The world was screaming.

  The world was burning.

  Smoke coiled thick in the night air, clinging to Cael's skin and throat as he ran.

  The ground, once familiar, was a broken maze of charred wood and upturned earth. It was the same earth he always knew, but also wasn't at the same time.

  Embers swirled like fireflies, painting the darkness in orange light. Voices behind him called out, left and right, voices which belonged to men, women, and children. They were hoarse and frantic — but most of those sounds were swallowed by the roar of flames or the collapsing beams.

  He stumbled over a fallen lantern, its glass shattered, flames licking hungrily at the splintered frame. The scent of oil and ash filled his nose, sharp enough to sting. All around him, the village he had known — the village that had been home — crumbled into ruin.

  Cael tried to cry out, but his voice cracked, useless against the howling wind. He could only watch as the stars overhead, once gentle and familiar, rained down in streaks of silver and crimson, tearing the sky and ground apart.

  Was this God's punishment? Cael had to wonder.

  And then—

  A hand seized his wrist, dragging him toward the shadows.

  "Run!" someone shouted, though he couldn't see who.

  He ran.

  The dream dissolved into smoke, and Cael woke with a jolt, heart hammering against his ribs.

  For a moment, he didn't know where he was.

  The smoke still clung to him, thick in his lungs, but when he gasped for breath, all he tasted was cold morning air. His hands clawed at the blanket tangled around him before he realized — slowly — that he was lying on a cot, not the scorched ground of Fern Pellow.

  The walls around him were rough timber, not blackened ruins. The embers were only slivers of early light leaking in through the cracks.

  Cael pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the frantic drumbeat of his heart.

  It took another few breaths before the dream receded, curling back into whatever corner it always came from.

  Sundown. He was in Sundown now.

  He was safe.

  Or at least, safer than he had been that night.

  The smell of smoke was real, though — faint and lingering. Someone must have stirred the hearth downstairs already, which made for a nice contrast with the rain.

  The sound of rain tapped against the cracked windowpane, soft and steady. Somewhere downstairs, the tavernkeeper moved about, setting pots to boil and stoking fires. The smell of damp woodsmoke crept under the door.

  Rowan was still asleep in the other bed, sprawled haphazardly atop the covers, one arm dangling toward the floor. He snored lightly, a faint, irregular sound.

  "At least someone here got a goodnight rest."

  Cael swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a while, rubbing the grit from his eyes. His body ached from the restless night. Dreams—fragmented and half-forgotten—clung to him like mist. Dreams of falling stars, of the sea boiling under strange light, of distant ruins swallowed by the marsh.

  The pendant under his shirt felt oddly cold against his skin.

  He rose quietly, shrugging on his coat and buckling his satchel without waking Rowan.

  Downstairs, the common room was quieter than it had been the night before. A few early risers hunched over mugs of something hot, their faces lined and weary. The storm outside was gentle, but steady enough to blur the edges of the world into a soft gray.

  Cael hoped he could see Aeris, but she was nowhere to be found in the common room. However, he did find one other person there.

  Dain was already waiting by the door, wrapped in a battered oilskin cloak. He didn't say anything when Cael approached—just gave a brief nod and pushed the door open into the drizzle.

  The town of Sundown looked different under the rain: softer, almost blurred, like a painting someone had left out too long. The sea beyond the docks was a smear of gray and silver, restless under the low clouds.

  "Stick close, you hear?" Dain said without looking back. His voice was low and even, like it would take more than a little bad weather to rattle him.

  Cael pulled his hood up and followed, boots splashing through shallow puddles as they made their way out of town.

  Past the last houses, the road turned into a winding track between low, grassy dunes, the marshlands unfolding in the distance like a wet, breathing thing. A tangle of reeds and black water stretched as far as the eye could see, broken only by the occasional skeletal tree jutting up from the mire.

  The ruins of Wruithmarsh lay somewhere beyond that—half-sunken, half-swallowed by the land itself.

  Cael swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the mission settle over him again.

  They walked in silence for a time, the rain whispering around them. Every so often, Dain would pause, scanning the horizon with a hunter's patience, before pressing on.

  At last, the ground grew softer underfoot, and the air thickened with the heavy, sour scent of the marsh.

  Dain slowed, his hand resting lightly near the hilt of his short blade.

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  "We're close enough," he said, his voice barely more than a breath. "Patrol path runs the edge of the marsh here. We don't go inland unless we have no choice."

  Cael nodded, falling into step beside him.

  The land was eerily quiet. Even the birds seemed to have given the place a wide berth.

  Every now and then, Cael thought he saw something shift in the mist—a flicker of movement, a ripple in the still water—but when he looked again, there was nothing.

  They kept walking.

  For a while, only the rain spoke between them. Then, as they picked their way along a narrow rise above the deeper marsh, Dain broke the silence.

  "You ever been out in country like this before?" he asked, keeping his voice low, like the mist itself might be listening.

  Cael shook his head. "Not really. Fern Pellow, my village, was mostly hills and fields. The worst we had was a fog now and then."

  Dain made a rough sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a grunt. "Fog's easy. It's the ground you gotta worry about here."

  He jabbed a thumb toward a patch of deceptively solid-looking grass ahead. "Looks sturdy, doesn't it? Step wrong, and you'll sink to your knees in muck—or worse."

  Cael eyed the marsh with new wariness.

  "Best way to test it," Dain said, "is with your staff. You ain't carrying one, though. Forgot about that."

  "I've got this," Cael said, patting the short sword at his hip. It wasn't much comfort. He'd barely used it outside of practice sessions with Aeris.

  Dain gave him a sidelong look, his expression unreadable under the brim of his hood. "Sword's good if trouble comes at you face-first. Won't help much if the ground itself swallows you."

  They kept moving, stepping carefully.

  After a few minutes, Dain spoke again, more quietly this time, almost like he was thinking aloud.

  "You know... most greenhorns, they get this look in their eyes first time they see a place like Wruithmarsh. Like they're wonderin' why the hell they ever signed up for this life."

  Cael smiled faintly. "Am I that easy to read?"

  "Nah. You hide it better than most." Dain shrugged. "Still there, though. I see it."

  The mist pressed in around them, heavy and cold.

  "I didn't sign up for this life," Cael said after a moment. "Not really."

  Dain raised an eyebrow but didn't press him.

  Cael rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the rainwater soaking into his collar. "Just felt like... It was my only option after losing everything 2 yearrs ago."

  A silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable.

  Dain finally grunted again, softer this time. "Ain't a bad reason. More honest than most, at least."

  They crested a small rise, and for a heartbeat, the land opened up before them—a desolate stretch of broken stone and leaning pillars, half-sunken into the mire.

  The ruins of Wruithmarsh.

  Cael slowed without meaning to, staring.

  They were older than anything he had ever seen, and somehow wrong, like they'd been abandoned not just by people, but by time itself.

  Dain stopped beside him, crossing his arms. He scanned the half-sunken stones for a long moment, the rain slipping off the brim of his hood.

  "Keep sharp," he muttered.

  Cael nodded

  They moved down the slope carefully. The ground squelched underfoot, and twisted roots clawed at the edges of the broken path. As they drew closer to the ruins, Cael noticed something—subtle at first—a faint, rhythmic hum in the air, almost too low to hear.

  The pendant under his shirt shifted against his chest.

  Cael froze.

  "Huh?"

  It wasn’t the usual cool touch of silver against skin. It pulsed now, in slow, uneven beats, almost like a second heartbeat, answering the strange vibration in the mist.

  He pressed a hand to it instinctively.

  Dain noticed. His gaze flicked to Cael, sharp and questioning, but he didn’t say anything—just nodded once, like telling him to keep moving.

  The stones grew larger as they approached, jutting up from the mire like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Lichen and moss clothed their surfaces, but faint traces of carving clung to them still — strange symbols worn half-away by centuries of rain and rot.

  Cael kept his hand on his pendant, feeling it beat faintly against his palm.

  "Is it reacting to this place?" Cael thought to himself, feeling confused. He's not sure what it meant, but it was only making him feel more and more uneasy about all of this.

  Every step forward made the hum grow a little louder.

  Dain crouched suddenly, holding up a hand to stop him.

  Cael crouched too, heart hammering.

  At first he saw nothing — only the curtain of mist curling through the ruins. But then—

  There.

  Footprints.

  Fresh ones, pressed deep into the muddy ground, leading between two fallen pillars. The tread was wide and heavy, like someone carrying a lot of gear. Or a lot of stolen goods.

  Dain leaned close, studying them. His mouth was set in a thin, grim line.

  "Scavengers," he muttered under his breath. "Or worse."

  He glanced up at Cael. "Keep your hand near your sword."

  Cael swallowed hard and nodded.

  The ruins were too still now. Too silent. Even the rain seemed quieter here, muffled by the dense mist and ancient stone.

  They moved carefully, following the faint trail. The world shrank around them — mist, stone, shallow pools of brackish water.

  Somewhere ahead, Cael thought he heard something. A faint clink of metal. The scrape of boots on stone.

  He and Dain exchanged a glance.

  Without a word, Dain pointed to a crumbling wall nearby. Cover.

  They slipped behind it just as two figures came into view through the mist.

  Both were rough-looking — one with a battered cloak pulled low over his face, the other carrying a heavy sack slung over one shoulder. Their voices were low, but carried strangely well in the heavy air.

  "...told you it wasn't safe out here," the smaller one was saying, glancing over his shoulder. "I heard somethin' last night. Somethin' movin'."

  The larger one snorted. "Ghosts don't scare me. It's the patrols from those Scouts we gotta worry about."

  The smaller man shivered, clutching his sack tighter. "You think they heard the bells?"

  "Course not. That old junk don't ring no more."

  Their voices faded as they passed deeper into the ruins, moving toward a collapsed archway half-sunken in the bog.

  Cael let out a slow breath he'd been holding.

  Dain watched them go, eyes narrowed.

  "Not locals," he murmured. "Too many supplies for a quick grab. They're settin' up camp. Planning to strip the place clean."

  Cael shifted uneasily. "What do we do?"

  Dain hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly on the hilt of his blade.

  "Stick to the patrol for now. Report it back at Sundown. We’re not here to pick fights."

  But even as he said it, Cael could tell he wasn't happy about leaving the scavengers unchecked.

  Neither was Cael. It just didn't feel right to him.

  The ruins seemed to press closer around him, heavy with the weight of old secrets.

  And still — always — that humming in the air. Tugging at him. Pulling him deeper.

  The pendant throbbed once, sharp enough to make him flinch.

  He barely caught himself on the wall before stumbling.

  Dain looked back sharply. "Hey, you alright?"

  "Yeah," Cael said, though his voice came out hoarse. "Just... weird feeling. It's the pendant. It's reacting to something."

  Dain's gaze dropped to the spot where Cael clutched his chest, then back to the ruins beyond.

  His expression tightened, he as deep in thoughts.

  Suddenly, the two scavengers slunk deeper into the ruins, their shapes swallowed by the mist.

  Dain waited another beat, then leaned in close, close enough that Cael could smell the damp leather of his coat.

  "You see that?" he muttered, voice low and rough at Cael’s ear. "That's what stupidity looks like."

  Cael nodded, pulse thudding at the base of his throat.

  Dain's hand clapped once against Cael’s shoulder, firm enough to jolt him slightly forward. "Don't ever end up like that. Think with your head, not your balls."

  Cael huffed a breathless laugh, nerves flickering at the edges of his mind. "I'll try."

  "You better." Dain pulled back, a smirk just barely ghosting across his mouth before it flattened into something sharper. "Now come on, boy. Let’s show ‘em what real men do when they’re not pissin' themselves over ghost stories."

  He rose from their hiding place in one smooth, practiced motion, hand resting easy on the hilt of his blade. A silent dare lingered in the air between them.

  Cael followed, tightening his grip around the pendant still thudding against his chest.

  He was ready.

  The rain slanted harder across the ruins, streaking the stones and mist in silver, as the two of them slipped forward — two figures cutting through the broken ribs of the earth, shoulder to shoulder, heading straight for the heart of the forgotten world.