Cian woke to the sound of water dripping. Not rain—just the marsh exhaling. The mist was thick, reducing visibility to a few dozen paces. His blanket was damp. Everything was damp.
Voss was already standing at the edge of the ridge, looking south. "We cross today."
Echo packed her satchel, her movements precise despite the chill. "The tracks lead into the marsh. Wraith says the ground is soft but passable."
Cinder pulled his boots on, grimacing at the moisture. "I hate marshes."
"You hate everything," Echo said.
"True."
They ate cold rations in silence. The bread was stale, the meat hard. Cian chewed slowly, conserving his energy. He knew the marsh would demand more than the hills had.
Wraith appeared from the mist. "The tracks continue. Follow me. Step exactly where I step."
She turned and walked into the grey. The squad followed.
The path was barely a path—a thread of slightly firmer ground winding between pools of stagnant water. Wraith moved ahead, testing each step with her weight before committing. The rest followed in single file: Voss, then Echo, then Cian, then Cinder.
Cian's boots were soaked within the first hour. The water was cold, but not painfully so. Worse was the mud—thick, sucking at his feet with each step, threatening to pull his boots off.
The insects were relentless. Mosquitoes, flies, something that bit and left welts. Cian waved them away, but they returned. Echo had tied a cloth over her mouth and nose. Cinder cursed with each sting.
"How far to solid ground?" Cinder asked.
"Hours," Voss said.
"Great."
Cian focused on the tracks. They were still visible—wheel ruts pressed into the mud, filling with water but not erased. The wagon wheels had been wide, spreading the weight. Whoever was driving knew the marsh.
Wraith stopped at the edge of a wide, murky channel. The water was dark, the bottom invisible.
"The tracks go through," she said. "The water is deep. There's a submerged ridge somewhere—an old animal trail."
Voss studied the water. "We find it, or we go around."
"Going around adds a day."
"Then we find it."
Cian stepped forward, scanning the water's surface. He looked for differences in color, for vegetation patterns, for anything that might indicate shallower ground. He remembered a passage from one of his books—on marsh crossing, on reading water.
"There," he said, pointing to a line of slightly darker water where reeds grew closer together. "The bottom is higher there. The reeds are different."
Echo looked where he pointed. "Could be."
Wraith moved first, testing the water with her foot. She stepped onto the submerged ridge—it held. She took another step. Then another.
"Follow exactly," she said.
They crossed one by one. Cian went after Echo, placing his feet where Wraith had placed hers. The water rose to his knees, then his thighs. The bottom was slick but solid.
Cinder was last. Halfway across, his foot slipped. He lurched, arms flailing, his greatsword swinging dangerously. Voss caught his arm from the far side, steadying him.
"Careful," Voss said.
"I was being careful."
"You were falling."
Cinder grunted and finished the crossing. His trousers were soaked, his face red. No one laughed. The marsh was not a place for laughter.
They walked until the light turned gold, then orange, then grey. The reeds pressed close, blocking the sky. The insects were worse as the light faded.
Wraith raised her hand. The squad stopped.
She returned from ahead, something rusted in her hand. She held it out to Voss. "Found near the tracks. Half-buried in mud."
Voss took it. It was a shackle—the kind used on prisoners or slaves. Rusted, the hinge broken, the lock missing. He turned it over. There was no marking, no insignia.
Cian looked at it. "Not military."
"No," Voss said. "But it doesn't belong here."
Echo examined it. "Old. Been in the mud for weeks, maybe months. Not from this group."
Cinder frowned. "Then what's it doing here?"
No one answered.
Voss handed it to Echo. "Document it. We keep moving."
Echo wrapped the shackle in cloth and placed it in her satchel. Cian watched her, thinking. A shackle in the middle of a marsh, near a trail used by a group that left Marina clues. It didn't fit. But he filed it away.
They found a hummock as the last light died—a patch of dry ground, maybe twenty feet across, elevated above the surrounding water by a few feet. The grass was coarse, the ground uneven, but it was dry.
No fire. Cold rations again. They sat in a tight circle, shoulders touching, conserving warmth.
Cian's legs ached. His boots were soaked, his feet wrinkled. He had welts on his neck from the insects. But he was not complaining. No one was.
Cinder leaned back, staring at the darkening sky. "How many more days of this?"
"Depends on the tracks," Echo said. "They're still heading south. The marsh ends in three or four days, if the map is right."
"Then the desert."
"Then the desert."
Voss assigned watches. Cian took the first, sitting at the edge of the hummock, his swordspear across his knees.
The marsh was alive with sounds. Water dripping. Reeds rustling. Something splashing in the distance—a fish, or something larger. An owl called, then fell silent.
Cian listened. He thought about the shackle. The Marina cloth. The dispatch about a gate and midnight. The tracks that led south, always south, always just out of reach.
They would not catch the group. He knew that now. The trail was too old, the marsh too slow. But they would reach Urple. And there, they would find answers.
He woke to silence. The insects had stopped. The water was still. The mist pressed close, grey and thick, hiding the stars.
Cian sat up. Echo was on watch, but she had her hand raised—a signal for silence. She pointed into the mist.
He listened. Footsteps? Voices? He could not tell. The mist distorted everything.
Then the sound faded. The insects resumed. The moment passed.
Echo lowered her hand. "False alarm. Or something passing at a distance."
"What?"
"I don't know."
Cian lay back down, but he did not sleep. He stared into the mist until the grey turned to grey light, and the marsh woke around him.