The stench of the swamp still clings to you - rot, stagnant water, and something sharper beneath it, like burned roots. You’ve put distance between yourselves and the worst of it, but not nearly enough.

The land is wrong.

Trees along the road sag under darkened leaves. Moss creeps in places it shouldn’t. Even the wind feels tired.

Traelor (kneeling, pressing two fingers to the soil):

“The corruption thins here… but it doesn’t end.”

Zakren:

“We destroyed what was guarding the swamp.”

Traelor:

“Yes. But not what feeds it.”

Avon (rolling his shoulders):

“So we punched the symptom. Fantastic. Always wanted to be magical palliative care.”

Granny Twinkles:

“We did what we could with what we had, lad. Don’t cheapen it.”

Before Avon can reply, the sound of hooves cuts through the air - fast, purposeful.

Jung:

“Rider.”

The horse crests the rise at speed, mud-splattered and lathered. The rider reins in hard, eyes scanning the group until they settle on Granny Twinkles.

He dismounts quickly and approaches, breathless but composed.

Messenger:

“Are you the ones from the swamp?”