“This basin… it sits directly above the core of the ancient corruption!” Garek’s voice cracked. He aimed a trembling finger toward the calm shallows, now illuminated by the roaring bonfire. Princess Despina dropped the iron pan with a sharp clang that made Inessa flinch. “The ancient contagion? Here? But the legends claim it sleeps beneath the Surak Peaks, not these fertile banks!” “Trezantine schematics show otherwise,” Garek insisted, shoving the crumpled parchment into Despina’s hands. “They aren’t just draining the water for war engines. They’re deliberately trying to dry up the source, to… to expose it.” He rubbed his arms against the chill. “This is an extermination project, not a simple resource grab. They want to burn the very heart of Vashnaar.” “A dormant scourge… that is merely a folk tale, a superstitious dread for the uneducated,” Inessa muttered. Yet she recalled the low murmurs among senior Inquisitors—rumors of forbidden texts and lost detachments swallowed by the Great Mire. Could High Command truly be so reckless? Teymour, who had been listening with an air of mild inconvenience, finally spoke. “So, the noisy pumps… they’re trying to drain my fishing hole.” His brow furrowed in a way that, to Despina, implied profound divine contemplation, but to Inessa, looked suspiciously like a man whose peace had been disturbed. “That’s very rude.” Before anyone could process his understated complaint, the lake convulsed. The gentle lapping gave way to violent froth, as if a colossal beast thrashed below. The bonfire’s glow dimmed, swallowed by a heavy darkness that pulsed from the deep. A thick mire, the color of bruised obsidian, boiled upward, releasing the stench of stagnant rot and ancient tomb mold. Then, with a sound like millstones grinding, an emaciated man erupted from the churning dark. He stood tall, cloaked in tattered fabric woven from murky gloom. His skin was mottled with patches of the same black tar, and his eyes burned with feverish desperation when they locked onto Teymour. He coughed, a rattling sound, vomiting oily fluid onto the grass. “Flee!” he rasped, his voice a tortured chorus of wheezes. “You must flee, before it consumes you too! The water… they take the water… and it wakes!” He clawed at his chest, tearing the tar-coated cloth to expose diseased, blackened flesh. Despina gasped, retreating behind Teymour and gripping his linen tunic. Garek backed away, pale as tallow, fumbling at an empty scabbard. Even Inessa felt tension seize her muscles. This was no common deserter, but an incarnation of pure rot. Without hesitation, Inessa drew her blade, the polished chronium catching the dying embers. “Stand back!” she barked. She thrust her off-hand forward, unleashing a streak of concentrated arcane sapphire. The spell hissed through the night, aimed straight for the invader's ribs. The man merely raised an arm. The blue beam hit an unseen boundary, dispersing into cold motes a handspan from his skin. He did not flinch, taking a staggering step toward Teymour. “The curse… it grows… it hungers…” the man choked, another strand of black bile spilling over his chin. Teymour sighed, a quiet, long-suffering noise. “Now, now,” he murmured. “No need to be so upset. You look like you’re having a bad day.” He sidestepped Despina, slipped past Inessa, and rested a palm on the stranger's sleeve. The touch was casual, as though greeting a flustered neighbor. “Just breathe slowly. It’ll be fine.” The moment Teymour’s palm settled on the tattered cloth, amber warmth poured from his fingers, rolling back the oppressive dark. Beneath his fingers, the tar hissed, evaporating into thin vapor. Healthy, clean flesh broke through the crust. The stranger gasped in raw disbelief, staring down at himself. A calcified clump of rot fused near his collar disintegrated into dry powder, leaving smooth skin behind. He stumbled back, gawking at his healed arm, then up at Teymour. “You… you…” the stranger muttered, his voice clearing. “You purified it?” Teymour tilted his head. “Oh, was that what that was? I just thought you had something on your coat. See? All better.” He gave the man a polite pat on the arm, and another patch of crust melted into gray ash. He dropped to his knees, his frantic expression smoothing into reverent awe. “The river legends… they spoke the truth.” He looked up at Teymour, then across at Inessa, Despina, and Garek. “I am Osenya. For generations, I have served as the vessel, drawing the ancient blight into my own flesh to save Vashnaar. It has been an agonizing decay, yet the alternative was total ruin.” He coughed again, the spittle now almost clear. “The industrial war factories… their massive siphon pumps… they are murdering me. By sapping this lake, they force the ancient rot to awaken, compelling me to absorb more poison than my body can hold.” He pressed a hand to his ribs. “If my vessel shatters, the miasma will flood every province. Vashnaar will become a graveyard.” Osenya turned toward the northern ridges, where an industrial drone rumbled across the dark. “They approach,” he murmured, his breath shallow. “The ironclad fleet. An armada of dreadnoughts and boilers. An hour remains, perhaps less.” He swayed, strength draining from his limbs. “They intend to crush this basin, drain the basin dry, kill me, and trigger the catastrophe.” He collapsed onto the sod, watching Teymour. “You must decide.” Teymour looked from the collapsed Osenya to the shimmering surface of his fishing spot, then to the terrified faces of Despina, Garek, and Inessa. The thrumming from the horizon grew louder, vibrating through the very ground beneath his feet. His perfect, tranquil sanctuary was about to be obliterated, and with it, perhaps, the entire world. He sighed, adjusting his imaginary fishing hat. This was going to be a bother.

The Water Thief's Warning