The Three Crowns slept in pieces.
Not real sleep—more like goblins closing their eyes with one ear still listening, fingers still curled around spears, mouths still tasting smoke that wasn't there. The branches creaked. The lake breathed. The reed totem clicked softly in the wind like a patient metronome.
Vark didn't sleep at all.
He sat on a high platform where he could see the restricted shoreline through gaps in leaves, Gut-Thread stretched thin in his chest like a wire. He watched the shadows below. He watched for movement that shouldn't be there.
He watched for Drukk Ear-Torn's "vote" to become action.
It did.
A shape slipped down the trunk path—quiet, practiced. Then another. Then a third.
Not scouts on rotation.
Not scavengers checking fish cages.
Raiders.
Vark's jaw tightened.
He didn't shout. He didn't wake the whole tribe and start a screaming brawl in the branches. Boss Mokh had been clear: noise invited metal-men. Panic killed faster than any enemy.
So Vark did the only thing that felt sane.
He tapped Mogrin's shoulder.
Mogrin was already awake.
He blinked once, eyes sharp rather than sleepy, and whispered, "They go."
"Yes," Vark breathed.
Mogrin's hand went to his sling automatically—not trembling, not fumbling. The last days had put something hard inside him. Confidence wasn't loud. It was quiet readiness.
He'd killed a human scout.
He'd leveled.
He'd been useful.
Now he looked like he believed it.
Vark nodded toward the trunk path. "We follow," he whispered. "Quiet."
Mogrin grinned faintly. "Mogrin quiet. Mogrin hit if need."
That tiny grin made Vark's chest tighten in a different way.
Pride. Worry. Both.
They moved.
Down the reinforced routes, hugging bark, stepping only where lashings were secure. The forest air grew colder as they descended, damp breath rising from the lake. Mist hung low, thicker at night, turning the shoreline into a blurred line where anything could hide.
At the base of the Three Crowns, they found tracks—not footprints Vark could read with hunter skill, but disturbed leaves and snapped reed tips that even an office worker could understand. Someone had passed this way recently.
Vark followed the disturbance. Mogrin ranged slightly ahead, head tilting, ears flicking, catching small sounds.
Then they saw them.
Drukk Ear-Torn and his little pack, crouched in the shadow of a root wall near the forbidden shoreline patch. Kreznik Hooknose was there—broad shoulders hunched, nose hooked like a question mark. Snagga Reedscar crouched low with a small spear, scars pale against the dark.
Two more goblins had joined them—extras pulled from the hungry and the angry.
Drukk whispered, "Fast. Fish. Reeds. Maybe take totem too. Show mud-people no boss."
Kreznik grunted. "No loud."
Snagga's eyes flicked toward the reeds, then away. "Croak-sound… don't like."
Drukk sneered. "Scared of frog air? Baby."
Vark's fingers tightened on his spear.
Mogrin leaned close, whispering, "We stop them?"
Vark hesitated.
If he stepped out now, Drukk would accuse him of sabotaging "brave goblins." The raiders might fight him. Noise would carry. Boss Mokh would wake. The tribe would split right here, under moonlight, with the lake listening.
And even if Vark stopped them…
They'd try again later.
The rot was already in motion.
So Vark chose the ugly option.
He would follow. He would minimize damage. He would pull people out when panic hit.
He hissed to Mogrin, "We shadow. If bad, we grab and run."
Mogrin nodded, jaw set. "Yes."
Drukk gave the signal.
The raiders crept forward.
The shoreline mud looked harmless under moonlight—smooth, wet, reflective. The reeds rustled softly, almost friendly. Fish rippled near the surface, silver flickers tempting the eye.
Drukk stepped into the forbidden patch like a king.
The mud accepted his foot for half a heartbeat.
Then it grabbed.
Drukk froze as his ankle sank. He yanked instinctively—
The mud tightened.
It pulled down.
Drukk's eyes widened.
"Hold!" he hissed, voice strained. "Hold— don't move!"
Kreznik stepped forward to help, then caught himself and backed away. "It trap," he muttered.
Snagga whispered, "Told."
Drukk snarled, fighting panic. He forced his breathing slow, trying to look in control even as the mud climbed to his shin.
One of the extra goblins—young, hungry, too eager—charged forward without thinking. "I pull you!"
His foot hit the smooth patch.
The mud swallowed his ankle instantly.
He yelped and tried to step back.
The mud yanked.
He fell forward with a wet slap, hands sinking too, body pinned.
His panic spiked like fire.
And the lake answered.
A low croaking rolled out across the reeds—not loud, but deep. A rhythm that matched breath. A sound that made thoughts soft at the edges.
Mist thickened, creeping across the mud like living fog.
Vark's head buzzed faintly. He recognized the feeling now—not knowledge, not certainty, but pattern. This is the same wrong as before.
Mogrin's eyes narrowed, focused. He whispered, "Croak-sound try make head sleep."
"Yes," Vark breathed. "Don't listen."
Mogrin didn't cover his ears this time. He stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, like he'd decided fear didn't get to touch him unless he allowed it.
On the mud patch, the trapped goblin began thrashing.
"Stop!" Kreznik snapped, voice harsh. "You sink!"
The trapped goblin didn't stop. Panic didn't care about instructions.
Drukk hissed through clenched teeth, "Hold still, idiot!"
The croaking deepened.
The mist curled up around ankles.
And then the reeds moved.
Not from wind.
From command.
Reed stalks snapped forward like whips, lashing across shoulders and arms. Not cutting deep—just stinging, driving goblins away from safe ground, herding them like animals.
The raiders recoiled, swearing and snarling.
Snagga took a half-step back—
The ground beneath him collapsed.
Not like a normal pit trap. Not a hole dug by hands.
The mud opened as if it had been waiting.
Snagga dropped with a choked gasp.
His arms flailed, fingers grabbing at slick edges that crumbled like wet cake. He tried to pull himself up, but the mud sucked at him greedily, sliding over his waist.
"SNAGGA!" Kreznik barked.
Snagga's eyes were huge. "Help—help!"
Kreznik lurched forward.
Vark lunged too, but Mogrin caught his sleeve, whispering urgently, "Smooth mud eat! Don't step!"
Vark froze mid-motion.
Right.
If he stepped on the patch, he'd join Snagga.
Kreznik ignored the warning and reached out anyway, foot landing near the edge—
The mud grabbed him instantly.
Kreznik cursed, yanking back hard. The mud resisted, clinging like glue.
He tore free with a wet pop and stumbled back onto normal ground, breathing hard, eyes wide.
Drukk's ankle sank deeper.
His face twisted—not fear, not yet. Rage.
"MUD-THING!" he snarled into the mist. "SHOW!"
The mist answered by thickening.
Then something else hit.
Not sound.
Not a strike.
A memory-sickness—Vark didn't know what else to call it.
His vision blurred for a heartbeat and suddenly he wasn't on the shoreline.
He was in an office elevator that smelled like cheap cologne and stale coffee. A fluorescent hum overhead. A coworker's laugh too loud. The cramped feeling of being trapped with strangers.
Then the elevator's doors opened onto the forest—wet mud, reeds, moonlight—like the world couldn't decide what it was.
Vark blinked hard.
The office image vanished.
But he heard a goblin scream nearby.
Not from mud-suction.
From something inside their head.
The young trapped goblin started sobbing hysterically, babbling half-words. "Big room… big lights… metal box… no air!"
That wasn't goblin memory.
That was borrowed fear, poured into him like poison.
The croaking wasn't just a lullaby. It was a hook, pulling minds into confusion, dragging old feelings up and drowning them in the present.
Drukk's eyes darted wildly now too, his bravado cracking. "What—what is—"
He jerked again and sank another inch.
Kreznik snarled, "We leave! Now!"
Drukk spat, "No! We—"
A reed whip lashed across his face.
Not deep. But enough to sting pride into silence.
The mist shifted.
A silhouette formed beyond the reed line—tall, broad, half-hidden.
The Bogkin warden.
It didn't rush. It didn't roar. It simply existed, and the mud obeyed.
The croaking breath rolled out again, and Vark felt his thoughts try to soften.
He fought it—slow inhale, slow exhale, focus on bark under his feet, focus on Mogrin beside him, solid and real.
Mogrin whispered, fierce, "Head stay awake. Mogrin not sleep."
Good.
Kreznik tried to pull Drukk out by grabbing his arm from safe ground.
"Hold still!" Kreznik hissed.
Drukk's eyes flicked to Kreznik. Something ugly flashed there_toggle between fear and calculation.
Then Drukk did the worst thing possible.
He shoved.
Hard.
Kreznik staggered forward involuntarily, one foot landing on the smooth patch.
The mud grabbed him instantly up to mid-calf.
Kreznik roared, "DRUKK!"
Drukk yanked his own arm free with the momentum, using Kreznik's weight and panic like leverage. His trapped foot slid slightly, mud loosening around his ankle.
He was trying to trade one body for another.
Vark's stomach dropped.
Mogrin's eyes flared with sudden anger. "Bad!"
Kreznik thrashed once, then caught himself, breathing hard, trying to go still.
The Bogkin warden's head tilted slightly, as if observing a lesson.
Snagga was still sinking in the drowning pit, arms scraping uselessly at mud edges. His breathing was fast, desperate. "Help—please—!"
The extra goblin tried to flee into the reeds in blind panic.
The reeds opened for him.
Then closed.
He vanished into mist with a wet choking sound.
Not a scream. Just a cut-off gurgle.
Vark's skin prickled.
Non-lethal, terrifying control—until panic turned it fatal.
The Bogkin wasn't swinging weapons. The Bogkin was letting the environment do it.
Vark made his move.
He didn't run straight in. He didn't step on the smooth patch. He circled wide to a thick root that jutted toward the mud zone like a natural pier.
He planted his spear butt and hooked vine rope from his belt around the root.
"Mogrin!" he hissed. "Anchor!"
Mogrin was already there, grabbing the rope, tying it fast with a trapper's knot Vark had drilled into him. His fingers didn't shake.
Confident.
Useful.
Vark tossed the rope's loop toward Kreznik. "Hooknose! Rope! Grab!"
Kreznik's eyes snapped to him, furious and grateful at the same time. He snatched the rope with both hands, looping it around his chest awkwardly.
Vark braced and pulled, slow and steady.
Mogrin pulled too, feet planted, muscles taut.
Kreznik slid backward inch by inch, mud resisting, then releasing with sick suction.
He tore free and collapsed onto normal mud, panting, covered in black slime.
Vark didn't give him time to talk.
He turned toward Snagga, still sinking.
Snagga's eyes met his—pleading, panicked.
Vark threw the rope loop toward him.
It fell short.
Snagga reached, fingers brushing cord, but mud dragged his arms down.
The croaking deepened again, and Vark's head buzzed hard enough that the forest tilted.
Images flashed—office lights, truck headlights, the feeling of falling—
Vark growled low in his throat and shoved his spear forward like a lever, extending his reach. He hooked the rope loop with the spear tip and shoved it toward Snagga.
"Grab!" Vark snarled.
Snagga's fingers caught it.
For a heartbeat, hope.
Then Snagga jerked violently in panic, trying to yank himself up with raw strength.
The mud responded like a mouth.
It sucked harder.
Snagga's shoulders sank.
He screamed, "NO—!"
Vark pulled.
Mogrin pulled.
The rope tightened.
Snagga rose an inch—
Then the mist rolled in thick and heavy, and the Bogkin warden lifted one hand.
The drowning pit's edge softened like melting clay.
Snagga's body slid sideways.
Not swallowed completely.
Guided.
Redirected.
Vark felt it like a decision being made about Snagga.
The reeds snapped forward and lashed Vark's spear, knocking it aside.
Not a strike meant to kill—just a boundary.
Not this one.
Vark's breath caught.
He understood in a cold flash: the Bogkin wasn't trying to massacre them.
It was choosing.
One to teach. One to keep.
One to send back as a message.
Snagga's eyes went wide with sudden realization.
He stopped thrashing—too late.
Mud closed around his waist, then chest.
But instead of dragging him under, the mud held him upright like a pillar.
Reeds wrapped around his arms gently, binding, not cutting.
He was trapped.
Captured.
Alive.
Kreznik tried to surge forward, rage exploding. "Give him!"
The mud patch rippled threateningly.
Vark grabbed Kreznik's shoulder hard. "No!" he hissed. "You go in, you die."
Kreznik's hooked nose flared. "He my—"
"Later," Vark snapped. "Live first!"
Drukk Ear-Torn was half-free now, ankle loosened enough to step back onto normal ground. He stared at Snagga, then at the Bogkin silhouette, then at Vark and Kreznik.
His face twisted—not shame, not guilt.
Calculation.
He backed away slowly, eyes darting, pretending he'd always planned to retreat.
"Back!" Vark snarled at him. "Before mud eat you."
Drukk snarled back, "This is your plan, weird-head!"
Vark didn't have the breath to argue. He pulled Mogrin's sleeve. "Go!"
They retreated—Vark, Mogrin, Kreznik, and one remaining raider who hadn't disappeared into reeds. Drukk slunk behind them like a shadow that wanted to be forgotten.
Behind them, the Bogkin warden remained, mist curling around its reed hood.
The croaking breath softened.
The reeds stilled.
Snagga Reedscar stood bound in mud and reed like an offering.
Then the Bogkin warden raised one hand and pointed—slowly, deliberately—toward the Three Crowns.
A message without words.
And the feeling that came with it pressed into Vark's mind like cold mud:
Trade… or drown.
Vark didn't know the words yet.
But he felt the ultimatum.
They scrambled up the root slope to the Three Crowns without making noise loud enough to echo. Fear made them careful now.
Boss Mokh met them on the lower platform, eye blazing.
"What happened?" Mokh demanded.
Kreznik spat mud and panted, "Bogkin trap. Snagga taken."
Mokh's face tightened. "Taken alive?"
"Yes," Vark said. "They… choose. They show power."
Drukk shoved forward, shaking with rage. "They steal goblin! We must hit back!"
Mokh rounded on him, spear tip inches from Drukk's throat. "You went without order," Mokh growled. "You bring this."
Drukk's torn ear twitched, but he didn't back down. "We hungry! You hide! You make us weak!"
Mokh's eye flashed. "You make us dead."
The argument would have exploded right there—
If Mogrin hadn't spoken.
"Mogrin say," Mogrin said, voice louder than usual, confident, sharp. He stepped forward with sling still in hand, chin up. "Bogkin not prey. Bogkin make mud eat goblin. If fight, many die. We need… think."
A few goblins blinked at him, surprised.
Mogrin looked back at Vark for half a heartbeat, then continued, "Trade maybe. Trade better than drown."
Silence held for a moment.
Then voices rose, anxious, bitter, confused.
"Trade with mud-people?""They steal Snagga!""They could kill!""They didn't!"
Mokh raised his hand. "Enough. We talk morning."
They waited.
Night crawled toward dawn.
No one slept.
At sunrise, a scout hissed from the lowest branch.
"Something at shore."
Mokh, Vark, and Mogrin moved carefully to an overlook. The lake mist was pale now, almost pretty. The reeds rustled softly.
And on the shoreline, just beyond the restricted line, something lay.
A body.
Not dead.
A goblin.
Snagga Reedscar.
He was returned like a dropped tool.
He lay on his side, breathing shallowly. His scars looked darker. His skin was damp—too damp, like his body had been soaked inside and out.
Vark's Gut-Thread tightened, warning.
They approached carefully, ropes ready, spears low.
Snagga's eyes opened.
He stared at them blankly.
No recognition.
No anger.
No fear.
Just emptiness.
Kreznik rushed forward. "Snagga!" he barked, grabbing his shoulder. "You alive? You—"
Snagga blinked slowly.
Then he spoke in a flat, unfamiliar tone.
"Trade," he said.
Kreznik froze.
Snagga's gaze drifted to Vark. "Trade… or drown."
His mouth moved like the words weren't his.
Vark's stomach turned.
Mogrin whispered, "He… wrong."
"Yes," Vark said.
Snagga's throat and collarbone were marked now—small pale spots like fungus freckles, clustered under the skin. Not raised. Not rotting. Just… there, as if spores had been planted gently.
And when Kreznik shook him again, Snagga didn't react like a goblin.
He didn't curse.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't even look annoyed.
He stared past Kreznik, eyes dull as lake stones.
Memory-scrubbed.
Or worse—made into a mouth.
Boss Mokh's face hardened as he stared down at the changed goblin, then out at the reed line where the Bogkin totem still clicked softly.
Mokh spoke quietly, but the words carried.
"Now we know."
The lake didn't belong to the goblins.
And the Bogkin had just voted back.