested his hand on the saddle.
Then he loosened the reins.
"Keep a watch on my horse."
The man nodded at once. Too fast. Like he was afraid the answer might change.
The witcher turned from the huts and headed into the reeds.