The border between Gloamspire and Murkmire Dominion was marked not by twilight curtains or dimensional membranes, but by smell.
The light-touched air of Gloamspire—clean, electric, sharp—gave way gradually to something thick and wet and ancient. It smelled of rotting vegetation and stagnant water, of things that had died long ago and refused to finish decaying. By the time Corvin, Lyrienne, and Mirethorn reached the actual border, the scent had become so pervasive that breathing felt like drinking.
"I'm going to hate this place," Lyrienne said, covering her nose with a cloth. "I already hate this place, and we haven't even crossed over yet."
They stood at the edge of a massive cypress forest where the trees grew directly out of black water. Spanish moss hung like funeral shrouds, and somewhere in the distance, bells tolled—slow, mournful, with no discernible source.
"The Ghost Bells," Mirethorn said. "The drowned ring them. Warning the living away. Or calling them closer. Depends on who you ask."
"Encouraging," Corvin muttered.
They'd traveled for two days from Gloamspire, taking the merchant roads that skirted the realm borders. The journey had been tense—constantly watching for bounty hunters, for the shadow-knight Kaelith had warned them about, for any sign they were being followed. But so far, they'd been lucky.
Or maybe their pursuers were simply waiting for them to reach Murkmire, where the terrain would do half the work of killing them.
"The crossing point should be near," Lyrienne said, consulting the map Kaelith had given them. "There's a ferry. Or there was, last time this map was updated. Which was..." She squinted at the notation. "Forty years ago. So maybe there's still a ferry."
"Or maybe we're walking," Mirethorn said.
They found the ferry—or what remained of it. A dock extended into the black water, rotting and half-collapsed, and tied to it was a flat-bottomed boat that looked like it had been assembled from coffin wood and bad decisions. An old man sat in the stern, wearing a mask that covered the upper half of his face. In Murkmire, masks were tradition—a way to avoid being recognized by the spirits of those you'd wronged.
"Passage to the other side," Corvin called. "We can pay."
The ferryman didn't move. Didn't acknowledge them at all.
"Is he alive?" Lyrienne whispered.
"Probably," Mirethorn said. "But in Murkmire, life and death aren't as distinct as other realms. He might be mostly dead and just doesn't know it yet."
Corvin stepped onto the dock, and it swayed alarmingly beneath his weight. His shadow flowed ahead of him, reaching for the boat, and the moment it touched the water, ripples spread outward—but instead of moving away from the shadow, they moved toward it, as if the water was trying to grab hold.
The ferryman's head snapped up.
"Shadow-touched," he said, and his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. "Shouldn't bring shadow to the swamp. The drowned don't like it. Reminds them what they lost."
"We need passage," Corvin said. "We'll pay whatever you ask."
"Payment ain't the issue. It's whether the swamp will let you cross. It don't always." The ferryman gestured to the water. "Dip your hand in. If you pull it back, you can cross. If you don't..." He shrugged. "Well, you'll be joining the drowned, and that'll solve everyone's problems."
"That's the test?" Lyrienne asked. "Stick our hands in nightmare water and hope we don't get pulled under?"
"That's the test."
Corvin knelt at the dock's edge. The water below was perfectly still, black as ink, reflecting nothing. He could see shapes moving beneath the surface—or thought he could. It was hard to tell if they were real or just his imagination projecting fears onto darkness.
He lowered his hand toward the water.
His shadow tried to stop him, wrapping around his wrist like a restraint. But Corvin pushed through, and his fingers broke the surface.
The water was cold. So cold it burned. And the moment he touched it, something grabbed him.
Not physically—there were no hands, no teeth, no tangible threat. But something grasped him, pulling not at his body but at his mind, his memories, his sense of self. He saw:
His apartment in Umbrafell, empty and cold. He lived alone. Died alone. No one came to his funeral because no one knew he'd existed. This is one future. This is what happens if he turns back.
Flash.
The woman from his visions, Ashreth, standing over his grave in Vesperhold, threads of fate tangled around her hands. "I told you," she weeps. "I told you fate was inevitable." This is another future. This is what happens if he continues.
Flash.
Himself, standing in a room made of mirrors, looking at infinite reflections—each one slightly different, each one showing a different choice, a different life, a different death. "Which one is real?" he asks. No one answers. Because they're all real. Or none of them are. It's impossible to tell.
Corvin pulled his hand back.
The water released him reluctantly, like a disappointed predator letting go of prey that had proven too difficult to swallow.
"You can cross," the ferryman said. "The swamp don't want you, which is rare. Usually means you're already marked for something worse than drowning."
"That's reassuring," Corvin said, trying to keep his voice steady. His hand was numb from cold, and his mind felt... loose, like parts of his thoughts were still drifting in that black water.
Lyrienne went next. She approached the water cautiously, and the Lumes that had been following her from Gloamspire suddenly went dark, hiding in her hair like frightened animals.
She dipped her hand in, gasped, then jerked it back almost immediately.
"That's horrible," she breathed. "It showed me... it showed me everyone I've ever lost. Everyone I'll lose. All at once."
"But you pulled your hand back," the ferryman said. "So you can cross."
Mirethorn was last. He knelt by the water, and even before he touched it, the black surface began to ripple. Plants grew from nowhere—spectral flowers, translucent vines, things that existed between life and death.
When he lowered his hand, the water seemed to welcome him. It wrapped around his fingers gently, almost lovingly, and Mirethorn's expression went distant.
"I see her," he whispered. "Virelda. Before the Core. Before the madness. She's laughing. We're in the gardens. She's showing me a flower she cultivated that blooms in moonlight and sings when happy. She's happy. She's so happy."
Tears streamed down his face, but he made no move to pull his hand back.
"Mirethorn," Lyrienne said urgently. "You have to pull back. The test—"
"I don't want to," Mirethorn said. "I want to stay in this memory. I want to live here forever."
Corvin acted on instinct. He grabbed Mirethorn's shoulder and yanked him backward.
Mirethorn came free with a sound like tearing fabric, and he collapsed onto the dock, gasping. The spectral flowers withered and died, and the water went still once more.
"That was close," the ferryman said. "The swamp almost had you. It likes plant-mages. Likes the way they taste when they drown."
"Thanks for that image," Mirethorn said weakly. He looked at Corvin. "You saved me."
"We're allies," Corvin said, helping him up. "That's what allies do."
"Get in the boat," the ferryman said. "Before the swamp changes its mind."
They boarded the coffin-wood ferry, which somehow held their weight despite looking like a strong breeze would sink it. The ferryman pushed off from the dock with a long pole, and they glided into the cypress forest.
The crossing was silent except for the Ghost Bells and the occasional splash of something large moving through the water. Mist clung to the surface like a living thing, and through it, Corvin could see shapes—buildings, maybe, or the ruins of buildings. A whole city drowned and forgotten.
"That's Old Murkmire," the ferryman said, noticing Corvin's gaze. "The capital before the floods came. Ten thousand people lived there once. Now it's just bones and memories."
"What caused the floods?"
"The Drowned Regents. They wanted power over death, same as every ruler in these cursed realms. So they made a deal with something that lives deep in the swamp. Something old. Older than the Cores. Older than the Primacy." The ferryman's voice dropped. "They got their power. But the price was their city. Everything they loved, drowned. And they became what they are now—neither living nor dead, ruling over ghosts and regrets."
"Are they still in power?" Lyrienne asked.
"In Murkmire, power don't work like other realms. The Regents rule, yes. But so do the dead. And the dead outnumber the living a thousand to one."
They emerged from the cypress forest onto more solid land—though "solid" was generous. The ground was spongy, covered in marsh grass and moss, with pools of standing water every few feet. In the distance, Corvin could see structures on stilts, connected by rope bridges. A settlement.
"Widow's Hook," the ferryman said, guiding the boat toward a dock that looked slightly less rotten than the one they'd left. "Frontier town. Half the people here are criminals running from other realms. The other half are madmen who actually like the swamp. You'll find who you're looking for. Everyone ends up in Widow's Hook eventually. It's the only place in Murkmire with fresh water and food that won't kill you."
They disembarked, paying the ferryman with Gloamspire coins that he examined suspiciously before accepting.
"One more thing," he said as they prepared to leave. "The man you're looking for—Draven Midnight. He don't like visitors. He especially don't like people who remind him of what he lost. So when you find him, and he tries to kill you, remember: he's not really trying to kill you. He's trying to kill his past."
"How do you know who we're looking for?" Corvin asked.
The ferryman's masked face somehow conveyed a smile. "In Murkmire, everyone knows everything. The dead talk. The water listens. And secrets don't stay secret long."
He pushed off from the dock and disappeared into the mist, leaving them alone in Widow's Hook.
The town was exactly as depressing as Corvin expected. Buildings on stilts, connected by rope bridges slick with algae. People moving through the streets like ghosts themselves, wearing masks, keeping their heads down. And everywhere—everywhere—there were bells. Hanging from doorways, tied to bridges, floating in the water. Each one silent until you got too close, then tolling once in warning.
"Cheerful place," Lyrienne muttered.
"We need to find an information broker," Mirethorn said. "Someone who knows where Draven is hiding. In frontier towns like this, there's always someone willing to sell information for the right price."
They found her in a tavern called The Drowned Lantern—a structure that leaned so far to one side it seemed impossible it hadn't toppled into the swamp yet. The interior smelled of fermented fish and desperation. The clientele looked like they'd given up on life but were too stubborn to die.
The information broker sat in a back corner, counting coins by candlelight. She was younger than Corvin expected—maybe twenty—with dark skin, darker hair braided with small bones, and eyes that held the weariness of someone much older. She wore no mask, which marked her as either fearless or foolish.
"You're looking for Draven," she said before they could even approach. "Everyone who comes to Widow's Hook lately is looking for Draven. Word's out that he's valuable. Bounty hunters, scholars, madmen. All wanting a piece of the disgraced prince."
"We're not bounty hunters," Corvin said.
"No, you're worse. You're idealists." She gestured for them to sit. "I'm Kessa. I trade in information. You want Draven's location, it'll cost you."
"How much?" Lyrienne asked.
"Depends on what you're willing to trade. I take coins, but I prefer secrets. Something personal. Something that hurts to tell."
"Why?" Corvin asked.
"Because secrets have power in Murkmire. The dead pay well for them. And I like to eat." Kessa leaned back. "So. What'll it be? Coins or secrets?"
Corvin thought about it. They had coins, but not many. And if they were going to survive Murkmire, they'd need those resources.
"A secret," he said. "Mine."
"Corvin—" Lyrienne started.
"It's fine." He met Kessa's eyes. "I'll tell you something I've never told anyone. Something that hurts."
Kessa smiled. "I'm listening."
Corvin took a breath. "When I was young—maybe ten—I lived in the Greyveil poorhouse in Umbrafell. There was another boy there. Brennan. He was older than me by a few years, and he was kind when everyone else was cruel. He protected me from the bullies. Shared his food when I had none. He was the closest thing to family I'd ever known."
He paused, and his shadow curled around his feet like a cat offering comfort.
"One night, the poorhouse caught fire. I don't know how it started. But Brennan woke me up. Helped me get out. But then he went back inside to save others, and the building collapsed."
"He died," Kessa said.
"He died. And I lived. And for sixteen years, I've told myself it wasn't my fault. That I was just a child. That there was nothing I could have done." Corvin's voice cracked slightly. "But the truth is, I could have gone back with him. I was old enough to help. But I was scared, so I ran. I let him die alone because I was a coward."
Silence fell over the table.
"That's a good secret," Kessa said softly. "The kind that leaves scars. Thank you for sharing it."
She pulled out a map and marked a location—an X in the deep swamp, far from any settlement.
"Draven lives here. In the Hollow Stacks. It's an old temple complex that got swallowed by the swamp a century ago. Only the top floors are still above water. He's fortified it. Set traps. Killed at least three bounty hunters who tried to bring him in." She looked at Corvin. "If you're going there, go during the day. Or what passes for day in Murkmire. The dead are stronger at night, and the Hollow Stacks are built on a mass grave."
"Wonderful," Mirethorn said.
They left the tavern and secured rooms in a boarding house that smelled only slightly of decay. Tomorrow, they'd go to the Hollow Stacks. Tonight, they needed rest.
But Corvin couldn't sleep. Again.
He stood on the small balcony outside his room, watching mist drift over the swamp, listening to the Ghost Bells toll their endless warnings. His shadow stood beside him—not at his feet, but upright, person-shaped, like a companion.
"You knew I was lying," Corvin said to it. "About Brennan. I mean, he did die in that fire. But I didn't run because I was scared. I ran because my shadow made me. Because even then, before I knew what I was, some part of me understood that I needed to survive. That I was important."
His shadow didn't respond. It never did. But Corvin felt its acknowledgment.
"So which is worse?" he asked. "Being a coward who ran from fear? Or being someone who ran because destiny said I was too valuable to die?"
A knock at his door.
He went inside to find Mirethorn standing there, looking haunted.
"Can't sleep," the plant-mage said. "Every time I close my eyes, I see that memory the water showed me. Virelda, before everything went wrong. And I wonder—if I'd been braver, could I have stopped her? If I'd noticed the Core corrupting her earlier, if I'd tried harder to reach her—"
"You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved," Corvin said, letting him in. "Trust me. I've tried."
"Is that what we're doing? With Virelda? Trying to save her?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe we're trying to stop her. There might not be a difference anymore."
They sat in silence for a while, two men haunted by their failures, trying to convince themselves that tomorrow would be different.
"The secret you told Kessa," Mirethorn said eventually. "Was it true?"
"Part of it. The part about Brennan dying was true. The part about why I ran..." Corvin shrugged. "I'm not sure anymore. Memory is funny in Umbrafell. The Core showed me so many versions of the past that I can't always tell which one actually happened."
"That sounds maddening."
"It is. But it's also freeing. If I can't trust my memories, then I can choose which ones to believe. I can decide who I was. Who I am."
"And who are you, Corvin Thornevale?"
"I'm still figuring that out."
Mirethorn left shortly after, and Corvin finally managed to sleep—fitfully, dreaming of black water and drowning cities and a woman with threads of fate wrapped around her hands, weeping for futures that would never happen.
When dawn came—gray and weak, barely distinguishable from night—they set out for the Hollow Stacks.
The journey took most of the day. They hired a guide—a silent man who communicated only through hand gestures and knew the safe paths through the swamp. The ground grew soggier, the water deeper, until they were wading through knee-deep muck that smelled like death and old regrets.
The Hollow Stacks emerged from the mist like a fever dream.
It had been a temple once, maybe, or a palace. Hard to tell. The lower floors were completely submerged, and what remained above water was covered in moss and creeping vines. But it was the bodies that caught Corvin's attention—hanging from the upper floors, suspended by ropes, swaying in the wind.
"Are those the bounty hunters?" Lyrienne asked.
"Warnings," their guide signed. "Turn back."
"We can't," Corvin said. "We need to see him."
The guide shook his head and refused to go further. He handed them a lantern and retreated back the way they'd come, moving quickly, like something was chasing him.
They approached the Hollow Stacks cautiously. Corvin's shadow spread out ahead of them, searching for traps, finding three before they'd even reached the entrance: tripwires connected to crossbows, pressure plates that would release nets, and something involving serrated blades and pulleys that looked genuinely medieval.
"He really doesn't want visitors," Lyrienne said.
They avoided the traps and entered the temple.
The interior was lit by bioluminescent fungi that grew in spiral patterns up the walls. The smell was worse here—rot and decay and something sweet underneath, like flowers at a funeral. Water dripped constantly, creating echoes that sounded almost like whispers.
"Draven Midnight," Corvin called. "We're not here to hurt you. We need your help."
No response.
They climbed a staircase slick with algae, ascending to the next level. Here, the architecture became clearer—this had definitely been a temple. Altars dedicated to gods that had died when the Primacy shattered. Statues with their faces worn away by water and time. And in the center of the main chamber, sitting on a throne made of stacked stone, was a man who could only be Draven Midnight.
He was younger than Corvin expected—maybe thirty—but looked older. Scars covered his arms and face, some fresh, some years old. His hair was the color of swamp water at midnight, and his eyes were the pale green of dying lily pads. He wore clothes that had once been fine but were now tattered and stained.
And in his hands, he held a knife that gleamed despite the dim light—a blade made of something that shouldn't exist, something between metal and glass and pure crystallized regret.
"You're either brave or stupid," Draven said, and his voice carried the slow drawl of someone who'd given up on caring. "Coming all this way just to die in a swamp."
"We're not here to die," Corvin said. "We're here because we need to get into Thornsveil. And you're the only person with royal blood who can open the Thorn Road."
Draven laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "The Thorn Road. Haven't heard that name in fifteen years. Not since I walked it to flee from what I'd done."
"We know you killed your brother," Mirethorn said. "We don't care. The past is past. What matters is now."
"The past is never past in Murkmire." Draven stood, knife still in hand. "The drowned keep it alive. They whisper it constantly. Every mistake. Every sin. Every moment you wish you could take back."
"Then help us," Lyrienne said. "Help us stop Queen Virelda from making a mistake worse than any you've committed. She's trying to force a bond with the Floros Core. If she succeeds—"
"If she succeeds, death will stop existing in Thornsveil, and the realm will become a living hell. I know. I've heard the rumors." Draven twirled the knife absently. "So you want me to take you to Thornsveil. To face Virelda. To stop her. And in exchange, what? Redemption? Forgiveness? A chance to be a hero?"
"In exchange for whatever you want," Corvin said. "We'll pay any price."
"Any price?"
"Within reason."
Draven smiled—sharp and dangerous. "I'll help you. But my price is this: when we get to Thornsveil, and you face Virelda, I get to be the one to kill her. Not you. Not your friends. Me."
"She was your lover," Mirethorn said, horrified. "Fifteen years ago, before the exile—you and Virelda—"
"She was everything to me," Draven said quietly. "And I destroyed that by killing my brother in a jealous rage. She exiled me not because she hated me, but because she loved me too much to execute me. And I've spent fifteen years in this swamp thinking about all the ways I could have been different. Better. Worthy of her."
He looked at them with eyes that held too much pain.
"So yes. I'll help you get to her. I'll help you stop her. But when the time comes, I'm the one who ends this. I'm the one who saves her from herself. Even if she hates me for it. Even if it costs me my life."
"Deal," Corvin said.
Mirethorn looked like he wanted to object but held his tongue.
"Then we leave at dawn," Draven said. "The crossing to Thornsveil takes three days through the swamp, and we'll need to move fast. The Regents have been watching the borders lately. Something's made them nervous."
"What?" Lyrienne asked.
"The dead have been whispering about shadows gathering. About a shadow-touched who defeated the Umbral Regnant and stole the Umbra Core." Draven looked at Corvin. "That wouldn't happen to be you, would it?"
"Guilty."
"Huh. You don't look like much."
"I get that a lot."
Draven grinned—the first genuine expression he'd shown. "I think I like you, shadow-boy. You've got that same stupid optimism that gets people killed. It's refreshing."
They spent the night in the Hollow Stacks, making plans, sharing stories, slowly building the foundation of something that might become trust.
And in the deep swamp, in the drowned ruins of Old Murkmire, the Drowned Regents heard about the shadow-touched and his companions.
They began to plan accordingly.
Because in Murkmire, the dead always had the final say.
Always.