Ironwill moved through the underbrush like a force of nature—mass, muscle, and momentum woven into one relentless shape.
Bushes bowed around him, branches snapped clean under his boots, and the faint morning mist curled in his wake as if afraid to touch him.
He did not speak unless he must, and he did not slow unless the world itself forced him to.
Behind him, Nale walked with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, steps light, eyes narrow and sharp. He scanned everything—the rustle of distant leaves, the pattern of crushed grass, the lingering distortion where mana residue clung to the air. His presence was steady and cold, like a blade balanced on a fingertip.
Last came Lira, robes brushing damp ferns, her magic scepter strapped securely to her waist. Her breath misted in the crisp air. Every so often she paused, crouched, and studied the trail with a scholar's discipline—examining fractures in the soil, the weight distribution of a footprint, the direction of a snapped stem.
They had been pursuing Cerys and Jhalen for four days.
Four days too long.
Nale knelt beside a patch of thick mud and brushed away a leaf. "Here," he murmured. The print was shallow but clean—light, agile, unmistakably belonged to the Vaelorians.
"Cerys stepped here. This track is… a day old at most. Maybe less."
Lira leaned close, mouth tightening. "Their pace slowed."
"No," Nale corrected softly. "They became cautious. This pattern—Cerys scouted ahead, Jhalen stayed back to cover. Something alarmed them."
Ironwill halted a few paces ahead, turning toward the distant horizon. Fog lay thick over the marshlands like a bruise. Even from here, the air carried a faint tremor—something deep, slow, and wrong.
"They're heading straight for the swamp," he said.
Lira exhaled. "Cerys runs toward danger."
"And Jhalen follows her," Nale added.
Ironwill's brows knitted as he watched the drifting fog. "Rhyden warned you about the Church experiments in this region. If the serpent was exposed to violet ore…"
Nale's breath caught. "Then Cerys and Jhalen are walking into something twisted."
Ironwill didn't answer immediately. His jaw flexed. "The ground has been trembling all morning. Birds fled the canopy. Something in that swamp is dangerous."
Lira stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Ironwill. Do you think they know?"
Ironwill shook his head once. "If they knew, they would have waited for us."
He looked back at their trail—the faint impressions leading toward the horizon.
"They're trying to be careful," he muttered. "But they are already too close."
Lira rose, gripping her scepter. "Then we need to move faster."
Ironwill nodded once. "Go."
They accelerated sharply—Ironwill thundering ahead, Nale gliding between trees with almost effortless grace, and Lira keeping pace through sheer force of will, mana pushing through her muscles and lungs.
Shadows shifted around them. The ground trembled again. And the swamp grew nearer with every breath.
Three days earlier....
the world had changed the moment Cerys and Jhalen stepped out of the forest and into the marsh. The vibrant greens of the woodland faded into colorless decay. Roots jutted from black water, twisting like skeletal hands. Fog pooled low, clinging to ankles like cold breath. The air hummed with a heavy, pulsing wrongness—as though something unseen whispered beneath the surface.
Cerys tugged her cloak closer, eyes narrowing. Her boots sank into soft mud, and each step felt like walking into another world. "It's worse than the elders described."
Jhalen walked ahead, his staff held ready, gaze sharp despite the suffocating atmosphere. "We're not alone here," he said quietly.
"We never are," Cerys muttered.
They pushed deeper. Strange birds shrieked overhead. Water rippled in places where nothing visibly moved. Mana vibrated in their teeth.
Then they saw it.
The serpent.
Its massive body lay coiled between ancient, rotting trees—hundreds of feet of thick, sinuous muscle draped over roots and half-submerged logs. Once-emerald scales now glimmered with streaks of violet corruption, pulsing like infected veins.
The beast of the marsh. Twisted. Breathing slowly—too slowly. Alive, but changed.
Cerys swallowed hard. "It looks… poisoned."
"Corrupted," Jhalen confirmed, crouching.
"Same patterns we saw on the beasts near the coast on our previous missions. But a beast of this size, The Church must have exposed it to raw ore, or worse."
They moved closer, examining the glowing veins, the unnatural shimmer across its hide. Cerys reached toward a scale, hesitated. "This isn't just physical. Its aura feels fractured."
Jhalen nodded grimly. "Something is tearing at its soul, do you think we should retrea-"
Before he could finish, a faint crunch echoed behind them. Then another.
Cerys's hand flew to her staff. Jhalen shifted his weight, stepping into a defensive angle.
"Behind us," he whispered.
"I know."
Fog parted as figures emerged—slow, deliberate, circling like wolves. They wore hooded veils, cracked masks depicting stylized suns, and talismans etched with warped scripture. Some carried rusted blades. Others dragged hooked chains or clutched prayer scrolls dripping with swamp water.
One hissed, "blasphemous… sinners… "
" trespassers of the sacred rebirth…"
Cerys groaned, "Not now."
The cultists rushed.
And the swamp erupted into chaos.
Cerys spun her staff and ignited the air—spells bursting from the blade in arcs of flame and searing heat. Mud sizzled, smoke curled, and cultists shrieked as fire carved glowing paths through their ranks.
Jhalen fought in tight, precise motions—no wasted swings, no heavy strikes. He moved like a surgeon with no time to waste, cutting tendons, piercing armor joints, flowing seamlessly from one opponent to the next as blood splattered.
A hooked blade grazed Cerys's shoulder—she rammed her staff backward without looking, breaking a jaw. Another cultist lunged. She parried, swept his legs, and drove the staff's fiery glowing tip into his throat.
"Don't hit the serpent," Jhalen muttered as he blocked a pair of blades.
"I'm not the idiot flailing around!" she snapped, blasting a cultist off his feet. "They are!"
Bodies fell into the mud—some smoking, some clutching wounds, some sinking silently into dark water. Soon the cultists hesitated. Then faltered. Then fled or fell. Fog rolled back.
Silence crept in.
But the serpent still slept.
Soft laughter floated from the mist—thin, delighted, utterly wrong. A tall figure stepped into view.
He wore a long coat stained with ink and alchemical residue, sleeves cluttered with pockets stuffed full of scrolls, glass vials, and metal tools. Hair disheveled, smile stretched unnervingly wide. Crystalline devices dangled from his belt, faint purple light humming within their cores. Bonfires of curiosity burned in his eyes.
"Ahhh," he breathed, stepping over a dead cultist. "Magnificent. You lasted three minutes longer than my projections. Exquisite deviations."
Cerys glared. "So you're the leader of these freaks."
He bowed deeply, flourishing his ink-stained coat. "Archivist-Magos Tathriel, at your lack of service. Chronicler of anomalies. Seeker of luminous truth. Analyst of Vaelorian physiology—"
"Creep," Jhalen interrupted.
Tathriel brightened. "Oh, how I adore accurate labels."
From the fog behind him, armored Sun Church soldiers marched in tight formation—shields interlocked, spears raised, steps synchronized. Real soldiers. Not the deranged fanatics lying in the mud.
This battle struck differently.
These men were trained. Their formation tight. Their strikes coordinated.
Cerys's muscles burned, her earlier spells draining mana reserves faster than she liked. Jhalen's breath grew ragged, his strikes slower by a hair. But they held the line—until discipline overwhelmed them.
A shield slammed into Jhalen's ribs—he staggered, coughing blood. A gauntleted fist cracked across Cerys's jaw—stars erupted in her vision. Another shield struck her knee, dropping her momentarily. Spears thrust in rhythmic waves, forcing them back step by step, mud splashing, breath fading.
Cerys tried to cast—runes sputtered. Jhalen tried to break formation—shields snapped back, crushing him between metal and earth.
Tathriel sighed dramatically. "Not too rough, please! Their bone structure is priceless!"
A soldier kicked Jhalen's staff away. Another pinned Cerys.
Their strength finally waned.
Ropes—silver-threaded, runed, mana-dampening—wrapped around their wrists and ankles. The restraints dug into skin, drinking mana like thirsty leeches.
Cerys snarled. Jhalen fought until blood seeped down his arms.
It was no use.
They were bound.
Captured.
Tathriel clapped politely. "Marvelous! You're even more fascinating up close."
He stepped past them, humming cheerfully as he approached the sleeping serpent. He pulled a crystalline disc from his belt—smooth, circular, glowing with swirling violet radiance.
"Now… let's wake our magnificent experiment."
He activated it.
A low-frequency hum rippled out. Water trembled. Air thickened, vibrating with ancient fury.
The serpent twitched. Then spasmed. Then its colossal head lifted from the swamp, vines and muck sliding from its scales. Its eyes snapped open—glowing with pure, violent, corrupted purple.
Tathriel whispered, entranced, "Yes. Yes. YES—"
The serpent roared—a sound that split the fog, shook the ground, and cracked trees.
Chaos erupted instantly.
Soldiers panicked. Cultists screamed prayers. Someone shouted, "RETREAT! RETREAT!"
But it was too late.
The serpent struck.
A single coil swept across the clearing, crushing half a squad beneath tons of muscle. Another lash shattered trees, sending splinters flying like arrows. Its jaws clamped down on a fleeing cultist—snap—gone.
Water whipped into towering waves. Fog spiraled in, soaked red with blood.
Cerys and Jhalen could only watch—bound, helpless—as the corrupted guardian rampaged through the swamp.
Tathriel, completely unfazed, turned to his guards. "Carry them. Carefully, carefully. I need them intact."
Two soldiers lifted Cerys and Jhalen, dragging them through the mud. Tathriel stepped aside as the serpent lunged past him, its corrupted eyes blazing.
He smiled. "Oh, my experiment. You are everything I hoped you'd be."
Moments later, the serpent vanished into the deeper swamp—tearing its own path through the trees, leaving devastation in its wake.
Fog drifted back. Water stilled.
And Cerys and Jhalen—beaten, bound, exhausted—were carried away into the shadows of the marsh, captured and helpless.
Unaware that Ironwill, Nale, and Lira were now racing toward them…
Four days too late.