The next morning came with a whisper rather than a roar, the sun barely penetrating the heavy clouds that had gathered overnight. The bandages on my hands had stiffened with dried blood, and I worked my fingers carefully, testing their limits.
Joran was already awake, crouched by the fire. His eyes—a muted green in the gray light—flicked toward me briefly before returning to the flames.
"Storm's coming," he said quietly.
I nodded, scanning the horizon. The air felt different—heavier, somehow. "How far to the marshes?"
"We'll reach the edge by midday." He poked at the fire with a stick. "That's where the real trouble starts."
"You mentioned guides before. From Blackmere."
Joran's mouth tightened. "They don't venture out in weather like this."
Perfect. I rose to my feet and walked to the edge of our camp. The land rolled downward into a vast, flat expanse that stretched to the horizon. From this distance, it looked peaceful—a gray-white plain broken only by occasional dark patches that might have been trees.
But I knew better.
"We need to wake Laina," I said, turning back to camp. "Get moving before the storm hits."
Joran nodded, but made no move to wake her. Instead, he said, "The horses won't make it through."
I paused. "What?"
"The marshes. The horses." He gestured vaguely. "The paths are too narrow, the ice too thin. We'd lose them in the first hour."
"So what do you suggest? Abandon them?"
He stared into the fire. "We could circle around. Add three days to the journey, but keep the horses."
Three days I didn't have.
"No," I said finally. "We go through. Find somewhere safe to leave the horses at the edge."
"There's nowhere—"
"Then we let them go." I met his eyes, daring him to challenge me. "We can't afford three extra days."
Joran studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Your call."
The horses had served us well. Abandoning them felt wrong. But I wasn't.
Laina stirred, her eyes opening instantly, alert despite the early hour. She sat up, taking in the scene before her.
"What's the plan?" she asked, voice still rough with sleep.
"We reach the marshes by noon," I said. "Leave the horses, continue on foot."
She nodded, accepting this without question.
We broke camp quickly, loading the horses with what remained of our supplies. The animals seemed to sense our unease, shifting nervously as we worked.
By the time we set out, the clouds had thickened, and the first few snowflakes were beginning to fall.
"Perfect," Laina muttered, pulling her hood lower over her face. "Just what we needed."
"It'll cover our tracks," Joran pointed out.
"And everyone else's," she countered.
I said nothing, focused on the path ahead. My hands ached beneath their bandages, and I flexed them rhythmically, trying to work through the pain.
The descent was steeper than it had appeared from our camp. The horses struggled, hooves slipping on the icy ground. More than once, we had to dismount and lead them carefully down particularly treacherous slopes.
By midmorning, the snowfall had intensified, reducing visibility to a few dozen yards. The wind picked up, driving the flakes horizontally into our faces. I pulled my scarf higher, grateful for the protection.
"There," Joran said suddenly, pointing ahead through the swirling snow. "See that line of darker shapes? That's the edge of the marshes."
I squinted, making out what looked like stunted trees or bushes in the distance. "How far?"
"Another hour, maybe less."
We pressed on, the horses growing increasingly reluctant as the terrain changed beneath their hooves. The solid ground gave way to softer earth, partially frozen but yielding slightly with each step.
"We should stop here," Joran said eventually. "The ground's too soft already."
I nodded reluctantly. We were still a good distance from the actual marshes, but I could see his point.
We dismounted, unloading our supplies. Laina sorted through them efficiently, discarding anything non-essential, repacking what remained into three backpacks.
"What about the horses?" she asked, not looking up from her task.
Joran and I exchanged glances.
"We let them go," I said finally. "Head back toward the town. They might make it."
"And they might not," she countered.
"Better odds than taking them into the marshes."
She nodded, accepting this. "I'll do it."
Once our packs were ready, Laina approached the horses. She spoke to them quietly, her voice too low for me to make out the words. Then she removed their bridles and saddles, piling them nearby.
"Go," she said, giving the lead horse a firm slap on the flank. "Go home."
The animals hesitated, confused by their sudden freedom. Then, as if reaching a collective decision, they turned and began trudging back the way we'd come, soon disappearing into the swirling snow.
Laina watched them go, her expression unreadable. Then she turned back to us, shouldering her pack.
"Ready?"
I nodded, adjusting my own pack. The weight pulled painfully at my injured hands, but I said nothing, simply shifting it to a slightly more comfortable position.
We set off toward the marshes, the ground growing softer with each step. The snow continued to fall, but more lightly now, as if the marsh had its own weather system. The air grew noticeably damper, a chill mist rising to meet the falling snow.
"Stay close," Joran said, taking the lead. "The path from here is treacherous."
He wasn't exaggerating. Within minutes, the relatively solid ground gave way to a patchwork of frozen pools and boggy earth. What had appeared to be bushes from a distance revealed themselves as twisted, skeletal trees, their branches reaching upward like supplicating hands.
"Watch where I step," Joran instructed, picking his way carefully forward. "The ice may look solid, but..."
He demonstrated by tapping a seemingly frozen pool with his walking stick. The surface cracked immediately, dark water welling up through the break.
"That's the path?" I asked skeptically, eyeing the treacherous terrain ahead.
"One of them," he replied. "There are markers, if you know what to look for."
I studied the landscape more carefully, noticing for the first time the subtle patterns—slightly raised areas, particular arrangements of the twisted trees, occasional glimpses of what might have been wooden structures beneath the snow and ice.
"The guides maintain proper paths," Joran continued, "but we'll have to make do with the old routes."
"Wonderful," Laina muttered.
We proceeded in single file, Joran leading, Laina in the middle, myself bringing up the rear. The going was painfully slow, each step requiring careful consideration. More than once, Joran backtracked, searching for safer passage.
"This is taking too long," I said after the third such detour.
"Would you prefer to drown?" Laina asked mildly, not turning around.
I bit back a sharp retort. She was right, of course. Rushing through this terrain would be suicide. But every hour spent navigating these treacherous paths was an hour lost from my increasingly tight schedule.
The light began to fade early, the thick clouds and rising mist combining to create a premature twilight.
"We need to find shelter," Joran said, pausing to survey our surroundings. "It's not safe to move through the marshes at night."
"There," Laina pointed to a darker shape among the twisted trees. "That might be one of the old platforms."
Joran squinted in the direction she indicated. "Maybe. Worth checking."
We altered course, picking our way carefully toward the shape. As we drew closer, I could make out what appeared to be a crude wooden structure—a platform raised several feet above the marsh on stilts.
"Guild waystation," Joran confirmed as we reached it. "Abandoned, but it should hold for the night."
The platform was roughly ten feet square, its wooden planks weathered but still solid. A low railing surrounded three sides, the fourth open to allow access from what had once been a path but was now indistinguishable from the surrounding marsh.
We climbed up carefully, testing each board before trusting it with our full weight. The platform creaked but held firm.
"We should be safe here," Joran said, dropping his pack. "The height keeps us above the water and away from most predators."
"Most?" Laina raised an eyebrow.
He shrugged. "Nothing's certain in the marshes."
I set down my own pack, flexing my hands to ease the stiffness. The bandages were soaked through with melted snow and marsh water, clinging uncomfortably to my skin.
"Let me see those," Laina said, noticing my discomfort.
I hesitated, then extended my hands. She unwrapped the bandages carefully, her touch surprisingly gentle.
"These need cleaning," she said, examining the wounds. "They're starting to fester."
"I'll be fine."
She snorted. "Sure, until blood poisoning sets in. Then you'll just die slowly and painfully."
"We don't have—"
"We have what we need," she interrupted, rummaging in her pack. She produced a small leather pouch, opening it to reveal an assortment of dried herbs and small vials.
I watched as she mixed something from one of the vials with water from her canteen, creating a pungent-smelling paste.
"This will sting," she warned, then began applying it to my wounds without waiting for a response.
She was right—it did sting, badly enough that I had to clench my jaw to keep from flinching. But beneath the pain, I could feel a cooling sensation spreading through my abused flesh.
"Where did you learn this?" I asked, partly to distract myself from the pain.
"My father insisted all his children learn basic field medicine." She worked methodically, her eyes focused on her task. "Said a knight who couldn't tend their own wounds wasn't much use."
I whistled softly. "Impressive."
She shrugged, finishing with the paste and beginning to wrap fresh bandages around my hands. "It's come in handy."
Joran, who had been setting up a small, sheltered fire in the center of the platform, looked up. "The knights were the best of us. What happened at the Eastern Gate wasn't their fault."
Laina's mouth tightened, but she said nothing, focusing on securing my bandages.
"There," she said finally, tying off the last one. "Try not to get them wet again."
"In a marsh? No problem," I said dryly.
She almost smiled. "Just do your best."
The light had faded completely now, leaving us in darkness broken only by the small fire Joran had managed to build. The mist had thickened into a proper fog, reducing visibility to almost nothing beyond our platform.
"We should eat," Joran said, pulling dried meat and hard bread from his pack. "Conserve strength for tomorrow."
We ate in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. The marshes around us came alive with sounds—soft splashes, distant calls, the occasional rustle of movement through the reeds. Nothing immediately threatening, but unsettling nonetheless.
"I'll take first watch," I offered, once we'd finished eating.
Laina shook her head. "I'll go first, then Joran, then you."
I started to protest, then thought better of it. She was right—my hands needed time to heal if they were going to be of any use tomorrow.
"Fine," I conceded. "Wake me when it's my turn."
I arranged my bedroll as far from the edges of the platform as possible, using my pack as a pillow. Despite my exhaustion, sleep seemed distant, my mind racing with calculations of time and distance.
Thirteen days to reach the Temple. We'd lost time today, and would likely lose more tomorrow navigating the marshes. If we couldn't increase our pace once we reached the other side...
No use overthinking now.
Across the platform, Joran was already asleep, his breathing deep and even. Laina sat near the fire, her bow across her knees, eyes scanning the darkness beyond our small haven.
I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the marsh. Strange calls, distant splashes, the soft crackle of our fire. Then, something else—a rhythmic sound, almost like footsteps, but lighter, more numerous.
I opened my eyes.
"Laina," I whispered.
She nodded once, already alert. "I hear it."
The sound grew closer, a soft pattering that seemed to come from all around us. Joran stirred, instantly awake, hand going to his knife.
"What is it?" he asked, voice barely audible.
Laina shook her head, nocking an arrow to her bowstring. "Not sure. But it's getting closer."
We waited, tense, as the pattering grew louder. Then, at the edge of our firelight, I saw something move—a pale shape, low to the ground, skittering across the ice. Then another. And another.
"Marsh spiders," Joran breathed. "Gods help us."
As if summoned by his words, the creatures surged forward into the light—dozens of them, pale as bone, each the size of a dinner plate, with too many legs and glistening black eyes.
And they were climbing up the stilts toward our platform.