The wind over the Marshlands was a thing alive—howling low through the black reeds, slipping cold fingers through the fog, dragging it like torn silk across the water's skin. Night had fallen without warning. One moment the horizon was bruised gold; the next, the sun vanished as if swallowed whole. In that sudden dark, the marsh grew strange and watchful. Every ripple, every croak, every rustle carried a warning.
Liora adjusted the shawl over her shoulders and pressed on. The path beneath her boots was little more than a memory—a sunken trail that curved between half-submerged stones, pocked with puddles that mirrored a restless sky. She kept her lantern close to her chest, its trembling light revealing only a few paces ahead. Her breath clouded the air, and she muttered a curse under her breath.
"Of all nights…" she whispered. The festival in the village had delayed her. She'd promised to return before moonrise, but her father's stubborn leg had worsened, and she'd needed to fetch the herbal poultices from Mira's hut. Now she was alone in the marsh after dark, exactly what every story warned against.
Somewhere to her left, water gurgled—a slow, thick sound like something exhaling through mud. She stopped. Listened. Only the wind answered, bending the reeds in a shivering chorus.
"Just a bog turtle," she told herself. Her voice sounded too loud, even to her own ears.
She resumed walking, careful to keep to the stones. The lantern's light threw long shadows of the reeds, stretching like claws. Liora had grown up near these wetlands. She knew their dangers: the sudden sinkholes, the slick stones, the deceptive paths. But there was something else here tonight, a heaviness in the air, a silence between gusts that raised the hair on the back of her neck.
She was halfway across when she heard it—a low, rhythmic sound, like something dragging through the mud behind her. She froze. The lantern light flickered.
The sound stopped too.
Her heart thundered. Slowly, she turned.
Nothing. Only the fog and the endless, whispering reeds.
She took a step forward.
The sound resumed. Closer this time.
Not bog turtles. Not the wind. This was heavier, deliberate.
Her instinct screamed. She lifted the lantern higher, and the light caught movement—a ripple in the fog, a suggestion of a massive shape slipping between the reeds. She could not see its outline clearly, but she could feel it watching her.
Liora did not run. Running in the marsh at night was suicide. Instead, she kept her pace steady, forcing herself to breathe slowly, counting her steps as her grandmother had taught her. One… two… three… She reached for the knife tucked in her belt. The blade was short, but well-kept.
Then the shape emerged.
It came from the fog like a shadow unpeeling itself. At first she thought it might be a stag—tall, antlered—but then the lantern caught its eyes. Yellow. Wide. Wrong. A beast, massive and lean, fur matted with swamp water, limbs too long, shoulders arched like some primeval hunter. Its breath misted in the cold air. The reeds bent as it moved, silent and sure.
Liora's throat tightened. Her grandmother's stories came rushing back—the ones about the Marsh Beast, the shape-changer that prowled the wetlands at night, half-animal, half-human, hungering for the warmth of those who dared to wander alone.
But those were stories.
Weren't they?
The beast tilted its head, studying her with unsettling intelligence. She tightened her grip on the knife.
"I see you," she whispered. She wasn't sure why she said it, only that it felt right—like speaking to something that understood language but not fear.
The beast stepped closer, and the ground trembled beneath its weight. Its claws clicked against the stones. Liora backed away, slow and measured.
Then, from somewhere far off, a bell tolled. Three slow peals, echoing across the marsh. Midnight.
The beast froze. Its ears flicked toward the sound. For a heartbeat, its shape seemed to ripple, as if the fog itself flowed through it. Its body blurred—not like a trick of light, but like flesh shifting. A woman's outline flickered in the lantern glow, overlapping the monstrous frame. Pale face, long tangled hair, eyes like dying embers. Then the beast-shape returned, sharper than before.
Liora's breath caught. She had seen it. The shape of the woman within the beast.
It roared then—a sound that shattered the marsh's stillness. Birds exploded from the reeds. The lantern flickered violently, and Liora's instincts overrode caution. She ran.
Her boots splashed through puddles, slipped on slick stones. The path twisted unpredictably, every shadow a threat. Behind her, the beast gave chase. Its footfalls were shockingly fast, closing the distance in heartbeats. She veered toward a familiar marker—a cluster of black stones rising like knuckles from the ground. Her grandmother had always said the stones marked safe passage, laid by the first settlers.
She leapt onto the first stone, then the second. Her ankle twisted painfully, but she didn't stop. The beast roared again, closer now. She could feel its breath on the back of her neck.
Then—she slipped.
The lantern flew from her hand and smashed against the rocks. Darkness consumed her. Cold marsh water surged up as she fell into a shallow sinkhole. Mud closed around her like hands.
She kicked, gasping, floundering as the water dragged her down. Above, the beast's shadow loomed.
And then—another roar split the night. Not the beast's.
A flare of blue light illuminated the marsh. For an instant, the world froze in crystalline clarity: the reeds swaying like glass, the water reflecting starlight, the beast recoiling. A figure stood on the stone path ahead, cloaked and hooded, holding aloft a staff wreathed in faintly glowing runes.
"Back," the stranger commanded. Their voice rang like iron on stone.
The beast snarled, its shape rippling again between woman and monster. But it stepped back.
The stranger advanced, runes on the staff pulsing. With each step, the fog seemed to peel away. The beast growled low, then turned and vanished into the reeds, swallowed by the dark.
Silence.
Liora coughed, dragging herself out of the sinkhole. Mud clung to her like a second skin. The stranger knelt beside her, offering a gloved hand.
"You shouldn't be out here at night," they said.
Liora hesitated, then accepted the hand. The grip was firm, warm. As the stranger pulled her up, their hood slipped slightly, revealing a glimpse of sharp features, pale skin, and eyes that gleamed faintly with unnatural light.
"I… I saw it," Liora whispered, shivering. "The Beast. And… a woman. Inside it."
The stranger's expression hardened. "Then the stories were true," they murmured. "It has returned."
Liora stared at them. "What do you mean?"
The stranger glanced into the reeds where the beast had disappeared. "There's no time now. Come. You'll freeze if you stay here."
She wanted answers, but her legs were numb and her lungs burned. She followed as the stranger led her along the stone path, their glowing staff lighting the way. The fog shifted uneasily around them, like something alive that disliked the light.
As they neared the edge of the marsh, Liora mustered her courage. "Who are you?"
The stranger didn't look back. "Someone who's been hunting that creature for a very long time."
They reached firm ground at last—the fields beyond the marsh, silvered by moonlight. Liora's village lights twinkled in the distance, a scattering of gold against the dark hills. Relief crashed over her like a wave.
But the stranger stopped. "You saw the woman inside it," they said. "Describe her."
Liora swallowed. "She was pale. Hair like wet straw. Eyes… burning, but not like a beast's. Like someone trapped."
The stranger's jaw tightened. "Then it's worse than I thought."
Liora frowned. "What do you mean?"
"That thing is not just a beast," the stranger said. "It's a binding. A curse that wears human flesh as its shell. And the woman you saw—it's her shape the beast took. Which means…" They looked toward the marsh. "It's chosen a new host."
A chill unlike the marsh's cold crept down Liora's spine. "Host?"
"Go home," the stranger said firmly. "Lock your doors. Tell no one what you saw tonight."
Liora wanted to protest, to demand answers—but something in the stranger's voice brooked no argument. She nodded.
As she turned toward the village path, she looked back once. The stranger stood at the marsh's edge, runed staff raised slightly, watching the fog with the wary poise of a hunter. The wind shifted, carrying a sound that made her blood run cold—a distant, mournful howl.
Later, alone in her room, wrapped in blankets and staring at the flickering hearth, Liora replayed the moment when the beast's shape had shifted. The woman's face within it haunted her. There had been something in those eyes—not malice, but a plea. As if the creature wanted her to see.
Outside, the howl came again. Closer.
Liora blew out her lamp.
Darkness settled over the house.
And in that darkness, she felt it again—the sense of being watched.