“Someone inside the Manse.” The words pulsed on the brittle page, a silent accusation in the damp, heavy air. Nivara’s fingers, still stained with the Manse’s medicinal tinctures, trembled slightly against the delicate paper. Valda, the woman whose identity Nivara now wore like a shroud, had known. She’d known the true, insidious nature of the Mourn-Blight, its deliberate weaponization. And it had cost her everything. “They killed Elan.” The name resonated with a hollow echo. Who was Elan? Another victim? The journal offered no further clue, only Valda’s frantic certainty that she was next. *And soon, they will come for me.* They already had. Nivara slammed the journal shut. The soft thud was swallowed by the Mournvel’s oppressive silence. Her lungs burned, a familiar, gnawing ache that had intensified with every rasping breath she’d taken since leaving the Manse’s illusory safety. The pale mist clung to the skeletal trees, seeping past wool and skin until her ribs ached from the frost. Myco, nestled in a specially woven satchel against Nivara’s chest, whined softly, its bioluminescent spores dimming to a faint pulse. The chill was getting to the spore-fox, weakening it further. She looked up, glaring into the swirling vapor. “Of course, they’re watching. Of course, it’s a setup. Why wouldn’t it be?” Her voice, usually a sharp rasp, was rough with the exertion of the trek. Her temper, a volatile beast always lurking beneath her calm facade, began to fray. “Nothing is ever simple, is it? Just a straightforward cure, no hidden agendas, no dead bodies in a beast’s gut, no parasitic fungus turning everyone to ash.” Beside her, Tavrok paused, his hulking form a shadowy sentinel against the oppressive mist. The ground vibrated faintly with his stillness. He tilted his massive head, a low, guttural rumble stirring in his chest. His crimson eyes, usually fixed with intense vigilance, seemed to gauge the rising storm within her. “Don’t look at me like that,” Nivara snapped, yanking her arm away from a grasping, blackened vine that seemed to writhe like a snake. “Like I’m about to do something stupid. I’m just… frustrated. With all of it. With *them*.” She gestured vaguely back towards the distant Manse, a crumbling phantom at the edge of her awareness. “Playing gods with a plague. And for what? Power? What power is there to be had in a dying world?” Her boot sank into soft ground. It was typical Mournvel, spongy and saturated, but this felt different. Too yielding. A cold, viscous sensation immediately wicked through her worn leather. Before she could react, before Tavrok could even tense, the ground gave way with a sickening gurgle. A rot-sinkhole, hidden perfectly by the deceptive mist. Nivara plummeted, a strangled cry escaping her lips. The ash-mud, thick and clinging, closed around her like a living thing. The cold shocked her, stealing the air from her lungs. She flailed, her arms sinking deeper with every panicked movement, the stench of decay and something metallic filling her nostrils. It was like drowning in wet lead that packed into her throat and dragged at her hips. Myco let out a distressed squeal from its satchel, its light flickering wildly. Nivara thrashed, trying to find purchase, but the mud sucked her down with relentless force, already up to her chest. Her temper had bought her a quick, ignominious end. Then, a sharp, sudden jerk. A powerful, unyielding grip closed around the collar of her tunic, hauling her upwards. The mud fought back with a greedy suction, but Tavrok’s strength was absolute. He ripped her from the quagmire with a violent heave, sending her sprawling onto solid, if still damp, earth. She landed hard, coughing, mud spattering her face and hair. Her entire body shivered, not just from the cold, but from the raw terror of it. An impossibly soft rumble emanated from Tavrok’s chest, a sound Nivara had only ever heard directed at Myco. He nudged her gently with his snout, a low whimper escaping him. Then, with a meticulous, almost delicate precision, he began to lick the ash-mud from her face. His coarse tongue scraped lightly, startlingly gentle, removing the grime from her cheek, her forehead, even the corner of her eye. It was an act of profound, instinctive care from a creature of pure ferocity, a stark contrast to the death that had nearly claimed her moments before. Nivara lay there, too stunned, too shaken to move, letting the Vorga Alpha clean her as if she were a wounded pup. “Okay,” she rasped, pushing herself up, still trembling. “Okay. Thank you.” She wiped at her face, feeling the faint, lingering dampness from his tongue. “Right. No more yelling at the mist. Focus.” The air around them grew thicker, the mist coalescing into swirling, unnatural patterns. Nivara’s gaze, now sharpened by her near-death experience, scanned the treacherous landscape. And there it was. Nestled at the base of a gnarled, ash-barked tree, its three luminous, silver-blue petals unfurling in the perpetual twilight: a Moon-Brier. Its faint, cool glow pierced the gloom, a beacon of fragile hope. “Myco,” she whispered, her voice catching. “We found it.” Just as she reached out, a frigid draft swept through the clearing, carrying with it the sickening scent of old bone and raw contagion. The mist around the Moon-Brier twisted, elongating, solidifying. Black tendrils, like wisps of smoke given malevolent form, writhed from the core. Glowing, empty eyesockets flared in the coalesced vapor, and a silent, guttural shriek seemed to echo in the very air. An ash-phantom. It moved with impossible speed, a blur of shadowy malice. Nivara barely registered the spectral claws before Tavrok was in motion, a crimson streak of protective fury. He launched himself between her and the entity, his massive body absorbing the ethereal impact. The creature shrieked, a sound that made Nivara’s teeth ache, its shadowy talons tearing through Tavrok’s hide. He roared, a sound of pain and rage, but did not falter, shielding her completely. The shade, undeterred, clawed at him again, radiating concentrated cold and decay. Each strike was a visible ripple of dark energy, impacting Tavrok’s monstrous frame with brutal force. In the chaos, as Tavrok wrestled the intangible horror, a cloud of black, superheated mist erupted from the apparition, a concentrated burst of foul vapor. Nivara, pushed back against the tree, gasped in involuntary shock. The vapor filled her mouth, seared her throat, and poured into her lungs. It was like inhaling burning ash, a thousand tiny shards of obsidian grating against her windpipe. She choked, a searing, immediate agony blossoming in her chest. Still, her gaze fixed on the glowing Moon-Brier. Her hands, despite the agonizing burn in her chest, shot out, snatching the root from its damp earth. It was cool and smooth in her grasp, a fragile promise. But as she clutched it, a different sensation began to spread within her. The burning in her lungs intensified, morphing into a grinding, crystallizing pressure. Each inhalation was a shallow, painful effort. The black ash, once a distant threat, was now rapidly solidifying, turning her insides to stone. She looked down at the root in her hand, then at Myco, whimpering faintly in its satchel. One root. One fragile hope. Enough for Myco. Or enough to buy her a few more precious days, to delay the inevitable, gruesome death that was now rapidly claiming her. The choice was a blade twisting in her gut.

The Deep Bogs