Masillius stirred. Sabine, who had barely left his side, let out a small, choked cry of relief as his eyelids fluttered. He groaned, a low, animal sound of distress, and his eyes, when they finally focused, were wide and vacant, lost in an inner landscape of unspeakable horror.

  "Sabine…?" he croaked, his voice raspy, unfamiliar. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers brushing her arm as if to confirm her reality. "The vines… the darkness… you were so small…"

  "I’m here, Father," Sabine choked with unshed tears. She squeezed his hand tightly. "It was a dream, just a terrible dream. You’re safe now."

  But the terror in his eyes did not recede. He looked around the dim, swampy islet, at the concerned faces of their companions, with a bewildered, childlike fear. Sabine’s unwavering rock had dissolved, leaving behind a fragile, haunted man. Myanaa offered him a calming herbal infusion and he drank it slowly, still holding a distant look in his eyes, a visible shadow lingered upon his soul.

  Gregan awoke with a roar, lashing out, his eyes blazing with terror and a berserker’s fury. "Get away from me, you cheating bastards!" he bellowed, his voice raw. "My honor… you won’t take my honor!" It took both Ronigren and Finn to restrain him.

  "Gregan! Corporal! It’s us! You’re safe!" Ronigren said firmly, trying to cut through the haze of the corporal’s nightmare.

  After a few wild thrashes, Gregan’s struggles subsided. The fury in his eyes faded, replaced by a shamefaced confusion. He looked at his comrades, at the concern on their faces, and slumped back, broad shoulders trembling, his face ashen. "Silla…" he muttered in a broken whisper. "The dice… they were all screaming…"

  He wouldn't meet their eyes. He tried to brush off their questions with a weak, unconvincing bluster. "Just like a… a bad turn with the ale, Sir Knight. Too much of that K’thrall fire-water, eh?"

  As the sun reached its meager zenith in the perpetually overcast sky of the Sorrow Marshes, a welcome sound broke the stillness. The sharp caw of a raven. One of Myanaa’s messengers circled overhead, then landed gracefully on her outstretched arm.

  Myanaa listened intently, her expression lightened. "Hope," she said, her voice carrying a new, fragile strength. "It brings word of… dryer land. Ahead. Perhaps a day’s journey, if the channels are clear. A ridge of stone and gnarled pines, rising from the mire. A place where the earth breathes a little easier."

  Dryer land. It sounded like paradise. Solid ground beneath their feet, air that didn’t reek of decay.

  Ronigren looked at his companions—wounded, shaken, haunted by the night’s horrors. But alive. And there was, however distant, a glimmer of a path forward. The Sorrow Marshes had tested them, stripped them down. But they had not broken. They had, perhaps, even grown stronger.

  The journey was far from over. The enemy still loomed, vast and terrible. But for now, there was the promise of a distant haven, and a small, defiant ember of hope that refused to be extinguished.

  * * *

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  After another grueling day poling through the soul-sucking labyrinth of the Sorrow Marshes, the terrain began to subtly shift. The stagnant, blackish water gave way to shallower, clearer channels. The skeletal leafless trees were interspersed with hardy pines and gnarled oaks clinging to rising banks of stone and packed earth. The air lost some of its cloying grip, carrying instead the faint resinous scent of pine.

  Late in the afternoon, as the perpetually overcast sky bled into a bruised twilight, Finn, scanning the horizon from the prow of their lead skiff, pointed. "Smoke," he said, his voice low. "And a structure. Northwest, half a league."

  As they drew closer, navigating a narrow, winding tributary that led towards higher ground, the structure resolved itself into a large woodlogger’s cabin, nestled at the edge of a pine forest. A welcome sight after the endless, desolate expanse of the K’Tahn’Corr.

  "No fresh cuttings," Finn observed, his gaze sweeping the surrounding trees. "The woodpile is old, weathered. Been months since anyone worked this area. And the vegetable patch…" he gestured towards a nearby, overgrown plot, "…choked with weeds." Yet, he added, his brow furrowing, "There’s movement within. Faint light. And the smoke… it’s from a poorly banked fire, too much for just one or two occupants."

  A sense of unease settled over Ronigren. It smelled like trouble. "We approach with caution," he ordered. "Finn, Xylia-Kai, scout ahead. The rest of us, be ready."

  The trackers melted into the twilight shadows, returning soon later with troubling news. "Goblins," Finn reported succinctly. "At least a dozen. They’ve made a sty of the place. Sentries posted, but they’re lax. Seem more interested in whatever they’re cooking inside."

  "Likely a raiding party, cut off from the main horde, or a group that has made this their new den” Xylia-Kai added, her golden eyes glinting with a cold anger.

  There was no question of bypassing it. The cabin lay on the path towards the firmer ground they so desperately sought, and leaving a goblin nest at their backs was unthinkable. Besides, the thought of fresh water from the cabin’s well, perhaps even some edible supplies, was a potent lure for the exhausted, half-starved party. He found his hand creeping towards his sword, an enticing tension begging to be released.

  Ronigren, Gregan, and Finn burst through the main door. Goblins, startled from their squalid meal, shrieked and charged, short blades flashing in the dim light. Ronigren’s sword found soft flesh with a thrust, and the foul smell of torn bowels hit him as he pulled the weapon free. Gregan’s axe swept wide in a horizontal slash even as a goblin was turning, cleaving his head in two above the lower jaw. Finn’s dagger dipped low and found the soft throat of a lunging foe. Outside, Artholan unleashed bolts of crackling energy that sent fleeing goblins sprawling while Ruthiel moved like a phantom, their slender blade a silver whisper, each thrust a precise execution, forever silencing the shrieks of the terrified creatures.

  An escaping goblin bolted out the door towards Sabine, and she drew her hand-axe high with a gasp. She faced down the snarling creature, its features so disturbingly similar to Snik’s—

  The goblin lunged, jagged knife slashing wildly. Masillius threw himself in front of her, his own short sword coming up to parry. The goblin’s blade skittered off Masillius’s sword but gashed him deeply across the forearm.

  "Father!" Sabine screamed, a fresh surge of fury and fear coursing through her. She brought her axe down with all her strength in a single, devastating blow. As the force of the impact reverberated through her arm, the eyes of the creature locked in hers: rage, surprise, horror, then the light within faded. Sabine stood in place as the dying goblin crumpled to the floor, her axe buried deep, lodged in his lower belly, having carved its way through the smashed collarbone. She looked at that life spark dimming and dying at her hand, and a trembling wave of nausea flared upward from her stomach to the base of her jaw.

  The cabin was a charnel house, its floor slick with blood. Over a dozen goblins lay dead. Masillius clutched his bleeding arm, his face pale with pain, a small cooking knife protruding from his leg.

  Snik’s trembled with a vacant expression, as his companions slaughtered his kin.

  Sabine, heart thundering, gasping for air, rushed to her father’s side. Myanaa was already there, her face grim as she examined the deep, bleeding gash.