Blood in the Water
The marsh had changed.
What was quiet before now felt watchful. Each broken reed, each shifting pool of stagnant water seemed to hold its breath as Koda limped through them. His shirt was soaked through—part blood, part swamp—but the chill hadn't reached him. Not with the fire of his wounds burning so hot in his side.
Every step was war.
Mud sucked at his boots, and the weight of his body leaned heavier on one side. The cut along his ribs, deep and jagged, pulsed with each heartbeat, sending sharp jolts of pain up into his chest. A dull throb had settled in his thigh where one of the goblins had clubbed him with a broken bone. His knuckles were raw from gripping the blade too tightly, his breath shallow.
He forced his legs forward anyway.
One step.
Then another.
His vision swam more than once. The smell of rot and old water pressed in close, mingling with the iron tang of his blood. Insects buzzed past his ears, and somewhere off to the east, something large splashed once and went still.
He ignored it. He had to get back.
The reeds broke suddenly to his left.
Koda froze—balance shifting, heart climbing up his throat.
A low growl trembled through the air.
Across the small clearing, hunched beneath a dying tree, stood a creature half-wolf, half-starved husk. Ribs jutted sharp through thin skin, its coat more patchy moss than fur. Fangs hung too far past its lips, warped and jagged like broken tusks. Eyes—milky and pale—locked onto him.
Its breathing was slow.
Measured.
Hollow.
Koda swallowed.
His hand twitched toward where the blade would form—but he didn't summon it yet. He was tired. Gods, he was tired. His arm trembled. The cut along his side burned like someone was pressing a brand into him.
The beast crept forward, one paw at a time, barely making a sound in the damp.
A sick realization curled in Koda's gut.
It was hunting the smell of blood.
His blood.
It lunged without warning.
No bark, no warning growl—just a blur of matted fur and sunken ribs, the sudden spray of muck kicked up in its path. Koda tried to pivot, but his leg gave out beneath him and he stumbled back, crashing into the mire with a sickening splash.
Then the weight hit him.
The beast landed with a sick thud on his chest, rancid breath spilling hot across his face. Its ribs scraped against his collarbone as it snapped downward. He threw his arm up to shield himself—
—and the fangs sank in.
A scream clawed its way out of Koda's throat, choked and raw. The wolf-thing's jaws clamped around his forearm, not tearing, not shaking—holding. Desperately. Like a dying beast starving for salvation through his blood.
His back arched off the wet earth, vision flaring white as pain flooded through his arm. The bite was deep. Too deep. The muscles in his forearm screamed, and the bones felt like they'd snap if the pressure climbed any higher.
But the creature wouldn't let go.
It couldn't.
And that—that—was its mistake.
Koda grit his teeth hard enough to taste blood. His free hand fumbled down to his side, to the space just over his chest. His fingers brushed air—and will surged.
"Blade of Conviction," he gasped.
Smoke coiled into his palm, forming fast.
The hilt burned into his grip like it knew his pain. Like it welcomed the desperation that powered it.
He raised the blade—
—And drove it into the wolf's skull.
The crunch was wet, like a melon cracking under weight, the blade sliding in just above the eye socket with a sickening resistance that pushed back. It didn't go clean. He felt bone resist, felt the twitching muscles ripple across the thing's body.
And still—it bit down.
Its breath shuddered in his face.
One more push.
He drove the blade deeper with a ragged cry, his wounded arm still locked in its bite, until the spasms stopped.
Until the jaws slackened.
And the beast collapsed.
Half on his chest. Half in the muck.
Steam rose faintly from its spilled blood and broken body, its breath fading into nothing. The stink was unbearable—decay layered over rot, blood over bile. Koda gagged as he shoved the corpse off, the splash of it hitting the water lost under the hammering of his heart.
He sat up slowly, gasping, clutching his arm.
Blood flowed freely now. His own. The creature's. Hard to tell which was which.
His blade pulsed faintly—then vanished in a flicker of pale light, leaving only the sting of his exhaustion.
No chime came.
No glow.
No level up.
Just him, alone in the marsh again.
Broken. Bleeding.
Alive.
The pain blurred time.
He didn't know how long he walked. How many times he stumbled or fell, how often he leaned against tree trunks slick with moss and mud, or how much blood he lost through the torn, ragged wound on his forearm.
His body was slowing—cooling. Not with the night's damp cold, but the kind that set in from within. Bone-deep. That whispered: enough.
But still, he kept going.
Through reeds and brambles, over roots and sunken stone, dragging one foot forward, then the other. His vision tunneled. His breath came shallow. The swamp gradually gave way to thinner woods, and eventually, he could see the faint outline of the wall in the distance.
The slums.
Oria.
Home.
By the time he reached the crack in the foundation—his secret exit—his knees buckled. He pulled himself through it on sheer instinct, the world tilting sideways as he tumbled back into the city's embrace.
And then the cobbled streets.
And then—barely—the orphanage gate.
The first light of dawn had begun to touch the rooftops in a soft pink haze, washing the battered outer ring in an almost holy glow. But Koda didn't see that.
All he saw was the wooden gate.
And someone rushing toward him.
He collapsed forward just as it opened.
The matron's arms caught him. Barely. Her shawl smelled like dried herbs and clean cotton, a scent he remembered from childhood—but now it hit him like a wave, grounding and painful all at once.
"Koda—Koda!" she gasped, lowering him down. "Gods, you're bleeding—what happened—?"
He couldn't answer.
His mouth moved, but no words came.
Only a smile.
Small. Stupid. Grateful.
And then—
Darkness.