Trial of the Mire

The elder said no more than two words: "Come whole."

That was the test. No rules. No map. Just a gesture toward the flooded grove behind the village—a tangle of twisted roots, sinking moss, and blackwater paths known only to crannogmen. It was a sacred place, the young guide had whispered. A proving ground.

Jory stepped forward, but the elder held a hand. "Only him."

Lyle frowned but said nothing.

Levi swallowed. "So… walk in. Walk out?"

The elder's face gave no answer. Just silence. As if the swamp itself would speak.

—

He stepped into the mire alone. Morning turned quickly to a green dusk under the thick canopy. The air was wet, heavy with the scent of rot and pine. For the first hour, he walked cautiously, remembering the boy's advice: Step only where the moss drinks, not where it floats.

Then the real trial began.

A sudden tug from below nearly took his leg—swamp vines wrapped in thorn had been laid like snares beneath the waterline. He cut himself loose, tearing through reeds and muck. Blood smeared his shin.

Next came the buzzing.

Flies at first, then thicker things—biting, stinging clouds that drove him to near madness. The deeper he went, the louder the hum. His vision blurred. He passed a sunken tree with bones hanging from its limbs like ornaments. Were they real? He couldn't be sure.

By nightfall, he stumbled into a shallow hollow choked with brambles. That's when it happened.

A wire-thin vine caught his right cheek, and before he could duck, a hooked thorn raked across his face—from brow to jaw. He screamed, clutching his eye. Blood poured into the socket. The pain was a rising tide, thick and pulsing. He fell, dizzy, slipping into shallow water.

He almost didn't get back up.

But somewhere in the darkness, he heard Mae's voice.

"You're a lazy boy, Levi, but you ain't useless."

He spat out mud. Gritted his teeth.

And he walked.

—

By dawn, Levi stumbled back into Greycrann.

He was soaked, bleeding, and half blind—his right eye sealed shut with dried blood. The young crannogman who had spoken kindly to him earlier helped steady him but said nothing. The Elder waited at the village center.

Levi limped forward, heart pounding. His good eye locked on the old man.

"You said come whole," Levi rasped.

The elder's voice was cold. "And yet you hide your eye."

"I was cut," Levi hissed. "I can't open it."

"You will," the elder replied. "Or the trial is failed. A wound hidden is fear. Face it."

Levi shook, suddenly aware of every breath, every heartbeat.

Lyle moved, but the young guide held him back.

"Let him do it," he whispered.

Jory stood pale at the edge of the gathering.

Levi inhaled. Then slowly—agonizingly—he forced his right eye open. The dried blood cracked and ran fresh again. Pain lanced across his skull. He thought he might collapse.

But he stared.

The elder didn't flinch.

Neither did Levi.

He didn't scream. Didn't curse. He simply stared—cold, unblinking. There was no fear, no plea, no pride. Only that gaze: dark, quiet, and changed.

The elder nodded once.

"You may speak your offer."

—

Later, after the wound was washed and stitched roughly by the crannogmen's healer, Levi sat by the fire, half-conscious.

The young crannogman, the one who had helped him up, sat beside him. "We thought you'd turn back."

Levi chuckled, but it came out a croak. "I almost did."

"You'll have a scar," the boy said. "We all do. Some on the skin. Some inside."

Levi said nothing, but his fingers hovered near the wound.

The boy looked toward the swamp. "The elder tests more than pain. He looks for those who understand it."

Levi's eye burned, but not just from the wound.

He now saw what this place demanded.

Not tricks. Not gold. Not cleverness.

But conviction. Sacrifice.

That night, as the village of Greycrann slept, Levi didn't.

He stared into the dying fire, his vision split—one eye bruised and beaten, the other sharp and silent.

He would carry the mark.

And with it, a reminder:

This world wasn't a game.

It never had been.