The swamp inhales. A slow drag of rot through clenched teeth.

  My wooden leg sinks.

  Silence presses against my eardrums. It waits for my mind to settle. It waits for the guilt to catch up.

  I will save them.

  My jaw aches. The stress makes the saliva in my mouth taste metallic.

  I will kill him.

  I grind my teeth. Hard. Enamel snaps at the back of my mouth. A shard of tooth crumbles, filling my mouth with bone-grit. The taste of the poker I buried.

  Evangeline will love me again.

  I bite down on my lip until the skin breaks. Blood floods my tongue. I mix the blood with the grit and the spit. Then I swallow.

  It burns going down, a hot coal in a freezing belly.

  I hold the pain. I wrap it around the image of her face. Not the blank one she wore in the doorway. The other one. The smile she gave me when the hearthstone was set.

  I will burn this whole swamp down just to see her smile at me one more time.

  She will have to smile. She will have no choice.

  Stop pretending. You are not the hero. You are the cage. And the door is unlatched.

  My wooden leg gives way. I lurch forward, slamming into a tree. The impact jars the breath from my chest.

  Sweat breaks out on my forehead. Cold, clammy, and instantly chilling in the wind.

  I can't feel my wooden leg. I can't feel my real leg. I drag myself forward, a hollow structure of ice moving through the muck.

  A sound cuts the fog. Metal on metal. The rattle of chains.

  Then, a sob. Wet and broken.

  Underneath it all, a hum.

  Rory.

  He is humming a tune I know, but the notes are warped by the cold. He is trying to soothe them. To keep himself human in this place that only wants meat.

  I flatten myself against a tree. I watch the line of prisoners stumble. Chains clank. Grace weeps.

  I create a rule. Move only when the chains rattle. Move only when they sob. I will use the sound of their misery to cover my own.

  I try to sync my step with Rory's hum.

  A mistake.

  My wooden leg punctures a pocket of gas. It releases with a wet, hollow burp.

  Silence slams down. The chains go still.

  The rear Collector spins. He knows something is wrong. He tilts his head, listening to the rot.

  I freeze. My leg is pinned. If I pull, the suction will pop like a cork.

  I lock my muscles. The cold is a living thing, eating its way up the wood of my leg.

  The Collector stares at my tree. He is looking right at me.

  A swamp-leech detaches from the bark. It slides onto my hand, leaving a trail of slime. It latches onto my knuckle. I feel the sharp bite. Then the pull.

  I watch it bloat. I watch my blood fill its transparent gut. I do not swat it. I let it feed.

  I lock my knees. Shaking.

  The Collectors stop five paces away. I can smell the oil on their armour.

  "Why ten?" one grunts. "Beds are full."

  The Brute laughs. It sounds like stones shifting underwater. "The boss says the god is sleeping."

  A pause. Boots squelch.

  "Needs a loud noise to wake it up. Ten screams are louder than one. He figures if we hurt enough of its pets, it might come out to play."

  The word rattles inside my skull. God.

  My thumb brushes my palm.

  I lift my hand. I stare at the spot where the poison dissolved the eye. The skin shines. Smooth. White. Alien.

  I remember Derrick. Standing in the dark when I was Nora. He was glowing like a damn moon.

  The truth hits me. Hard. The man glowing in the dark wasn't Derrick. It was the thing wearing him. It was me.

  I'm not a Vessel. I'm the spark. I'm the whole damn fire.

  I am a sleeping god.

  The realisation is a shot of adrenaline. It floods my chest, hot and violent. For a second, the swamp isn't a trap. It's my kingdom. I forget the cold. I forget the Collectors. I feel a laugh bubbling up in my throat, a wild, stupid sound that wants to tear out of me.

  I lean away from the tree, my balance shifting, ready to stride out and take what is mine.

  Plap.

  A wet, heavy sound against my boot.

  I freeze. The laugh dies in my throat.

  I look down. The leech. It has fallen from my hand. A blood-filled ball on the leather of my boot. It rolls off and lands in the mud.

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  The Brute turns his head. Sharp. "Did you hear that?"

  My godhood vanishes. I am just a man with one leg hiding behind a tree again.

  I hold my breath until my lungs burn. The Brute loses interest. He turns back to the line, and my eyes go with him.

  Grace walks beside Billy. Her hand smooths his damp collar.

  "Pull your hood up, love. You'll catch a chill."

  She speaks to him as if they are walking to the market. As if the manacles on his wrists are just heavy mittens against the cold.

  Billy ignores her. His eyes are fixed on the Collector ahead. He works his jaw, gathering saliva. He spits. It lands on the Collector's boot. A small, white star on the black leather.

  The Collector stops. He turns. His gauntlet rises.

  Billy doesn't flinch. He works his jaw again. Another glob of saliva gathers on his lip.

  Grace sees it coming. Her eyes go wide. She reacts. Not with a word. With her body.

  She throws herself on Billy. They hit the mud. She straddles his chest, her weight pinning him. Her palm covers his mouth and nose. He struggles, his eyes bulging above her hand. She grinds his face into the slush.

  He fights. He kicks.

  "Don't," Grace hisses. She presses harder, until his thrashing turns to a weak, frantic twitch. Until the only sound is the wet suck of the mud around his face.

  Grace speaks to the earth. "Don't you dare be brave. Brave boys die. You be quiet. You be small. You survive."

  Maud watches, smiling. "That's right, dear. Squeeze the darkness out of him. We must be clean for the city."

  Grace flinches. She looks at Maud, then at her own hands pressing Billy's face into the filth.

  The Collector's shadow falls over them. Grace looks up. She offers a smile. Terrified. Apologetic.

  He reaches down and pats her head. A master praising a well-trained hound.

  I watch from the tree. My hand tightens on my knife until the wood creaks. I shift my weight, ready to move.

  Interfere now and they all die.

  "Rory." Gwendolyn's voice is sharp. "Is my collar straight? First impressions are vital."

  Rory looks at her. Mud streaks her face like war paint. He looks away.

  "Posture, Rory," she scolds. "You look like cattle. Stand tall."

  Rory keeps his head down.

  Gwendolyn turns to the Collector dragging him. "Excuse me. You're chafing his wrists. Damaged goods are worthless. Adjust the manacle."

  She waits for the nod of approval.

  "Maybe ease up on them," Rory says. "They look like they skipped their morning brew." He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a dry cough. He glances at the Collector, terror plain in his eyes.

  Gwendolyn slaps Rory's arm. "Quiet, fool. Someone has to maintain standards."

  She turns to Reginald, who is stumbling. "Reginald, your face."

  She reaches out, scrubbing mud from his cheek with a rough hand. "It's sliding. You look like a melted candle."

  Reginald coughs. A weak, wet sound. "Gwen, stop…"

  "I will not stop! We are the best of Greyhollow." She adjusts his collar, ignoring the chain choking him. "Act like it. Ugly things get discarded."

  Gwendolyn raises a hand to the Brute. The chains go quiet.

  The silence is sudden. Heavy.

  I am caught mid-step. I hold the pose. The angle is wrong. The wood of my leg gives a high, thin creak under the pressure.

  A Collector's head snaps toward me.

  I drive my fingers into the rot-slick bark. Nails dig deep. I cling to the tree, every ounce of weight pressed against it to stop the creak.

  The creak is stifled. Only just.

  "Sir," Gwendolyn calls out, her voice bright. "A moment of your time? Regarding presentation."

  The Brute turns. "What?"

  "The line," she says, tracing the air. "It flows beautifully until... him." She glares at Reginald. "He's soiled himself. He's leaking fluids. It's simply distasteful. It insults the dignity of the occasion."

  Reginald reaches for her. "But I'm your friend. I'm your oldest friend."

  The Brute grunts. "He walks. That's enough."

  "Is it?" She scoffs. "He lumbers. He drools. He lowers the prestige of the entire offering. Cut him loose. The swamp will eat the mess, and we will arrive pristine."

  The Brute laughs. "You're a cold one, Grandma."

  Reginald sways. Then he falls. A slow, inevitable crumble into the muck.

  She gestures to him. "You see?"

  Peter and Anna stare. Their faces sink, identical, like they've opened the oven to a collapsed loaf.

  Peter squats. The chain between his wrists clinks as he reaches out. His hands are thick with mud when he presses his thumb into Reginald's calf.

  He holds it there.

  Watches.

  The skin sinks. It holds the shape of his thumb.

  "No spring," Peter mutters. He wipes sweat from his brow with his shoulder, his hands too bound to reach. "Elasticity's gone. He's stale."

  Anna nods. "He's been out too long. The structure's failing."

  Reginald reaches for them. "Please. Help."

  Peter doesn't look at his face. He pinches a fold of Reginald's loose, doughy skin between two fingers and pulls. It stretches. It sags.

  "We can't present him like this," Peter says.

  "Fold him," Anna says. Her eyes are empty. "If we compress him, he might hold."

  They haul Reginald upright.

  He screams when they jam his arms tight against his ribs. They squeeze. They force his soft body into a rigid, unnatural posture. Bones crack. Breath wheezes.

  They hold him there.

  Gwendolyn does not turn when the bones crack behind her. She stares into the black water, smoothing her hair with shaking fingers.

  "I must look perfect."

  Ursula drags herself alongside Gwendolyn. Her broken legs trail through the muck, carving shallow trenches in the swamp.

  She lifts a hand to her mouth. Her pale, segmented tongue worms forward, pulsing. It rasps against her fingers, coating them in thick black bile that hisses faintly as it touches the cold air.

  She presses her fingers to Gwendolyn's forehead. The filth snakes across her skin, wet and ropy.

  Gwendolyn goes still.

  "There…" Ursula croaks. "Now... you... glow."

  Gwendolyn raises her hand. Touches the filth. It stretches between her fingers, clinging, crawling, unwilling to let go.

  She screams, sharp and raw, splitting the stillness of the swamp.

  Ursula's laughter is wet. It bubbles up from her ruin.

  Gwendolyn jerks away. "You are disgusting!"

  A Collector backhands Gwendolyn. She clutches her jaw, her eyes watering. She stares at Ursula, unable to look away from the rot.

  Rory shakes his head. "Don't shout at her, Gwen. She's just lonely." He reaches out with his sleeve. He wipes Ursula's chin. Gentle. Like he's cleaning a child's face.

  I watch from the tree. My throat closes around the guilt. I sent the kindest man I know to nursemaid a nightmare.

  Ursula's head tilts. She sniffs. Her attention slides into the trees. Into me.

  Our eyes lock. I grip my knife.

  I have been caught.

  The hole in Ursula's face widens. It grins.

  She raises a rotting finger to her lips. "Shhh..."

  The line moves. Ursula crawls, her head twisted back. Watching me. Guiding me.

  Then, the line snaps still. The chain vibrates.

  I part the reeds with trembling fingers.

  Ward stands there. Whole. The head sits perfectly on his shoulders. He is looking right at me. His eyes are kind. Too kind.

  "It's alright, lad," he says. "You did what you had to. Someone had to swing the hammer."

  He offers me the handle. He wants me to take it. To be him.

  I want to hold it. I want to be forgiven.

  I reach out.

  My hand passes through him. The image shears apart. The forgiving smile is replaced by the raw, red stump of a neck, impaled on a root.

  The Brute kicks the corpse. "Stuck," he grunts. He points at Maud. "Unsnag him, Grandma."

  Maud kneels in the mud.

  The root is buried deep in the meat of his neck.

  "Hold still, dear," she mutters.

  Her knuckles vanish into the wet red dark. Her fingers probe blindly inside. I hear the wet suction as she separates the torn windpipe from the root.

  Squelch. The root pops free. A spray of blood coats her hands.

  She wipes them on his blood-soaked tunic. Then she pauses. She sees the torn skin flapping on his chest.

  Gwendolyn gags into her sleeve. "Have some dignity. Cover it."

  "Just a moment, Ward. Your tie is crooked." Maud smooths the dead flesh, arranging it like silk.

  Billy stares at the stump, shaking. Grace pulls him close, smothering his sob against her chest.

  A Collector yanks the chain. "Move."

  The line jerks forward.

  Maud keeps pace with the corpse. "Wake up, Ward." She pats his shoulder as he is dragged. "You'll miss the view! Look at the lights! The Golden City!"

  Billy stares at her. His face is twisted. "He's dead! His head's gone, you—"

  Grace slams her hand over Billy's mouth. "Quiet! Let her dream. It's all she has."

  Maud doesn't hear them. She points a trembling finger toward the horizon. A black spike splits the grey sky. "Look, Ward! The tower! It shines so bright!"

  The trees thin. Iron pipes replace the roots.

  The compound sprawls ahead, a hulking mass of iron and smoke. The sound of the pumps is a heartbeat under the ground.

  Rory bows his head. He closes his eyes against the sight.

  Gwendolyn traces the lines of the pipes in the air. "Architecture," she says. "Solid. Permanent. We are building something lasting."

  Maud squints at the gate of weeping iron. "Ward? Where are the lights? This isn't the Golden City."

  I am here.

  Good. Let yourself in.

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