The Path Ahead

The morning mist clung low as the village gathered near the northern path, not in fanfare, but in quiet presence.

Levi tightened the straps of his pack while Jory fidgeted beside him, half-glancing over his shoulder where Mae stood with folded arms and an unreadable expression. She had said her piece the night before, but the way she stared now—it was all goodbye.

Jory's mother broke first. She rushed forward, wrapping her son in a hug that crushed the breath out of him. "Don't forget your boots at night. You always forget," she whispered harshly, like scolding would stop her tears.

His father stood behind her, jaw tight. "Don't do anything foolish. You're not going to war, you're walking. Remember that."

"I'll remember," Jory said, voice strained but proud. "I'll keep Levi safe."

Mae stepped forward at last, reaching into her apron for a wrapped bundle. "It's lizard jerky and some bread. Share it or not, but don't complain if you go hungry." She placed it in Levi's hands. Her fingers lingered. "You're responsible for them."

Levi nodded. "I know."

Darran gave Lyle a last pat on the back, then addressed all three. "You'll pass old hunter trails, ones no longer used. Follow your markers. No heroics. If you see a frog the size of a pig, you run."

A few chuckles rose. Even the village needed something to laugh about.

No grand farewell followed. No songs. Just people—mothers, old men, children watching in silence—as three figures set off toward the unseen lines that marked the edge of Bogwater's reach.

Jory glanced back once. Mae hadn't moved, still standing at the path's edge like a scarecrow stitched from stubbornness and love.

Then the swamp mist took her.

And Bogwater faded behind them.

Their boots squelched over root-choked trails and old reeds turned brittle from sun and salt. Levi's shoulders ached under the weight of his pack. Lyle walked a few paces ahead, eyes sharp, fingers twitching at his side whenever he spotted something unusual—broken reeds, shallow drag marks, the faintest ripple of disturbed water.

Jory stayed close, not out of fear, but because it was still strange being outside the village without a horseman, merchant, or adult leading the way.

"Doesn't feel real," he muttered. "Feels like we'll circle back and find everyone pretending we never left."

"Don't tempt fate," Levi replied. "We've barely crossed the first half-mile."

They crossed a causeway made from bundled swampgrass and old timber. The path curved toward a grove of blackroot trees, their pale trunks twisting like bone. Somewhere in the distance, a heron shrieked.

They stopped to rest only when the sun was past its peak. Lyle climbed a low rise, scanning ahead. "There's a watchpost ruin not far. Used to be a crannogman outpost. Might still be dry."

Levi nodded. "We make it there before nightfall. Then we camp."

The second half of the day passed with fewer words. The swamp wasn't hostile, but it hummed with tension. Levi found himself glancing at the gold counter in his mind, then away. This wasn't a moment for cheats. This was real.

By dusk, the old watchpost rose from a patch of half-dry earth—nothing but a circle of stone, half-collapsed, with moss devouring its edges.

They set camp inside its remains. Jory gathered dry sticks. Lyle made a ring of stones. Levi lit the fire.

As the flames crackled and smoke rose straight into the still air, Levi looked around at the two boys beside him. They were tired. Hungry. But calm.

"We made it farther than I thought," he admitted.

Jory grinned. "Told you Mae packed too much bread."

Lyle just chewed and watched the dark.

Levi pulled the map from his satchel and laid it flat. "Greycrann is two more days out. If the water's low, maybe less."

The firelight flickered over the path ahead—drawn not in ink, but in memory and fear. The domain of House Reed.