The sunbeam, when it finally deigned to pierce the damp haze of this waterlogged rock, was… adequate. Not as robust as a proper steppe-land sunbeam, nor as warm as one found baking on desert stones, but acceptable for a brief, post-fish-thievery toilette. He licked a paw meticulously, smoothing a ruffled patch of fur on his flank. The ravens had been particularly impertinent this morning. Noisy, flapping creatures. No finesse.

  This Silted Isle. Curious place. Damp, old magic, and an astonishing variety of fish guts. The Big Stone House hummed. Oh yes, it hummed a very old song. A sleepy song. But with an exquisite potential for a rather loud awakening. Like that other rock-pile, Woodhall. That had been… mildly amusing. This one felt sleepier. More complicated.

  The current crop of two-leggers were an odd bunch. The Tall Young She was the most promising. Like a tightly coiled spring, just waiting for the right prod. He’d enjoyed batting at her neck-toy. She finally gave him an interesting show.

  The Pointy-Eared One’s little game of High Elven had been a diverting interlude. Such a serious face for one who understood so little.

  The Clumsy Leader carried the weight of their silly little quest like a sack of wet sand. So much earnestness. What an exhausting child. As if any of it would matter in a few millennia. The Small Green One though, he was a delightful surprise. A broken chain, yes. And his opinions on the proper consumption of swamp delicacies were refreshing. The others were so boring with their cooked, lifeless fare.

  And these Frog-Speakers, the K’thrall. Oh, they’re right to be worried. Their gods are indeed… napping rather soundly. Perhaps permanently. The Big Shadow doesn't like company, however sleepy. Their damp, squishy world was next on the menu if things kept going this way.

  He stretched again, then, with a sudden, decisive flick of his tail, leaped from the sun-warmed rock. A particularly plump, iridescent marsh-fly buzzed past. Excellent. A mid-morning snack. The philosophical implications of the Tall Young She’s ancestry, the impending doom of the Frog-Speakers’ gods, the tedious machinations of the Big Shadow – all could wait. There were important, immediate matters to attend to. Like the satisfying crunch of a well-caught marsh-fly.

  He stalked his prey with feline patience. The game was always better when one savored the hunt. The path north would be… eventful. Full of interesting new smells, new dangers, and new opportunities for a well-timed nap in an unexpected sunbeam. Or a strategically pilfered fish.

  * * *

  The wind howled a mournful dirge through the narrow defile known as Overwatch Pass, a key route through the foothills of the Dragon’s Tooth Mountains. Captain Lara Vance and her company of fifty grizzled Argrenian regulars had held this vital chokepoint for ten brutal days.

  Below them, the valley seethed with goblins attempting to force the pass. Each dusk brought a renewed assault, each dawn a tally of their own dead and wounded, and a dwindling supply of arrows and quarrels.

  "They’re coming again, Captain!" a young lookout shouted, his voice cracking with fatigue and fear.

  Her face grimy, her armor dented, Lara peered through an arrow slit. Another wave of attackers surged towards their precarious barricades of rock and felled timber. Amongst them, the hulking forms of what looked like heavily armored Orcs, their feral war cries a new addition to the goblin shrieks.

  "Archers, pick your targets!" Lara bellowed, her voice hoarse. "Spearmen, hold the line! For Argren! For the Pass!"

  Arrows flew, spears met charging bodies, swords flashed in the grey morning light. They would hold. They had to hold.

  * * *

  Argrenian hamlets and logging camps that had once dotted the Blackwood’s edges were now smoking ruins, abandoned in haste. Sergeant Borin of Lastwall, now attached to one of Tyrell’s new mobile reconnaissance units, moved like a ghost through the blighted undergrowth.

  His mission was simple: to track the movements of a large goblin warband, bolstered by several Stone-Skin Ogres, that was razing everything in its path, pushing relentlessly southwards.

  Today they had found their chance. The warband made camp in a small, defensible valley, a Stone-Skin stood sentinel while the others rested. Borin and his men, using their intimate knowledge of the forest, had laid an ambush: a deadfall of massive logs, precariously balanced, triggered by a single tripwire.

  As the Stone-Skin sentinel lumbered past, Borin gave the signal. The tripwire snapped, and with a thunderous crash, tons of timber rained down. The ogre roared as the logs smashed into it, sending him sprawling down on the grass, burying him under a cavalcade of dead trees.

  The goblin camp erupted into chaos, spilling out of their hide tents, gathering around the injured ogre. Borin and his men loosed a single volley of arrows into the confused mass and melted into the forest before the enemy could organize a pursuit. It worked like a charm. But as they retreated, scores of goblins poured from their tents amongst the enraged howls of the other Stone-Skins. They had poked the hornet’s nest. The Blackwood was a hunting ground, and they, for all their skill, were increasingly the prey.

  * * *

  The air near the K’thrall Fens reeked of stagnant water and decay. Here, the Argrenian presence had always been tenuous, a few scattered fishing villages and fortified trading posts. Now, even these were threatened.

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  Young Lieutenant Cerius commanded a small detachment of local militia and a handful of regular soldiers tasked with patrolling the ill-defined border. His "fortress" was little more than a palisaded cluster of huts on a muddy rise overlooking a vast, reed-choked waterway.

  Moving with an unnatural stealth through the reeds, camouflaged with mud and swamp vegetation, goblin squads would strike at night, targeting isolated sentry posts. And sometimes, from the deeper swamp, came things even worse: hulking, amphibious horrors that rose from the murky depths, their eyes glowing with a gaseous luminescence, their claws capable of tearing through timber.

  Lieutenant Cerius, his youthful face etched with a weariness far beyond his years, stood on his rickety watchtower, peering into the treacherous landscape. He had lost five men last night to silent, unseen attackers that had dragged them screaming into the reeds. His remaining men were terrified, their morale crumbling. He had sent ravens to Shellwater Bridge, to Alkaer, pleading for reinforcements, for supplies, for any sign that they had not been forgotten. But his only company tonight would be the fear of what lay beyond the next sunset.

  * * *

  The sun had barely graced the misty waters of the Great Swamp Mouth when the K’thrall delegation returned to the Silted Isle. Silent reed skiffs glided out of the morning haze like phantoms, heralded only by the soft dip of paddles and the occasional croak.

  The lead Spawning-Speaker, its mottled skin patterns shifting in the pale light, conveyed their council’s decision. "The Xy’tharr Spawning-Council has considered your words, Dry-Skins. The disturbances in the deep waters… the weakening of the Old Powers… these are matters of grave concern to all who breathe the sacred silt."

  A pause, filled only by the lapping of water against the pier and the distant cry of a marsh bird.

  "The Council invites your chosen representatives to Xy’tharr-Tol, our Sunken City. To speak before the full circle of Spawning-Speakers. To share what knowledge you possess. And to hear what wisdom the Deep Pools may offer. The Tall-One who carries the Mountain-Shapers’ song… the Star-Eyed One whose voice echoes the First Forests… and the Old Woman who holds the Earth’s Key… they, especially, are bidden to attend."

  "We are honored by your invitation, Honored Speaker," Ronigren replied, relief and anticipation playing competing beats in his chest. "We accept."

  * * *

  The journey into the K’thrall Fens was like entering another world for Sabine. They left The Mudskipper behind, transferring to several shallow-draft K’thrall skiffs poled by taciturn, powerful amphibians, through a labyrinth of narrow winding waterways appearing as curtain after curtain of reeds parted before them. The scent of damp earth, rotting blossoms, and a faint sulfurous tang grew stronger. Towering reed beds taller than a man on horseback pressed in on either side, their feathery tops filtering the timid light of the sky. Luminous fungi clung to gnarled roots of slouching swamp trees, casting a phosphorescent glow on the murky water. Eerie sounds surrounded them: the deep croaks of bullfrogs the size of hounds, trilling calls of jewel-birds, the sudden splash of creatures large and unseen moving beneath the surface.

  Sabine’s bandaged arm still ached, but a new, subtle energy thrummed tentatively beneath her skin. Her clothes felt tighter across the shoulders, her boots a little snugger, just like when, years back, after outgrowing a pair after another, her dad huffed in exasperation when even his old boots became too tight. She smiled faintly, forcing down her alarm at the possibility she was still not done growing, that she would still grow into less and less of a human, Or more? Gregan looked just as uncomfortable, swatting at biting insects and eyeing the torbid water with undisguised suspicion, while Snik looked relaxed and lost in thought.

  After an eternity of gliding through the silent, oppressive beauty of the Fens, the waterways began to widen, converging on a vast, subterranean river that flowed into a colossal cavern mouth, half-submerged at the base of a towering, moss-covered bluff. Their amphibian guides poled the skiffs into the echoing darkness.

  Xy’tharr-Tol. Even her father seemed at a loss for words.

  The Sunken City was not built so much as grown from the fabric of the vast cavern system. Buildings of mud, reed, and polished river stone flowed around colossal natural pillars, connected by swaying bridges of woven vines and glowing fungal pathways. Bioluminescent mosses and crystal-like formations embedded in the cavern walls cast an ethereal glow over everything, illuminating vast common pools where hundreds of K’thrall moved with grace, their skin patterns gleaming in the dim light. The air was warm, humid, and filled with the gentle sound of dripping water and the muffled rush of underground waterfalls.

  They led them to a series of interconnected, partially submerged grottoes, guest lodgings carved from water-worn stone and adorned with intricate patterns of glowing moss. Each grotto featured raised dry platforms of polished bog-wood for sleeping, but the main living area was a series of waist-high pools of warm mineral-rich water, heated by unseen geothermal vents. The air was thick with steam, the scent of sulfur, and an aroma of damp earth and aquatic plants.

  "This is… an honor," the scribe from Shellwater stammered, looking uncomfortable as he tried to maintain his composure while water lapped around his knees.

  "Most… invigorating," Artholan declared, though his expression suggested he found it anything but.

  Before any formal audience with the Spawning-Council, they were asked to partake in the "Ritual of Shared Waters." This involved a circuit of several communal pools, alternating between cold subterranean springs and near-scalding geothermal baths; a refreshment bar where their guides, with many enthusiastic clicks and whistles, would stuff them with K’thrall delicacies and potent libations after each circuit. Once the novelty of her surroundings started to wane, Sabine’s stomach groaned in anticipation. She could definitely use a bowl or two of the local fish stew.

  Gregan was game, barging through the hot and cold pools, surely upsetting the K’thralls he splashed on the way to the bar. He downed the first offering – a small, translucent cup filled with a fiery, eye-wateringly strong liquor that reeked of fermented swamp gas with a hearty "Hah! Not bad, for frog-brew!" He then eyed the accompaniment: a quivering gelatinous orb the size of his thumb, served on a leaf.

  "And what, pray tell, is this little beauty?" he asked, poking it tentatively.

  The interpreter conferred with a K’thrall guide. "Deep-Silt Jelly-Egg," came the translation. "Very life-giving. Very potent."

  Gregan popped it into his mouth. His eyes widened, then he managed a choked, "Goes down… like a greased bog-toad… but kicks like a mule with its tail on fire!" He then excused himself to a secluded corner, where he audibly retched.

  Sabine, watching his predicament, politely declined the jelly egg, much to the disappointment of their hosts and her murderously groaning stomach. Snik devoured his with gusto, making appreciative clicking sounds that made her even more queasy.

  Her father managed to compliment the "unique textural experience" of a dried, crunchy water beetle the size of his palm, while surreptitiously dropping most of it in the water, shooting Sabine a goofy conspiratorial smile.

  Ronigren the brave forced himself to sample a sliver of "Sun-Cured Marsh-Slug Jerky." It was, he coughed, “an acquired taste.” A fearless leader indeed.

  By the time their guides deemed them sufficiently "cleansed and welcomed," Sabine was water-logged, borderline nauseous, and grateful that this aspect of amphibian hospitality was over.