Floris is awake before the sun reaches the window.
He lies still on the wooden plank bed, staring at the ceiling as the first gray light seeps into the room. Sleep came in fragments—numbers drifting, ratios refusing to settle, combinations rearranging themselves behind closed eyes.
He exhales slowly.
Today he leaves.
The thought steadies him.
He sits up, grass stuffing rustling beneath him, and looks toward the small window carved into the wall. Morning hangs heavy already. The air is thick. Bugs hum lazily in the early warmth.
Swamp summer.
His gaze drifts upward.
Above the window, carved into the wood, are two figures—crude but careful. One taller. One with longer hair. The knife marks are shallow, deliberate. He remembers the sound it made when she carved it. The irritation he felt at the time.
Abigail.
He closes his eyes briefly.
The swamp eagle took half the village. It took her.
He opens his eyes again, and the softness is gone.
He swings his legs off the bed.
His room is crowded but orderly. Chests line three walls, stacked and labeled in his own shorthand scratches. Dried roots hang from pegs. Bundles of herbs rest along a narrow table beneath the window. Glass vials—precious and rare—sit wrapped in cloth within a wooden crate.
He dresses quickly.
First the linen shirt. Worn thin at the elbows. Then trousers, tied tight with rope. Over that, the leather armor—thicker than Alvis's, reinforced at the shins and forearms. Extra padding at the shoulders. A raised guard at the neck.
Protection over speed.
Speed is Alvis's strength.
Protection is his.
He fastens each strap with practiced motion.
The scarf comes next. White checkered cloth wrapped carefully around mouth and nose. Tight enough not to slip. Tight enough to filter fumes and rot and dust.
His cloak settles over everything. Hood up.
Only his eyes remain.
Blue. Alert.
Across his chest he slings the diagonal vial belt, checking each loop. Empty for now. Soon they won't be.
He pulls his fur-lined pack closer and begins loading it: water skin, cooking pot, bedroll, small axe, spare cord, emergency rations.
Then weapons.
Two knives at his belt. Bow across his back. Quiver—forty arrows. Spear in hand.
He pauses only once—reaching for a journal from his alchemy room. Notes on Arrowhead Loch. Sketches of growth patterns. Harvest cycles. Markings where certain mushrooms cluster near damp stone.
He flips through it once, memorizing the page.
Satisfied, he descends the stairs.
Ajenna sits by the window downstairs, rocking gently in her chair, steam rising from the clay bowl cupped in her hands.
"You're leaving," she says without turning.
"Yes."
"For long?"
"Maybe a week."
She nods.
"Arrowhead Loch?"
"Yes."
A faint smile touches her lips.
"Iziah and I used to go there. When the village felt too small." Her fingers trace the rim of the bowl. "It's quiet there."
Floris says nothing.
"We rely on you too much," she adds softly. "Don't make me regret that."
He bows his head once.
Then he steps outside.
He leaves without ceremony.
The village is barely awake. Smoke rises thin and pale from a single chimney. The central path is damp from night dew. A bird startles from a fence post as he passes.
He doesn't look back.
The swamp swallows him within minutes.
The trail to Arrowhead Loch is less a path and more a memory.
Vines attempt to reclaim it. Roots twist through old footmarks. Branches hang low and heavy.
Floris moves steadily, cutting only when necessary. He conserves energy. The swamp punishes waste.
Humidity presses against his skin like a second layer. Sweat gathers quickly beneath leather and cloth. Insects drift in slow clouds around him, undeterred by movement.
He listens constantly—not just for predators, but for change.
A sudden silence. A wrong rhythm. A shift in wind.
The swamp watches, but does not strike.
He reaches the small stone hollow he and Alvis have used for years—a shallow cave carved into a massive boulder. It blocks wind from two sides and holds warmth well.
He clears leaves from the floor and builds a small fire.
When the water begins to boil, he slips into the brush, bow drawn.
It doesn't take long.
A squirrel creeps toward the scent of smoke.
Floris moves faster than the animal expects.
One hand. One twist.
Silence.
By nightfall, he eats slowly beside the fire, counting herbs gathered during the day. Not what he came for—but useful.
He strings wire between low branches and attaches four small bells from his pack. A simple perimeter.
Then he lies back.
The crackling fire gives his mind something steady to follow.
He sleeps.
Dawn arrives cool and gray.
For once, he feels rested.
"Of course," he mutters. "Now."
He extinguishes the coals and continues.
The second day is heavier.
The swamp thickens. He detours for lavender near a fallen cedar. Harvests Aloe near shallow water. Collects mushrooms from the underside of a moss-heavy log.
He buries half the berry seeds he finds.
Future harvests matter.
By midday, the vegetation begins to thin. Light breaks through canopy in wider shafts. The old dirt trail appears more clearly beneath flattened grass.
He pauses at the edge of a wide clearing.
Deer graze in the open. Rabbits dart between grass tufts. Birds flit from branch to branch.
Abundance.
He studies the herd carefully.
Large gatherings mean watchful eyes nearby.
He shifts his grip on the spear and circles the clearing instead of crossing it. Darkness offers concealment. Open ground offers exposure.
He chooses shadow.
That evening he camps beneath a massive fallen tree—hollowed and ancient. The second marker on the journey.
He brews lavender into hot water.
This time, he prepares something better.
From his pack he removes a small glass vial filled with white crystals.
Salt.
The trader had called it that.
He sprinkles a careful amount over roasted rabbit.
The first bite surprises him.
Flavor floods his tongue. Sharp. Rich. Deep.
He blinks. "Mmm."
He eats slower this time. Measuring sensation. Memorizing.
He turns the vial in his hand afterward, watching firelight catch in the grains. Where did they find this? What else do they have?
He thinks of the trader's stories.
Stone cities. Hundreds of people. Thousands.
He tries to picture it. Nothing comes.
Two Creeks once held seventy-two souls. Seventy-two already felt crowded. A hundred feels impossible. A thousand feels like fiction.
They must know things we don't. The thought lingers longer than it should.
For a moment, he imagines walking in one direction until the swamp ends. Just to see what waits on the other side.
But the image fades. His village needs him.
He lies back, listening to the fire.
Sleep comes easier.
The third morning arrives bright and humid.
He moves quickly now.
By midday, the trees part.
Arrowhead Loch appears ahead—water shaped like a split arrowhead, glinting beneath open sky.
The air here feels lighter. Quieter.
He lowers his pack beneath a broad tree and surveys the shoreline.
Mushrooms cluster along damp banks.
Swamp flowers bloom near shallow inlets.
Aloe grows thick along the eastern curve.
Perfect.
He sets down his spear.
And goes to work.