Varig walked beside Vitor between the wooden stilts of the village market. The sun was nothing but a grey smear behind heavy clouds, unable to pierce the foul vapor rising from the mud. The smell of dried fish mixed with the sweat of people shoving each other for a handful of salt or flour. Under their feet, the rotten planks creaked with every step, threatening to give way under the crowd's weight. Varig's stomach hurt — a constant hunger fed by broken sleep and bitter roots — but feeling his father's shoulder against his own made the weight of the world feel bearable.

  A woman stumbled, almost dropping her basket of wilted fish. Without breaking stride, Vitor caught her by the elbow and, in the same motion, straightened Varig's tunic. The warmth of that touch soaked through the damp fabric, an anchor in the chaos. They didn't need words; the touch said that as long as they were together, the swamp hadn't won yet.

  Further ahead, an old woman with few teeth held out a hard, moldy piece of bread. Vitor paid with the few coins they had, broke the piece in half with his calloused hands, and gave the bigger half to his son. The taste was sour and earthy, but seeing the tired smile on the old woman's wrinkled face was worth more than any feast. That was peace — filthy, brief, rare peace, torn from the mud by force.

  The market pulsed with silent hostility. Children cried between adults' legs, men with blackened nails exchanged suspicious glances, and selfishness was the only currency anyone accepted. Everything there was heavy. But his father's arm over his shoulders made Varig believe they could defy anything. When they reached a clearing between the stilts, the boy looked up. A thin thread of trust, fragile and dangerous, warmed his chest. He smiled, tucking that moment away like a secret, not knowing fate had already closed the circle.

  Miles away, the swamp fell silent. The air stopped moving, and even the dark water seemed hesitant to ripple. No creature dared make a sound.

  They emerged from the mist like steel specters.

  The elves were too tall, too thin. Their black armor gleamed with a sickly shine that repelled the filth, as if the mud itself was disgusted to touch them. They didn't walk on stilts; they glided with an elegance that insulted the rot around them. Curved bows, taut strings, eyes that never blinked. They were organized death, come to purify the chaos.

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  Beside them, a human scout struggled to keep pace. Sweat ran down his face, staining the leather collar while he avoided looking at the beings next to him. He was a trembling shadow among elite predators, a traitor whose heart beat too loud in the silence of the ambush.

  Atop a small rise, the leader stopped. Dark gloves held the bow as he surveyed the village. To him, Vitor, Varig, and the others weren't people; they were noise, imperfections in the landscape that needed erasing. He raised his hand. The snap of the bowstring being released was the only warning.

  The bread was still in Varig's mouth when the whistle cut the air. A dry crack of splintering wood, and the moldy taste was replaced by the salt of a sudden jolt. The piece of bread fell, disappearing into the mud.

  The neighbor next to him dropped. A black arrow went straight through his neck. No scream, just a wet gurgle and an empty stare that froze Varig's blood. The smell of iron rose quickly. The ground shook under panicked feet. The world was ending.

  "Varig! Now!" Vitor's shout no longer held tenderness. It was pure instinct.

  With brute force he yanked his son off the ground, crushing him against his chest as he ran. Varig curled close, feeling his father's frantic heartbeat. Fire began licking the thatch roofs, painting everything infernal orange. Elven arrows were rays of darkness that reaped lives before bodies even felt the pain. The market turned into a slaughterhouse of smoke and splintered wood.

  Vitor leaped over platforms, dodging falling bodies. His eyes scanned the ground until he found a rotten trapdoor under a pile of soaked fishing nets. The stench of rotten fish and stagnant water rose as he ripped the wooden door open with a crash.

  "Get in there, son! Don't come out for anything!"

  Vitor's face was smeared with someone else's blood and sweat. He shoved Varig into the hole. Ice-cold water surged up the boy's legs, the cold cutting like a razor. Before Varig could say a word, the trapdoor slammed shut over his head.

  Total darkness. The sound of fire and screams was muffled, replaced by the rhythmic plop-plop of dripping water and the light, precise footsteps walking directly overhead. Varig stayed motionless, submerged to the waist, biting his lips to keep from screaming. The silence that followed was the heaviest sound he'd ever heard.