The marsh seemed alive beneath their feet, each step sinking softly into a carpet of moss and fallen leaves, the air thick with mist and the scent of decay. The faint glow from the pond still lingered in Mo's mind—a flicker of something ancient, something watching. Aylen walked beside him, her gaze sharp, the ever-present tension coiling beneath her calm exterior like a spring.
As they ventured deeper, the path narrowed, hemmed in by skeletal trees whose branches twisted toward the sky like grasping hands. The silence was broken only by the occasional croak of a distant frog or the snap of a twig underfoot. But beneath these natural sounds lay a deeper rhythm—the pulse of the land itself, subtle but insistent.
Mo's fingers brushed the hilt of the Azure Shamshir. The blade pulsed in time with the thudding in his chest, a heartbeat intertwined with his own.
Suddenly, Aylen halted, her breath caught in her throat. "Listen," she whispered.
From beneath the marsh's still surface came a faint, rhythmic tapping—like the steady beat of a distant drum, hollow and resonant. Mo crouched, pressing a hand against the muddy ground, feeling the vibrations course through the earth. It was a call, or a warning.
"Not natural," he muttered.
A cold wind swept through the trees, carrying with it a scent like ash and iron. The marsh seemed to lean closer, the shadows stretching, coiling, as if alive. Mo's eyes narrowed.
"We're not alone," he said, voice low.
Aylen drew her daggers silently, eyes scanning the fog-shrouded treeline. "Show yourself," she called, her tone calm but edged with steel.
From the mist emerged a figure—a man draped in tattered robes, face hidden beneath a hood, eyes gleaming with unnatural light. His hands were stained dark, and he moved with a slow, deliberate grace that set every nerve on edge.
Mo stepped forward, the Shamshir ready. "Who are you?"
The figure's lips curled into a faint, unreadable smile. "A keeper of forgotten things," he said, voice like dry leaves rustling.
"You tread dangerous ground," Mo warned.
The man tilted his head. "And you carry a blade that remembers."
The air tightened, the marsh holding its breath.
Mo met the stranger's gaze, steel meeting shadow, knowing this encounter was only the beginning of something far deeper—and darker—than either had anticipated.