The Husks' screams erupted like iron striking stone, echoing deep inside the swamp as if the entire forest were a resonating bell. They surged from the skeletal trees, muddy limbs jerking in staccato, each joint pulled by invisible strings that strained and cracked with unnatural tension. The swamp quivered beneath their steps, dark water rippling outward in thin concentric waves.
Mira screamed, high-pitched and sharp, the sound nearly swallowed by the chorus of wet, distorted shrieks. Ren lowered his body slightly, settling into a defensive stance honed by observation rather than panic.
"To the left," he said flatly, voice calm as steel.
His dagger, slender and almost ceremonial, was useless against the Husks' distorted flesh. Yet a faint, dark energy pulsed along his shadow, subtle cracks forming like a second heartbeat beneath his feet. Hidden Marks, unseen but active, responded to the threat with precise calculation. Ren moved with a deliberate grace, every step a premeditated measure, though he still did not fully understand the forces at work within him.
A Husk lunged first. Ren ducked, grabbing Mira by the collar, yanking her back with an effortless pull. The creature's claws tore mud and roots into clouds of wet dust, a smell of rot and iron rising with each splash.
"Don't stop," Ren said, propelling Mira forward. "They navigate by vibration, not sight. Keep moving."
Mira stumbled but obeyed, her face streaked with mud and tears. "R-Ren… they… know you! How—"
"Quiet," he interrupted, voice flat, analytical. No impatience, only calculation.
Two more Husks leapt from the undergrowth. Ren planted his foot firmly against a massive root and twisted, sending a shockwave through the gnarled wood. The root twisted and writhed like a sentient creature, forming a barrier that forced the Husks to stumble. They growled, their hollow voices resonating like broken instruments, struggling against the impossible resistance.
Ren guided Mira along the dry root path. "We can't fight them in the open," he explained. "This route slows them. Timing and space are our advantage here."
"A-Are you sure?" Mira gasped, mud clinging to her trembling hands.
"Yes," Ren said, eyes narrowing as he analyzed every tremor beneath the swamp. "Facts, not hope."
The towering roots opened into a dim corridor, twisted and ancient. Faint green light seeped from moss-covered walls, illuminating wet, slick surfaces older than memory itself.
"Go," Ren ordered. Mira crawled forward, trembling, and he followed. But the moment his foot left the mud, a Husk lunged from the fog.
Ren sidestepped, slashing with his dagger—not to pierce, but to mark a pulse. Shadow energy rippled outward. The Husk slammed against a fallen tree, its neck bending at an impossible angle before it rose again, inverted, jaw hanging as if torn from reality itself.
[EMPTY… VESSEL…]
The whisper was everywhere, yet nowhere—emanating from the space around them, not its mouth.
Ren did not speak, advancing into the root corridor with Mira in tow.
---
The tunnel was quieter, but still tense. A pause before calamity, a breath held in the belly of the Mire. Ren's senses reached deep, touching vibrations hidden beneath the earth. A subtle, measured tremor—not Husk steps, but something else. Patient. Waiting.
"There's another," he muttered. "Bigger. Slower. It doesn't chase because it knows the exit."
Mira's hand trembled against the root beside her. "How…?"
"Echo," Ren said softly, pressing his palm to the largest root. Electric pulses ran upward, vibrations flowing into his skin. "Every creature leaves traces. Impressions of movement, of intention. This Mire… it remembers."
Ears straining, Mira whispered, "E-Echo… all Divers can sense it?"
"I'm not a Diver," Ren answered. "I've learned to read it."
The tremor grew. Roots pulsed beneath his fingers. The Husks trailed them, silent now, but persistent.
"Ren… closer," Mira breathed.
"I know," he replied, measuring, calculating. He shifted, guiding her along the twisting path.
---
A sudden halt. Ren's gaze fixed on a smooth circle of earth ahead. The swamp had masked it until now.
"Don't step on it," he warned.
Mira's heart raced. "W-Why?!"
"Not ground," he said. "…A skin. Something dormant beneath the mud."
The swamp reacted, trembling violently as if aware. A long, fetid exhalation rose from below, releasing centuries of trapped air in one rancid sigh.
"Climb! Quickly!" Ren urged. Mira scrambled upward, gripping the root as her nails tore into its bark. Ren followed, observing the ground swell where something massive forced its way upward.
Then it emerged. Faceless. Human-like in shape but with no features, lower body fused with roots, skin pallid and bloated from the swamp. The vertical split where a mouth should have been released the whispered voice Ren had recognized:
[…you have returned…]
Mira froze. Ren's black eyes remained calm. "It's not speaking to you," he muttered.
The creature advanced with measured, deliberate motions. Every movement precise, acknowledging Ren alone.
[EMPTY VESSEL… return to your place…]
Mira's eyes widened. For the first time, she saw something in Ren—neither fear nor hesitation, but cold acknowledgment. Recognition. Acceptance of a truth he could not yet explain, though he hated it.
---
The swamp trembled again, deeper and slower, a pulse resonating from the darkness far below. A low rumble rose, vibrating through roots and mud alike. Shadows shifted as if the Mire itself had awakened.
Ren inhaled, calculating probabilities, movements, the speed of tremors, the paths of potential threats. "Get ready, Mira," he whispered, eyes narrowing. "This is far from over."
Somewhere, beneath the ancient mud and tangled roots, something vast began to stir—older, larger, and infinitely more deliberate than the first faceless creature. The Siphon Mire had started to speak, and now it had noticed him.
Ren's shadow stretched. Hidden Marks pulsed faintly along his limbs. He had faced impossible odds before, but this… this was different. The Mire was aware. Observing. Judging. And it would not relent.
Mira pressed herself close, shivering violently. Ren's hand brushed her shoulder—not to comfort, but to anchor her within the strategy of survival.
The swamp's pulse quickened. Its hunger was patient, precise, and cold. And Ren Vallis understood, for the first time, that this place measured more than flesh—it measured will, logic, and the ability to endure.
The Siphon Mire had chosen to engage, and there would be no mercy.