The scent they exhale is that of rotting earth: sulfur, oxidized iron, and decay. They have emerged from the mire, yes, but the mire has not emerged from them. They carry the humidity of the swamp's bogs like an invisible shroud, and the fouled metal they drag behind is a burden far exceeding its physical mass. It is the weight of a world that has ceased to be human-scaled—a world that now watches them with the patience of a predator certain its prey has nowhere left to run.

  The mud is no mere filth; it is a ravenous substance that has claimed their humanity, inch by agonizing inch. Wolf Squad proceeds beyond the Cursed Mire like a cluster of castaways spat out by an ocean of black slime. The silence of solid ground, now that their boots finally strike cold stone and compacted soil, is more deafening than the chorus of demons that haunted them amidst the putrefying ruins.

  Their bodies are architectures of pain. The leather sleds, laden with metals that seem to have absorbed the weight of sin itself, have left their mark. The straps have carved violet furrows into the hands of the Wolf Squad—most cruelly upon Dax and Cortez, who shouldered the heaviest loads. Their backs are locked in a servile curvature, the spine transformed into a rusted chain that creaks with every breath. Their feet are the worst of it. Enclosed in the slimy embrace of stagnant water, the skin has turned into a whitish, spongy mass. Friction sores burn like live coals beneath bandages soaked in mud and serum. Every step on solid earth is an electric agony surging up the nerves, forcing the seven to move with a halting gait, like the dead who have not yet accepted the grave.

  But it is in their gazes that the true devastation is read.

  Vargo Cortez allows himself a moment’s respite, sitting upon a boulder with gnarled hands resting on his knees. His olive complexion has faded to a jaundiced gray, his cheeks hollowed as if the swamp had sucked the marrow directly from his bones. His eyes are glassy slits staring into the void; the Captain does not speak, for he knows the voices that howled in their minds are still there, crouched in the folds of the brain, ready to resume their chant the moment his heartbeat slows.

  Beside him, Giada is a vision of shattered fragility. Her diaphanous skin is coated in a crust of filth that resembles a second skin—a carapace of mud concealing the girl she was only days before. Her ash-blonde hair is a shapeless mass of knots and debris. She trembles, not from the cold, but from the reverberation of demonic vibrations that shook her very soul. Her curiosity has been supplanted by a catatonic terror; she glares at the sleds with a dull hatred, as if that metal were the cause of death for a part of herself.

  Julien Martel is the most volatile. His pride has been ground down by both physical and mental exhaustion. He touches his face obsessively, as if to reassure himself he is still whole, while his blue eyes dart frantically toward the margins of the path. Paranoia is a poison circulating alongside his spent blood.

  Don Thomas clutches his cross with white knuckles, but his mouth articulates neither psalm nor prayer. The mud has extinguished the light of his faith. Did the demonic voices whisper truths too black to be ignored, or well-crafted lies? Doubt torments him, straining his creed to the breaking point. But what haunts him most is his failure to find words of comfort for those youths terrified by the living darkness.

  The entirety of Wolf Squad is in a piteous state. Mira Vance, Dax, and Kael are equally unsettled in soul, and the silence reigning over the explorers serves as grim confirmation.

  Vargo Cortez’s words fall into the heavy air like stones into a well of mire:

  ?We camp.?

  The Captain does not raise his voice, yet his tone possesses the dry vibration of a snapping bone. He pulls off his gloves, revealing livid, pulsing skin beneath the leather. ?The march stops. High King’s Castle can wait. We have extra provisions for three or four days, if we ration intelligently. We rest here.?

  No one answers. There is no relief, no nod of assent. The silence that follows is an iron curtain enveloping the seven.

  They move like automatons, gears of a machine that has forgotten its purpose but continues to turn by sheer inertia. It is a choreography of ghosts. Dax Stern unhitches the sleds with mechanical movements, his massive hands reduced to pincers devoid of sensation; he does not complain of the food, he does not curse—he simply executes.

  Mira Vance drives the stakes without looking anyone in the face, her sharp eyes now reduced to glassy spheres staring only at the inch of earth she must occupy.

  Don Thomas unfurls the tattered blankets with the same precision with which he once would have prepared the altar, but there is no sanctity in his gestures, only a frightening absence. Kael Wald does not even reach for his charcoals; he stands still for a moment, watching the point where the swamp ends and the earth begins, then stoops to pitch the tent as if he were digging a grave.

  Giada sits on the ground before the camp is even ready. Her fingers absently scratch the crust of mud on her knees, peeling away flakes of dry earth that fall among the stones.

  Julien Martel, beside her, lifts a corner of tarpaulin with a rigid motion, his arm shaking from a muscular spasm that shows no sign of ceasing. They do not look like brothers-in-arms, but prisoners erecting their own gallows. The sound of stakes hammering against stone is the only noise defying the lament of the wind: a metallic, rhythmic, desperate beat.

  Vargo watches them, remaining upright while the world around him sinks. He feels the weight of the demonic voices still scratching at the base of his skull, whispering that this rest is but an illusion—that the mud has already claimed them.

  Yet, he remains motionless, the final pillar of a crumbling will, watching his people build their fragile fortress against the unknown in a graveyard silence.

  ***

  The second day draws to a close beneath a leaden sky that seems intent on crushing the tents against the rock. Wolf Squad is a broken body trying to reassemble itself in the silence, but flesh heals faster than the spirit. Around the fire of the second evening, the heat is not enough to dissipate the frost they carry within.

  Julien Martel breaks the silence. His face, once proud of its Nordic features and a lineage nourished on privilege, is a mask of paranoic tension. His blue eyes reflect the flames like splintered glass.

  ?Captain, don't you think it’s time to explain what happened in the Cursed Mire?? Julien’s voice cuts through the crackling wood with a note of contemptuous desperation. ?Shall we finally name what occurred among those ruins? The cries that came from no one’s throat, but from the shadows. It wasn't the vapors that did this to us. We aren't children you can hide the monster under the bed from.?

  Vargo Cortez raises his gaze with an exasperating slowness. His hands, still marked by the furrows of the straps, remain motionless on his knees.

  ?I have already given you my answer, Martel,? Vargo replies, his voice low like a tectonic rumble. ?It is a mystery. The Cursed Mire owes us no explanations.?

  ?A mystery?? Julien spits on the ground, a gesture that clashes with his rigid posture. ?The maps say there were cities there. Science, concrete, reason, human beings. There must be a cause, a chemical reaction, something that falls within the world of men.?

  Kael lifts his head, his ink-stained fingers trembling imperceptibly. He parts his lips, searching his mind for a rational theory: toxic gases, natural hallucinogens released by the decomposition of millennial synthetic materials, or perhaps low frequencies emitted by the standing metal structures. But the words die in his throat. The memory of that demonic voice whispering his most intimate failures has no mathematical formula. Kael lowers his eyes to his drawings, unable to bear the weight of the irrational, letting a faint sentence escape: ?No, there is no logical reason, or I would have found it.?

  Vargo leans forward, letting the firelight illuminate the scars of his olive face.

  ?Listen well, all of you,? he says, and even Dax stops his furious chewing. ?Normally, the voices that emerge from the dark are not so insistent toward a squad of explorers. We have experienced a relentless targeting of our group for unknown reasons. There is a belief circulating among veterans, a story the Church of High King would prefer to burn along with the heretics. It was born a century ago, written in the blood of those who heard or saw things even more terrifying in the cursed swamps.?

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He pauses, letting the darkness beyond the fire's circle seem to grow denser, more attentive.

  ?They say the Cursed Mires are not just swamps. They are what remains of the kingdom of the Lord of the Old World. An obscure entity that did not die when the towers fell, but fused with their dust. It manifests where the heart of the metropolises once beat, along with its demons, transforming temples of steel into jungles of slime and sentient ruins. We do not tread upon dead earth, Martel. We tread upon the body of something that has not yet finished digesting the previous world. And we, with our sleds and our metal, are but parasites tickling its vitals.?

  The silence that follows is different. It is no longer the fatigue of muscles, but the weight of a realization that turns their mission from a journey into a desecration.

  The crackling of the fire seems to grow more violent, as if the flames themselves were trying to repel the Captain’s words. Don Thomas snaps upright, his back straightening; his tattered tunic, peeking from beneath his light armor, seems to quiver with indignation.

  ?This is pure heresy, Vargo,? Thomas exclaims, and his voice carries a tremor that seeks to be authority but sounds like fear. ?A demonic being cannot claim the ruins of a world that belonged to men by divine right. The Lord of the Old World is an invention of the desperate. Something isn't right... there must be more. An explanation that does not destroy all hope. The horror we lived through must have a meaning in the balance of the Spirit; it cannot be merely the whim of an entity that has claimed the shadows of the marshes.?

  Cortez does not flinch. He merely stares at the cleric with a gaze that seems to come from a time older than the Church itself.

  ?You may even report to your Archbishop that we are all heretics, Thomas,? Vargo retorts, pressing him. ?I will be the first to ensure that General Valerius requests a solemn procession to exorcise the Cursed Mires in the dead of night. But we both know how that would end: not one of those silk-clad bearers will have the courage to actually set foot there. Because despite your Doctrine, Thomas, you feel it too under your skin. This world is full of things we cannot explain, things that challenge the habit you wear and that can kill you along with your faith.?

  Thomas reels from the blow. His jaw tightens, the words choking in his throat. He looks at the flames, then at his companions, but finds no allies; he sees only hollowed faces searching for a truth, any truth. He has lost on every front: his moral authority has dissolved amidst the sulfur vapors.

  After a long silence, the priest raises his head, trying to piece together the shards of his dignity.

  ?Even if Evil acts in incomprehensible ways,? Thomas murmurs, addressing Vargo directly, ?its very existence is proof that a Good exists that has protected us. If we are here, if we still breathe after that hell, it is because something higher held our hand.?

  Vargo Cortez traces a bitter smile, a joyless reflex that barely ripples his lips.

  ?I would like to believe in that superior Good, Thomas. Truly,? the Captain replies, and for an instant his voice loses the hardness of command to grow heavy with a vast melancholy. ?But I have seen too many horrors in the Wasteland to delude myself any longer. If there is a supreme Good, it abandoned us long ago. It abandoned all of humanity. It turned its back on us the exact moment the old world was devoured by fire. Now it is only us, the darkness, and the bones of what we were.?

  His words fall like a shroud over the camp. Giada, who until that moment had remained motionless, lifts her gaze toward the Captain. In her eyes, there is no longer the light of the determined explorer, but a cold spark, as if the void described by Cortez had finally found a home within her.

  ***

  The camp is immersed in darkness as the last embers stifle beneath the ash. The members of Wolf Squad retreat to their bedrolls, beneath the tents, like wounded animals seeking refuge in a burrow.

  Inside the small tent they share as women, the air is thick with the scent of damp leather and earth. Mira Vance waits for the external noises to grow distant before speaking. Her voice is a sharp breath, a blade hidden among the blankets.

  ?Giada, do not be deceived,? she whispers, without looking at her, while she fumbles with the laces of her buskins. ?Tonight, neither Thomas nor Captain Cortez told us the truth. They are men too immersed in their roles. One is a slave to the dogmas of the Church, the other to a soldier’s pure and blind pragmatism. Both, for different reasons, cannot probe the mysteries of this world. They fear what they can face neither with blind faith nor with weapons.?

  Giada pushes herself up on an elbow, her face faintly illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the canvas. ?But Vargo has experience on his side, Mira. He has seen horrors we cannot even imagine. He has led dozens upon dozens of expeditions. And he brought them home. His word has the weight of survival.?

  Mira turns abruptly, her eyes shining with a febrile and hostile light.

  ?Survival is not knowledge,? she interrupts with a hiss. ?He who faces dangers thinking only of staying alive ends up with a heart of ice. Cortez hardened himself watching too many comrades die; his isn't rationality, it’s a shell to keep from going mad. He doesn't seek the truth; he only seeks the next dawn to complete the mission assigned to him.?

  Giada falls silent, letting Mira’s words float in the cramped space of the tent. There is something in Mira’s determination that disquiets her, a hunger for answers that goes beyond simple fear. She tries to understand where Mira intends to lead, what path she is tracing in the darkness of their exhaustion.

  ?Remember Elian,? Mira continues, and the name of the young librarian resonates like a dissonant and powerful note in that Wasteland. ?Remember that night at the Raven’s Refuge. He was the only one capable of silencing Martel on the thorniest subject of all: the Luminous Forest. Elian does not need swords to face the unknown, for he possesses the keys that Cortez and Thomas have lost: seeing beyond the prejudice of the colony’s men.?

  Mira lies back down, pulling the tattered blanket up to her chin, but her gaze remains fixed upward, as if she could see through the fabric.

  ?When we return home, I don’t know what you will do,? she states with a coldness that admits no reply. ?But I am going to the Library, to Elian. It is there that what we are truly searching for amidst this mud is hidden.?

  The silence of the tent becomes an arena of torture for Giada. Mira’s words have acted like a slow poison, reawakening the desire for the Castle, the memory of the warmth of the stone halls, and the promise of a return to civilization. But it is an ephemeral comfort. The moment she closes her eyes, the reassuring image of Elian among his tomes is distorted, fouled, torn to pieces.

  The demonic voices of the Cursed Mire return to reclaim the space of her mind.

  ?Traitress...? the shadow in her thoughts croaks. ?You left pure love... for what? For pride? For the mud?? resonates in her mind.

  Giada huddles in her blankets, knowing that voice is but a negative thought and not the voice of a demon. Yet the voice accuses her with the cruelty of one who knows her every weakness. She feels as though she has bartered the light of unconditional love for the ambition that led her into the nightmare of the marshes—toward an abyss that reveals the darkest part of the human soul. The contrast is unbearable: on one side, Mira’s Elian, guardian of ancient truths; on the other, the Elian distorted by demons, the symbol of everything she abandoned to pursue a glory that now tastes of oxidized iron.

  ?I wanted to see the world...? an echo in her head. ?Now the world is inside me, as if it had fouled me forever. Black. Infected.?

  She feels tears burn beneath her eyelids, but she does not let them fall. Mira, beside her, breathes regularly, unaware of the storm raging inches from her face. Giada realizes in that moment that the "determination" Cortez and Mira praise in her is not strength; it is the scab over a wound that will never stop bleeding. Her ideals of defending what remains of humanity? Perhaps well-constructed excuses to erect a deception leading her toward an obscure path.

  The Castle is no longer a home; it is a court of law. And Elian’s Library is the mirror of all she has betrayed: love, peace, and the search for truth.

  ***

  The third day of rest concludes in the shadows. At dawn of the fourth, Vargo Cortez orders the resumption of the march. The movement is slow, a procession of the wounded dragging metal through a land that seems to reject them. The pain in their feet is a constant companion, a rhythmic pang marking every meter gained against the frozen heath. Thus they proceed for at least three days.

  ***

  Suddenly, the march of Wolf Squad is halted; Cortez raises an arm. The group stops instantly, heavy breaths forming clouds of vapor in the gray air. The Captain kneels on the ground, staring at something that defies the logic of the Wasteland.

  They are tracks. Deep, clear, impossible. They look like hoofprints, but of a monstrous size, nothing like the meager sheep of the colony’s farms. The shape of these hooves is different, as if the weight that impressed them belonged to no creature cataloged by previous explorers.

  ?Ready your rifles,? Vargo orders, and the metal of the weapons snaps with a dry sound. ?Perhaps some creature from the Luminous Forest has ventured this far. It happens; it wouldn't be the first time. But encountering it now, in these conditions, could be our end.?

  Don Thomas observes those tracks with a soul in tumult. To him, they are tangible proof of a nature that has made itself a monster to punish human ambition—beings created to keep humanity at a distance from places where life has returned to be lush and splendid.

  ?We must change course,? Cortez sentences, his gaze fixed toward the horizon from which the tracks seem to originate. ?We move away from whatever left these prints. It will cost us another day’s march, but I prefer to arrive weary than not to arrive at all.?

  ***

  The final stretch is a calvary of fatigue and paranoia. Every bush seems to hide a threat, every gust of wind the cry of the creature. But finally, the walls of High King’s Castle emerge from the mist like a mirage of stone and iron. The sentinels on the towers descry the tattered silhouettes of Wolf Squad.

  The bell tolls three times. The bronze vibrates in the air, announcing the return of the survivors. Despite the exhausting toil, despite their flayed bodies, the men enter the newly opened gate with a proud bearing, straightening their backs to show the colony that the Wasteland has not broken them.

  Only Mira and Giada proceed with bowed heads. There is no pride in their steps, only the weight of an interior defeat that cannot be exhibited like a war scar. Giada walks like an automaton, her gaze lost in the void, unable to even smell the scent of home.

  Among the crowd gathered to witness the return, Mira notices a familiar figure. It is Elian. He is there, in the front row, his eyes heavy with a febrile anxiety, clearly rushed there to seek Giada’s gaze. But the girl does not even notice; she passes by, a prisoner of the demonic whispers that still infest her mind.

  Mira, however, does not look away. She meets Elian’s eyes and sends him a silent nod—a greeting that is also a promise. As she crosses the threshold, a single thought hammers in her head, louder than the fatigue and the hunger:

  ?I will have my answers. I will have what the rest of Wolf Squad lacks the courage to ask.?