The reeds closed behind him.
The ground still remembered feet here. It held a little longer than it would farther out.
Water took his boots immediately. Cold, brown, pulling at the soles when he lifted his feet free. The ground shifted under him, then held, then shifted again, never quite the same way twice.
Mist lay low over the swamp. Distance shortened. Sound thinned.
Morning had already been at work.
What had been disturbed in the night was settling back into itself. Reeds leaned where they could. Mud softened. Water crept back in and claimed what it could.
There were no tracks to follow.
Not past where the ground stopped holding them.
Only signs that something had passed where it wasn't meant to linger.
The edge still showed it. Reeds bent and torn aside. Mud churned and already slumping inward. A small footprint sat half-submerged, its edges rounding off. Beside it, larger impressions pressed in and slid, heel and toe losing shape almost as soon as they were made.
Farther out, even that fell apart. Water closed. The ground gave up its shape.
The child had been carried. Not dragged.
He went on.
The reeds thinned ahead. Water gathered where the ground dipped, spreading less and holding more. The surface there was dark and still.
Something lay against the bank.
At first it was just mass beneath the water. Then the surface shifted and it resolved enough to matter.
A shoulder. Too broad. Grey skin slack and heavy.
He stopped.
The body was wedged where the bank sagged inward, half-submerged, caught there by its own weight. Hair drifted loose around the head. One arm lay twisted back on itself, joint pulled wide.
A water hag.
Dead.
The damage wasn't right.
The torso was split open along one side, not cut cleanly but torn, the flesh crushed inward as if something had closed on it and not let go. Chitin fragments were pressed into the wound, dull and dark, caught where the water hadn't worked them free yet.
The throat was collapsed. Not bitten through. Crushed.
One leg was bent at an angle it hadn't been meant to take, the joint shattered under weight that hadn't cared where it pressed.
This hadn't been a fight it chose.
Near the waterline, the reeds were driven flat in a wide arc, not scattered but pressed down hard and held there long enough to stay. The bank behind the body was torn open, earth clawed away in long, uneven gouges that cut deeper than hands.
Whatever had hit it had come from below.
The medallion stirred.
Once. Stronger than before.
He shifted his footing and went forward.
Careful, but not hesitant. One step, then another, placing his weight where the ground still answered him before it could decide otherwise. The water climbed higher around his boots, colder now, pulling harder when he lifted his feet free.
The surface ahead stayed smooth.
Too smooth.
He angled toward the torn bank, eyes on the waterline where reeds had been pressed flat and left that way. The silver sword slid free as he moved, held low, ready to feel resistance before it showed itself.
The ground gave.
Not all at once. Just enough.
The water surged up beneath his forward foot.
He brought the sword up on instinct. The impact slammed through his arms and shoulders, stopped short of bone. The block held.
What remained of the force took his footing instead. He was driven back, boots skidding through mud as water and silt burst upward, and went with it, hitting hard and rolling clear a body-length away.
The water exploded.
A dark mass hauled itself free in the same motion, limbs hooking into earth and root, tearing the bank wider as it came. Chitin scraped stone as its bulk forced up and out, dragging water and mud with it.
He rolled clear and came up low, the silver sword between them.
It was already out of the water.Low. Broad. Heavy enough that the swamp bent under it instead of stopping it.
A kikimore. Bigger than most.
It didn't wait.
It drove forward, limbs spreading wide, not striking all at once but forcing him to move.
He shifted left. Mud tore at his boots as he cleared the first sweep. Another limb scythed in from the side and he met it with the flat of the blade, turning the force just enough that it slid past instead of crushing him.
He turned with the motion and cut.
The silver edge bit clean and didn't slide. The limb parted at the joint with a dull, tearing crack and fell into the mud, still twitching as dark fluid spilled out around it.
The kikimore shrieked.
Not loud. Not high. A raw, tearing sound that vibrated through its body and the water beneath it. Its bulk lurched, weight shifting wrong for the first time.
It corrected fast.
Another limb came down hard. He tried to spoil the angle and was a fraction late. The blow clipped his shoulder and spun him sideways, pain flashing sharp before settling deep into the joint.
He staggered, caught himself, kept moving.
Too many limbs.
It pressed him with them, one after another, herding him across ground that refused to hold. Each dodge cost more. Each step dragged. The swamp took a little every time.
A hook caught his thigh as he turned. Leather tore. Skin followed. He stumbled and dropped to one knee, weight hitting hard enough to jar his teeth.
The bulk of it shifted toward him.
He forced the Sign out around himself.
Quen.
The shield formed tight and close, a dull sphere snapping into place around his body. Holding it took effort—steady, grinding—pulling at his breath and shoulders as he kept it from slipping apart.
The kikimore hit it full on.
The impact drove through the barrier in a single crushing blow. Light split and spidered, the sphere bowing inward before it failed. When it broke, it burst outward instead of collapsing, throwing the weight back just far enough to tear contact apart.
The shield was gone.
His arms trembled once, then steadied. His breath came hard, then slowed.
He moved before the creature could settle again.
As it dragged itself forward, one forelimb reaching to re-anchor its weight, he stepped in and chopped down hard at the joint.
The silver blade screeched as it cut through chitin and into softer matter beneath. The limb came away clean and dropped into the water with a heavy splash.
He didn't stop there.
He drove the sword in again, two-handed, into the thick of its body where plates overlapped and gave. The blade sank deep, met resistance, and stuck.
The kikimore convulsed, bulk shuddering as it lurched sideways, tearing the sword free as it pulled back.
Dark fluid poured out around the wound, spreading fast in the water.
The kikimore surged anyway.
It didn't come clean. Its weight dragged to one side, movements uneven now, but the mass was still there. One limb slammed down short, another raked low, tearing through mud and root where his legs had been a moment before.
He stepped back, then sideways, keeping the torn side facing him.
It tried to follow and failed to set its weight.
Its footing failed. The bulk sank an inch too deep and stayed there, limbs scrabbling for purchase that wouldn't hold.
He went in.
A limb reached for him, slower now but still heavy. He cut through it at the joint in a single committed stroke. The severed length dropped into the mud with a wet slap, twitching as dark fluid spilled out around it.
The kikimore shrieked again, body shuddering as it sagged further.
He didn't give it time to settle.
He drove the sword in two-handed, straight into the torn opening he'd made before. The blade slid deep and stopped hard, buried to the hilt in dense flesh and crushed plate.
The kikimore convulsed.
Its body twisted, jaws snapping wide as it tried to reach him, teeth closing where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. He let go of the sword and pulled back fast, boots tearing free of mud as another limb smashed down where he'd stood.
He kept moving.
One limb swept high. He ducked under it. Another came low and he cleared it by inches, breath burning, leg screaming when he put weight on it.
The creature thrashed around the buried blade, trying to tear itself free of it, dragging its bulk sideways through the mud.
He planted his feet and snapped the Sign forward.
Igni.
Flame burst out in a short, brutal wash. It caught along the torn flesh and exposed joints, fire crawling where plates had split and held. The kikimore screamed, higher now, its movements breaking into frantic, uneven jerks as it recoiled from the heat.
That was enough.
He stepped in through the smoke and steam, seized the sword's hilt, and wrenched it free.
The kikimore tried to turn.
He drove the sword up and into the head. The silver edge tore through chitin and plate, punching through dense matter beneath. Resistance shuddered along the blade, then gave.
The creature convulsed once, hard enough to spray mud and water. The shriek broke apart and fell into a wet, unfinished sound.
Its limbs failed.
He pulled the sword free and stepped back.
The weight collapsed into the mud at his feet.
The body settled where it lay. Water crept back in around it, swallowing the last of the movement.
Silence returned, thin and wet.
—
The body lay where it had fallen, half in the water, half sunk into mud that was already creeping back around it.
He stayed where he was and breathed.
Not deep. Not slow. Just enough to steady the burn in his chest and let the shaking in his arms settle into something usable. Blood ran warm down his leg and cooled as it reached the water. His shoulder throbbed where the blow had landed, heat buried deep under the plate.
The medallion lay still.
When he moved, it was without hurry.He kept the silver blade in hand.
The kikimore's belly plates overlapped thick and uneven, grown to turn aside pressure from below. He set the point and leaned into it, cutting down through chitin and into softer matter beneath. The resistance held for a moment, then gave.
The smell came first—wet, coppered, wrong.
He opened it the rest of the way with steady pressure.
Inside were bones that no longer held shape. Fur and scraps of hide pressed into dark tissue. Fish spines. Things that had been taken and broken down until they no longer mattered.
Something slid free as the cavity collapsed inward and fell into the mud at his feet.
Not whole.
What remained of the child lay tangled in half-digested matter, clothing reduced to scraps, skin pale where it had not been ruined entirely. One small hand was still intact, fingers curled in on themselves.
He didn't move for a moment.
Then he closed the body, pushing the torn plates back down where they could sit. The kikimore settled further into the mud and stayed there.
Only then did he kneel.
He gathered what he could. Not everything held together. He used his cloak for what remained and tied it off carefully, knotting the fabric tight enough that it wouldn't loosen on the walk back.
When he finished, he tore a strip from what was left of the cloak and bound his thigh, cinching it until the bleeding slowed. He tested his shoulder once, then tightened the straps so the plate sat firm and left it at that.
When he stood again, the swamp had already begun to forget. Water lay still. Reeds leaned back into place. Insects had started to return.
He left the kikimore where it lay.
He turned toward the village.
He didn't hurry.
—
He came back carrying the cloth.
Mud streaked his boots and darkened his trousers to the knee. One leg was wrapped rough and tight, the cloth stained where blood had worked through it again. His armor was smeared with silt and something darker beneath it.
People saw him and stopped. Whatever they had been doing was left where it was. No one stepped into his path.
The bundle rested against his side, darkened where it had soaked through.
The father was there before anyone else. He didn't rush. He didn't kneel. He just stood in front of him, eyes fixed on what the witcher carried.
"What happened?" he asked.
"A water hag took the boy," the witcher said.
The man's jaw tightened. He nodded once.
"It crossed into another monster's ground," the witcher went on. "A kikimore."
The man drew a breath and held it.
"It killed the hag," the witcher said. "Ate the boy."
The cloth slipped from his grip and dropped to the packed ground.
The man made a sound then. Low. Broken. It cut off quickly, like he'd bitten down on it. He went down on one knee and stayed there, hands clenched in the dirt.
"I took what I could," the witcher said.
No one answered.
He stepped back, adjusted the strap at his thigh, and turned away.
By the time he reached his horse, the crying had started.
He loosened the girth and let the animal settle, hands moving from habit more than thought. Mud pulled at his boots when he shifted his weight. He ignored it.
Footsteps stopped behind him.
The man from the morning stood there, holding a pouch. He didn't speak at first. He just held it out.
"Here," he said.
The witcher turned.
He took the pouch. Weighed it once in his palm. Tied the cord and put it away without looking inside.
The man swallowed. "Thank you."
The witcher didn't answer.
He mounted, careful of his leg, and set his weight once he was sure it would hold. The horse shifted and stilled.
No one spoke as he rode past the huts.
The swamp took him back the way it had given him.
When the village was out of sight, he leaned forward and rested a hand against the horse's neck until the shaking in his leg eased.
Then he rode on.