Greycrann’s Shadows

The journey had not been swift, but it had been smooth—at least by marshland standards. Levi, Jory, and Lyle slogged through ankle-deep muck, crossed half-rotted wooden slats laid across blackwater streams, and slept beneath woven lean-tos that barely held back the night air. They passed villages smaller than Bogwater, often only visible by the smoke spiraling up from the reeds. Most gave no greeting. A few watched with eyes like slits in bark, silent and hidden.

Now, standing on the edge of Greycrann, Levi understood why Mae had warned him: this wasn't just a village. It was a warning in itself. A collection of crannogs surrounded by tangled water, their stilts rising like spindly legs from the swamp. Houses swayed on thick timbers. Rope bridges connected walkways above sluggish waters. Smoke and rot danced in the air.

"I don't think they like visitors," Jory whispered.

"They don't," Lyle replied, eyes scanning movement behind moss-covered trees. "That's why we're still standing."

Levi raised a hand. "Let's go."

A group of guards met them halfway across a mossy walkway. Crannogmen, through and through—short, dark-haired, wearing boiled leather over woven reeds. One of them, an older man with a bone-tipped spear, stepped forward.

"You're far from your bog, strangers."

Levi straightened. "I'm Levi of Bogwater. I come to speak with your elders."

That drew a raised brow. "Bogwater? That the place near the ruined gate tower?"

"It is."

"You built a village there?"

"We did."

The man looked at Jory and Lyle, both quiet behind Levi. "Arms down. Leave your packs. And follow slow."

Greycrann's elders did not sit in halls—they gathered in a wet-circle, seated atop stilted logs around a fire kept smoldering with moss. Levi stood with his two companions just off the walkway, explaining what they had done: the shelters, the food, the trade, the gathering of people. He laid out his offerings—swampberry wine, dried lizard meat, a rolled sketch of Bogwater's layout—and said what he had come for.

"We want to be known. Not pitied. We want to learn the marsh better—from those who've lived it longer than we've existed."

An elder, a wiry woman with silvered braids, sniffed the wine and didn't drink. "And if we say no?"

"Then we'll go back the way we came. But you'll know we're there."

Silence hung heavy. The fire hissed.

Another elder, eyes sharp beneath a thatch of grey lashes, leaned forward. "Words are easy, boy. Let's see if your marshskin matches your mouth. Tomorrow at first light—you'll go fetch ghost moss from Dead Root Hollow."

Levi frowned. "What is that?"

"It's rare, it's useful, and it grows where the leeches hum. You want respect? Walk where our children walk for proving."

Lyle opened his mouth, but the elder raised a hand. "No help. You three go. No more."

They were given lodging that night—not hospitality, just space. A narrow shack built for fishers with barely room for the three of them to sleep side by side. Still, Levi felt a strange calm. He didn't need approval. He needed recognition.

Jory leaned over as they settled in. "Think they'll help us?"

Levi shrugged. "Don't know. But they listened."

Lyle didn't speak. He just kept watching the door.

Later that night, Levi stepped out for air and found a boy sitting near the edge of the nearest rope bridge, feet dangling. Maybe sixteen, maybe younger. He had a reed knife tucked in his belt and a string of frog bones around his neck.

"You're the Bogwater man," the boy said.

"I am."

"They don't hate you. Just don't know you yet."

Levi tilted his head. "And you?"

The boy grinned. "I'm Brell. My uncle's on the wet-circle, but I don't sit there. I listen. Folk talk. You brought wine and dried meat. That's not begging."

"Didn't want to beg."

"Good. We don't like beggars. Or liars. Or loud ones." Brell flicked a reed at the water. "You're building near the gate ruins?"

"We are."

"You've got clean water?"

"Close enough."

"Fish?"

"Plenty."

"Then you've got a chance. But if you want help, you'll need more than meat and maps. Show 'em you can walk where they walk."

"I intend to."

Brell gave him a nod. "Dead Root's east. Don't take the fire trail—it sings."

"What does that mean?"

"You'll hear it if you're dumb. Just walk quiet. Watch the birds. When they stop singing, stop moving."

Levi nodded slowly. "Thanks, Brell."

The boy grinned again. "Don't die."

And just like that, he slipped into the dark like a water rat.

Tomorrow, they would walk into Dead Root Hollow. But for tonight, Levi lay in a stranger's hut, beneath a damp roof, in a land of reed and shadow.