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Chapter Text

The stone walls of the castle felt colder than usual. Not cold in temperature, but cold in that distant way that told Rian he didn’t belong there anymore. He walked slowly down the corridor, his boots striking against the smooth floor, the echo of each step bouncing off pillars and through open doorways that once felt familiar.

He passed guards who nodded politely. Servants who averted their eyes. All of them saw him, but none of them truly looked. He had gone from hero to ghost in the space of a year.

Still, when the High Council summoned, Rian came.

The great chamber was full of muted conversation when he entered. A hush rippled through the room as he stepped inside, every Gelfling eye swiveling toward him. He stood straighter despite himself, drawing a breath that tasted faintly of old moss and smoke. The banner of the Seven Clans hung behind the council table—weathered, mended. Like all of Thra.

“Rian of Stonewood,” said Maudra Leesha, voice solemn. “Thank you for coming.”

Rian gave a shallow bow. “You summoned me. I’m here.”

Maudra Vala of the Vapra nodded. “We are grateful. Sit. We have much to discuss.”

Rian approached the table, heart already pounding. Something about this gathering felt different. Tense. Measured. Like the air before lightning strikes.

He didn’t sit. Not yet. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve reached an impasse,” Vala said crisply. “With the Drenchen.”

Of course. Rian’s shoulders sank slightly. “Let me guess. They won’t agree to the new guard structure. Again.”

“It’s more than that,” said Leesha. “They question the sincerity of the Council. They believe the other clans still see them as... brutes. Weapons. Not allies.”

Rian couldn’t say they were wrong. He’d heard the whispers.

“They want representation,” Vala continued. “A presence among them. One of our own. A peace offering.”

Rian frowned. “So send a diplomat.”

“We are,” said Leesha. “You.”

Silence fell. Rian’s lips parted, but no sound came out at first.

“…Me?”

“You are trusted by all clans. You’re a warrior, but more importantly, you’re bonded to a Drenchen already. You’ve walked with them in war. That gives you a unique position.”

“Gurjin and I are friends,” Rian said carefully, unsure how he felt about how pointedly the word “bonded” had been used. “That doesn’t mean I can represent an entire clan I don’t belong to.”

“You won’t be representing them,” said Maudra Onica, the Sifa elder who rarely spoke unless it mattered. “You will live among them. Observe. Listen. Learn. Help us build something real. That’s all they’re asking.”

Rian’s mouth felt dry. “And if I say no?”

“Then we may lose the Drenchen,” said Leesha. “They’ll pull their forces. Their resources. Perhaps even close their borders again. We cannot afford another division. Not now.”

And there it was. The real reason. Not a gesture of faith—desperation. Fear.

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing toward the window. The castle overlooked a wide stretch of land, but far off to the south, the trees grew darker. Wetter. The swamp waited.

“Gurjin knows about this?” he asked quietly.

“He does,” Vala replied. “He… didn’t object.”

That was not the same as approval. Not by a long shot.

---

By nightfall, Rian stood outside the castle gates, a satchel slung over one shoulder and a thick cloak wrapped tightly around him. The guards offered him a map he didn’t need and a polite nod he didn’t want.

He didn’t say goodbye. There wasn’t anyone left to say it to.

The journey south took two days. On the first, the terrain was familiar: winding forest paths, open glades, stretches of quiet moss and brittle leaves. He slept in a half-burnt watchtower that smelled of soot and wind. He dreamed of fire and wings.

On the second day, the ground began to squelch beneath his boots. The air grew heavy, wet, rich with the scent of decay and life tangled together. Frogs chirped. Birds wheeled high above. He nearly lost his footing three times, swearing with every splash of swamp water that crept over his ankles.

By midday, the sky had turned a moody shade of gray. A drizzle began, soft at first, then steadier. Rian yanked his cloak tighter and kept going.

The Drenchen village appeared without warning—mist curling through massive tree trunks, their roots twisted like sleeping beasts. Platforms were suspended by thick ropes above dark water. Lanterns glowed green and gold, casting ghostly reflections.

He felt eyes watching him from every shadow.

And then, Gurjin stepped forward.

The sight of him made Rian stop in his tracks.

Broad-shouldered, taller than most Gelfling, Gurjin stood bare-armed despite the rain, his dark skin glistening with moisture. His dreadlocks were pulled back into a loose tie, and his mouth was set in a firm, unreadable line.

Rian let out a breath. “Hey.”

Gurjin raised a brow. “You look like a wet leaf.”

“Well, you look like you’re enjoying this.”

“I’m not.”

Rian rolled his eyes. “Charming as always.”

Gurjin didn’t smile. He stepped closer, boots silent on the wooden walkway. “You came.”

“They gave me a choice, technically. But no.”

A faint twitch at the corner of Gurjin’s mouth. Not quite amusement. “Then welcome to the swamp, Ambassador.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Too late.”

Rian hesitated. “Are you… okay with this?”

A pause. Gurjin’s golden eyes met his, steady and impossible to read. “Doesn’t matter if I am. You’re here now.”

The words stung more than Rian expected. But before he could reply, Gurjin turned on his heel.

“Follow me.”

Rian obeyed, stepping up onto the slick wood platform. They crossed winding bridges and narrow planks strung between trees, the swamp rising and falling below. Creatures moved in the water. Rian tried not to look too hard.

The deeper they went, the more the village revealed itself: clusters of huts carved into bark, woven netting strung like hammocks, herbs drying under overhangs. Everywhere, the scent of wet leaves and something spiced.

Drenchen of all ages stopped what they were doing to watch. Rian felt their stares like cold fingers on the back of his neck. None smiled. None spoke.

“They’re not used to outsiders,” Gurjin said over his shoulder. “Especially pale ones.”

“Thanks for the warm welcome.”

“You want warm? Should’ve stayed in the castle.”

Rian frowned. “Didn’t know you were still angry.”

“I’m not,” Gurjin said shortly. “I’m cautious.”

He stopped outside a hut built into the side of a massive tree. “This is yours. For now.”

Rian looked up at the tangle of vines, the damp steps, the slatted door made of woven reeds. It was charming in a rugged way, but he couldn’t help but sigh.

“Smells like mushrooms.”

Gurjin snorted. “That’s because it is mushrooms. Don’t touch the blue ones. They bite.”

Before Rian could tell if he was joking, Gurjin turned to leave.

“Wait,” Rian called after him. “I… I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

Gurjin paused.

“I don’t mean politically,” Rian went on. “I mean with you. With all of this. I don’t know how to fix anything. Or even if I can.”

Gurjin looked back at him. Rain slid down his face like tears, though his expression didn’t waver.

“Then start by listening,” he said. “Not speaking.”

And with that, he disappeared into the mist.

Rian stood on the threshold of his new home, utterly soaked, utterly uncertain, and completely alone.

He took a breath.

Then he stepped inside.

Chapter Text

The floor of the hut creaked beneath Rian’s boots as he stepped inside. It wasn’t what he expected—though he couldn’t have said what he had expected. The inside smelled like damp wood and something faintly herbal, almost minty but earthier. Mushrooms, he realized. Lots of them. Dried in clusters and strung along the ceiling, pressed into powder in little clay dishes on a shelf, even growing from a knotted patch in one corner of the room where the floor dipped inward.

There was a single pallet, low to the ground and covered with thick woven blankets. A netted window let in the sound of dripping water and distant frogsong. The space wasn’t cold, but it was… alive. Breathing. Wild.

The way everything in the swamp seemed to be.

Rian dropped his satchel on the floor and pulled off his soaked cloak, draping it over a wooden rack near the door. Water puddled beneath his feet, seeping into the cracks between the boards. His shirt clung to him, rain-slicked and heavy. He stripped it off and wrung it out with a frustrated grunt.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

He’d only been exiled to the middle of the swamp, assigned to navigate delicate clan politics, sleep in a mushroom-scented hut, and figure out how to communicate with a people who stared at him like he was a floundering tree frog. No problem at all.

With a sigh, Rian sat on the pallet and leaned back against the wall, eyes slipping shut. The rain outside softened into a slow patter, and somewhere close, he heard the distant creak of a rope bridge swaying. For a moment, he let himself breathe.

---

He woke to darkness.

Something had shifted. The sound outside had changed—less rain, more croaking and chittering. Swamp life. He sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The room was still and cool, lit faintly by green-glowing moss embedded in a glass jar by the window.

He heard voices outside. Low. Murmured. Not Drenchen, though—it was Gurjin. And someone else.

Curious, Rian stepped to the window and peered through the netting. Below, on one of the wider wooden walkways, Gurjin stood with two others—one older, with streaks of silver in her dreadlocks, and one younger, broad-shouldered and tattooed from collarbone to wrist.

“…doesn’t belong here,” the younger was saying, in a low voice. “Stonewood blood will sour the water.”

“He’s not here as a warrior,” Gurjin replied evenly. “He’s here because the council requested it.”

“That’s not the same as the clan inviting him.”

“He’s not a threat.”

The older Drenchen crossed her arms. “Not yet.”

Rian swallowed hard. He stepped back from the window, unsure whether to feel insulted or understanding. Probably both.

---

By morning, the rain had passed, leaving behind a shimmering humidity that clung to everything. Rian dressed in his driest clothes—only marginally less damp than the others—and stepped out of his hut into the misty dawn.

The village was awake. Children darted between huts, barefoot and shrieking with laughter. Adults moved more slowly, purposefully. Nets were drawn from the water and hung to dry. Herbs were crushed in mortars. Fish were gutted and cleaned with practiced hands.

And everywhere Rian went, eyes followed him.

He tried not to shrink under the scrutiny. Instead, he walked straight to where he’d seen Gurjin disappear the night before, following a trail of mossy planks that led to a larger structure at the heart of the village. Smoke curled from a hole in the roof. The scent of something savory drifted out.

A voice called from within. “If you’re going to lurk, at least come inside.”

Rian stepped in.

Gurjin sat cross-legged at a low table, half-dressed in dark wrappings and loose pants, steam rising from a bowl in front of him. Another bowl sat across from him—empty, but clearly waiting.

“You eat swamp porridge, or do you faint from anything not grown in a vineyard?” Gurjin asked, without looking up.

“I’ll eat it,” Rian muttered, sitting down.

Gurjin pushed the bowl toward him. “It bites back a little.”

“What doesn’t around here?”

That earned a brief huff—half a laugh, maybe. Rian dug in and immediately gagged, coughing.

“It’s fermented,” Gurjin said helpfully. “With riverroot and eel paste.”

“Stars above—what did I ever do to deserve this?”

“Came into my swamp, mostly.”

Rian made a show of grimacing as he took another bite. It was awful. But it was warm.

---

After breakfast, Gurjin didn’t offer a tour. He just stood, grabbed a satchel, and said, “Come if you want to learn.”

Rian followed.

They wove through the village as morning light filtered through thick canopies above. The Drenchen moved around them, always watching, rarely speaking. Gurjin explained things in short, clipped phrases.

“That’s where they boil moss for tinctures.”

“Never step on that stone—it’s sacred.”

“If you see a reed frog with red stripes, run. They spit venom.”

Helpful, if not exactly welcoming.

But as they passed a bridge where children played, a small girl darted forward and clutched Gurjin’s leg. “Gurjiin!” she squealed.

He smiled—actually smiled—and reached down to ruffle her hair. “Mina. I told you not to grab me while I’m walking. What if I fell and squashed you?”

“You’re too big to fall.”

“I’m exactly big enough to fall. And then splat.”

She giggled and ran off again, chasing a sibling across the rope bridge.

Rian blinked. “You have fans.”

“I’m tall. Kids think I can see the moon.”

“You’re not going to deny that you like it?”

“I like quiet. Children aren’t quiet.”

But Rian saw the fondness in his eyes.

---

By midday, they stopped near a long platform where several Drenchen were mending nets. Gurjin gestured toward a seat and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle of dried fish.

He handed Rian a piece. Rian stared at it. “This smells like death.”

“It is death. Just tasty.”

“You know, when I imagined peacekeeping work, I didn’t think it would involve chewing on jerky that looks like it crawled out of a nightmare.”

“And yet here you are.”

Rian chewed. It was… chewy. And salty. And oddly sweet. He didn’t hate it.

A silence settled between them.

Finally, Gurjin said, “You’re really staying, then?”

Rian looked up. “I said I would.”

“That doesn’t always mean you will.”

“I came to help.”

Gurjin’s gaze sharpened. “You came because they told you to.”

Rian didn’t deny it.

“They’re using you,” Gurjin said. “To soothe their own fears. To pretend unity exists.”

“I know.”

Gurjin tilted his head. “Then why stay?”

Rian paused, then shrugged. “Because I’d rather be used to hold peace than left behind while others try.”

That surprised a flicker of something in Gurjin’s expression. Approval? Sadness? It was gone too fast to name.

---

The rest of the afternoon passed in quiet observation. Gurjin introduced Rian to the tattooed hunter from the night before—Varu—who showed him how to identify swamp herbs without losing fingers. Rian nearly stepped into a nest of biting flies and was pulled back by the collar of his shirt.

“Pay attention,” Gurjin snapped. “Or this place will eat you.”

“You know, I used to lead the Guard,” Rian grumbled.

“And now you’re the Guard’s wet sock,” Gurjin said dryly. “Try to survive long enough to be useful.”

---

By the time the sun began to set, Rian’s legs ached, his clothes were damp again, and he was bone-tired. But something inside him—something buried under layers of grief and exhaustion—felt awake.

Gurjin led him back to the hut without a word. Just before Rian stepped inside, Gurjin hesitated.

“Tomorrow, there’s a gathering,” he said. “The clan council. They’ll expect to meet you.”

“Great. First impressions are my specialty.”

“Rian.”

He turned.

Gurjin’s voice dropped. “Don’t try to impress them. Just be real.”

Rian blinked. “Is that what you did when you brought me here?”

“I didn’t bring you here,” Gurjin said quietly. “But I haven’t sent you away, either.”

And with that, he walked off, vanishing into the gathering dark.

---

That night, Rian sat cross-legged on his pallet, staring at the flickering mosslight. He could still smell the swamp on his skin—sweet rot and green things, the faint tang of riverroot from breakfast.

He didn’t belong here. Not yet.

But maybe that was the point.

He lay back, listened to the soft creaking of the walkways and the distant call of frogs.

He was here.

He was staying.

Whatever happened next… he’d find a way through the mire.

Chapter Text

Morning in the swamp was not gentle.

Rian woke to a chorus of insect song, the distant bellow of some unseen creature, and the distinct sensation of something damp slithering across his foot. He jerked upright, kicking off the blanket and sending a pale swamp lizard scrambling toward the door.

“Well, that’s a fine start,” he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

His body ached from the unfamiliar bedding. His legs were stiff, his back sore, and his pride bruised from yesterday’s lessons in Drenchen survival. Still, something about the air outside—rich, warm, buzzing with life—made him feel strangely alert. As though the swamp itself demanded participation.

He dressed quickly and stepped outside.

The walkway was slick with dew. Mist curled between the tree trunks like breath, and the swamp glistened in shades of silver and green. A child darted past, laughing as she chased a frog the size of her head. An elder sat cross-legged by the water, coaxing a pale eel from a woven trap.

Everything was alive here. Every moment full.

But the eyes never stopped watching.

Wherever Rian walked, someone noticed. Conversations fell quiet. Glances passed between the Drenchen. Curious. Appraising. Occasionally wary. Once, even hostile.

He tried not to take it personally. He was an outsider. An ambassador, in name. A stranger, in truth.

He hoped that would change.

---

Gurjin found him standing near the tannery—if a long table of stretched hides and boiling pots could be called that—and tossed a small bundle into his hands.

Rian unfolded it. It was a tunic. Deep green, lined with faint gold thread, the stitching thick and hand-done.

“Wear that,” Gurjin said. “You’re meeting the council today.”

“I already have clothes,” Rian replied, inspecting it.

“Not ones that say ‘I don’t think I’m better than you.’”

Rian opened his mouth, then closed it again. Fair point.

Gurjin added, “You’ll want to wash first. You smell like wet leaf and guilt.”

“That’s my natural scent,” Rian said dryly, turning to head back to his hut.

He didn’t miss the faint smirk that tugged at Gurjin’s mouth.

---

Later, dressed in the Drenchen-made tunic, Rian stood beside Gurjin on the main platform at the village’s heart. The clan council was already assembled—six elders seated on curved wooden benches carved with symbols, each representing a different family line.

The eldest, a woman named Maudra Zaetha, wore coils of swamp-woven rope around her shoulders and had eyes like still water. Beside her sat Varu, the tattooed hunter, arms crossed. The others—quiet, observant—watched Rian with unreadable expressions.

“Rian of Stonewood,” Zaetha said, voice low and firm. “You have been sent here as a gesture. A bridge. But the swamp does not accept outsiders easily. Why should we accept you?”

Straight to it, then.

Rian stepped forward. “Because I’m not here to speak for the Council. I’m here to learn from you.”

A few elders exchanged looks. One, with skin the color of dark amber, scoffed. “Words are easy.”

Rian nodded. “Then let my actions prove otherwise.”

Zaetha narrowed her eyes. “What do you know of the swamp?”

“That it’s alive,” Rian said honestly. “And that I know nothing about how to live in it. But I’d like to.”

That answer, at least, drew a few approving murmurs.

Varu tilted his head. “And what do you think of the Drenchen?”

Rian hesitated. “I used to believe what the other clans said—that you were harsh. Unforgiving. Dangerous. Then I fought beside Gurjin. I saw what real strength looked like. What loyalty means.”

He glanced at Gurjin beside him. “You never left my side. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

The elders looked to Gurjin, who stood silent, arms behind his back.

Zaetha said, “And you, Gurjin. You vouch for this one?”

“I do,” Gurjin said, voice calm. “But that doesn’t mean he’s ready.”

Rian blinked. “Thanks for the support.”

Gurjin didn’t look at him. “Readiness isn’t the same as worth.”

Zaetha nodded. “Then let us test both.”

---

The first test was silence.

No one explained it. No one gave him instructions. After the meeting, Gurjin led Rian to a long wooden boat shaped like a curled leaf. Without a word, they climbed in and pushed off, drifting through the murky water beneath hanging moss and thick tree roots.

“Are we going somewhere?” Rian asked after ten minutes of silence.

“Yes,” Gurjin said.

“Where?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Are we going to talk about—”

“No.”

And so they drifted.

Hours passed.

Rian’s muscles ached from sitting. Bugs buzzed around his ears. The air thickened with the scent of rain. He opened his mouth three more times and closed it each time.

Eventually, they reached a hollow in the trees, where fireflies blinked between the roots of a submerged grove. Gurjin stopped the boat.

“What is this place?”

“Sacred,” Gurjin said softly. “To be here is to listen.”

Rian waited.

He heard frogs. Water lapping against bark. A birdcall echoing from far off. The sigh of wind through branches. His own heartbeat.

The longer he listened, the more he noticed—the rhythm. The layered hum. The slow, patient language of the swamp.

Gurjin eventually spoke. “The elders wanted to see if you could be still.”

“That was a test?”

“Everything here is.”

---

That evening, back in the village, Rian helped Varu sort herbs in silence. Later, he sat with the children and taught them how to fold bird shapes from paper, using scraps he found in his satchel. They laughed when the birds “flew” badly. One climbed into his lap. Another offered him a dried fish eye. A gift, apparently.

He accepted it with gratitude and didn’t gag until later.

The eyes didn’t watch him as sharply anymore.

---

Later that night, Rian sat outside his hut, shirt damp with humidity and hair curling wildly in the heat. He looked up as Gurjin approached.

“I passed?”

“Mostly,” Gurjin said. “You didn’t talk too much. You didn’t try to lead. You didn’t ask to leave. That’s more than most.”

Rian studied him. “You’re not the same here.”

“Same as what?”

“As how you were at the Castle. With the Guard. You’re… different.”

Gurjin looked toward the water. “This place lets me breathe.”

Rian nodded. “I think I get that.”

Gurjin’s eyes flicked to him, golden and unreadable. “You keep looking at me like you want to ask something.”

“I do,” Rian said. “Why me?”

“For what?”

“To be your clan’s proof of peace. To stand beside you in front of all those people.”

A long pause.

Then Gurjin said, “Because even when you’re afraid, you show up. That matters more than anything else.”

The words settled in Rian’s chest like a steady drumbeat.

Gurjin stood. “Tomorrow, we introduce you to the waters.”

Rian tilted his head. “Should I be worried?”

“Definitely.”

---

That night, sleep came slow.

But for the first time, Rian dreamed not of fire, or loss, or war—

He dreamed of water. Deep, dark, and full of life.

Chapter Text

The swamp was never silent. That was the first truth Rian began to understand as he settled into the Drenchen way of life. Stone-in-the-Wood, for all its strength and bustle, carried lulls of peace — a market square dimming as the sun set, or the soft murmur of hearthfires through the night. But in the Great Smerth, there was always a hum, a chorus of creatures and water and life that never stopped breathing.

Even as Rian woke on his third morning there, lying on the woven mat beside Gurjin, he noticed the croak of frogs, the flutter of wings, and the steady drip of water from the root-arched ceiling of their shared dwelling. The smells were thick: moss, damp earth, and something sharp and tangy that clung to his tongue even when he breathed shallowly.

Gurjin had warned him about that. “The swamp has a taste,” he’d said with a grin the night before, offering Rian a wooden cup of something strong and herbal. “You either choke on it, or you let it seep into you.”

Now, as Rian stretched and winced at the stiffness in his back, he couldn’t tell which way he was leaning.

“You’re up too early.” Gurjin’s voice was groggy, muffled as he rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow. His gills flexed with the motion, fluttering faintly in the warm air. “The swamp doesn’t need eager ambassadors before dawn.”

“I can’t sleep,” Rian admitted, rubbing his face. “Your swamp never shuts up.”

That earned him a bark of laughter, low and amused. Gurjin sat up fully, his larger frame stretching in a way that made the small hut creak slightly. Rian tried not to notice how broad his shoulders looked in the half-light.

“You’ll get used to it,” Gurjin said, voice dipped in something between sympathy and challenge. “Or it’ll eat you alive.”

Rian gave him a flat look. “Comforting.”

By midmorning, Gurjin was leading Rian through the heart of the clan’s territory. The pathways were not paths at all but shifting platforms of woven reeds, bark, and mud, held together by the sheer stubbornness of the Drenchen. Homes curved upward out of the water like grown shells, half-swallowed by roots, and every face that turned to them carried suspicion.

The pretending still hung between them like a fragile net. Every time someone looked at Rian too long, Gurjin would shift closer, a hand at his back, a casual word of endearment tossed out like bait. Rian did his best not to flinch, though heat prickled his ears every time.

Today was important. They were meeting the elders of the clan — the ones who would decide whether Rian’s presence was tolerated or spat out like sour fruit.

The elder hut smelled of smoke and swamp-mint. Three Drenchen elders sat in a semicircle, their skin painted with streaks of ochre and swamp clay. Their eyes glimmered green and gold in the dimness.

“Stonewood boy,” croaked Elder Kivra, the eldest among them. “You come under treaty. But treaties mean little when water turns sour. Why should we not toss you back to your own mud?”

Rian’s throat tightened. He glanced at Gurjin, who gave him the barest nod. Speak, his look said. Don’t stumble.

“I came because your clan matters,” Rian said, voice steady though his hands trembled at his sides. “Because we cannot fight what threatens Thra if we are divided. I came to learn. To listen.”

The elders exchanged glances — unreadable, sharp.

“And to mate,” one of them added dryly, eyes cutting toward Gurjin.

Heat climbed Rian’s neck, but Gurjin only shrugged with infuriating ease. “He’s mine,” he said, his tone casual yet laced with possessiveness that made Rian’s heart stutter. “Stonewood or no, he stays."

Approval was not given so easily. The elders decreed a trial — a symbolic act meant to prove Rian’s willingness to embrace the swamp. He was to wade into the waters at dusk, stand until the swamp itself “spoke” of him, and return without fear.

“What does that mean?” Rian hissed once they were outside.

Gurjin smirked. “Means they want to see if you panic when the eels brush your legs. Or when the mud pulls at you.”

Rian gave him a glare sharp enough to cut bark. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course I am.” Gurjin’s grin softened, though, as he leaned closer. “But don’t worry. I’ll be watching.”

The words were meant to reassure. Instead, they sent a strange shiver down Rian’s spine.

At dusk, the clan gathered along the water’s edge. Torches burned low, their smoke curling into the thick air. Rian stood barefoot at the shore, every eye on him, Gurjin at his side.

“You step in, you stay until you hear something,” Gurjin murmured quietly. “Could be a sound. A feeling. Something in the water will tell you if it accepts you.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Rian whispered.

“Then you’ll know.”

The water was shockingly warm as he stepped in. Slimy plants coiled against his ankles. Tiny things brushed his skin, darting away. He forced himself deeper, chest tight, until the water lapped at his waist.

The swamp noise grew louder, or maybe his panic did. Frogs croaked, wings buzzed, something heavy shifted beneath the surface. He wanted to flee — Stonewood blood screamed for solid earth, not sinking mire.

But then he heard it.

A deep, thrumming pulse beneath the water. Not a voice, not exactly — but something alive, surrounding him, resonating against his chest. His breath caught.

The swamp wasn’t just noise. It was music.

When he staggered back onto the shore, dripping and shivering, the elders were waiting. Elder Kivra gave a slow, solemn nod.

“The swamp did not spit you out,” she said. “You may stay."

Later, when the clan dispersed, Rian sat on the hut’s edge, staring at the dark water. His body still hummed with the memory of that pulse.

Gurjin sat beside him, shoulder brushing his. “You did well.”

“Felt like I was about to drown,” Rian admitted softly. “But… it wasn’t angry with me.”

“Then it sees something in you,” Gurjin said, watching him with unreadable eyes. His hand lingered briefly at Rian’s back, grounding. “Maybe more than even you see.”

Rian looked at him then, really looked, and realized how different Gurjin seemed here. In Stone-in-the-Wood, Gurjin had been his friend, his fellow guard, always half out of place. Here, he was at home. Commanding. Confident. And fiercely protective.

The thought stirred something restless inside Rian. Something he wasn’t ready to name.

For now, he let the swamp’s hum carry him, and leaned — just slightly — into Gurjin’s warmth.

Chapter Text

The swamp was restless that evening.

The reeds whispered with a wind that carried the smell of wet moss and smoke. Lantern-fires bobbed in the distance, glowing green against the mist that clung low over the water. Rian had grown used to the sounds of insects buzzing, of frogs croaking, of unseen creatures plopping into the murk. But tonight, those ordinary noises were overlaid with something else: voices. Low, hushed, and carried in secret.

It set his nerves on edge.

Rian adjusted the heavy necklace Gurjin had placed on him the day before—a token of their supposed bond. Its weight was comforting, though it felt strange against his Stonewood skin. The carved amber beads smelled faintly of resin and swampflower, and every Drenchen who looked at him now looked differently, with a mix of respect and suspicion. Mate of Gurjin. Ambassador of Stonewood. Both roles were burdens he still wasn’t sure he could bear.

He found Gurjin outside the elder’s hall, sharpening his blade with careful, rhythmic strokes. The Drenchen warrior looked even broader than usual in the pale firelight, his gills faintly flexing with each breath. When his eyes lifted and caught Rian’s, something in the tightness of his shoulders softened.

“You hear them too,” Gurjin rumbled, his voice pitched low.

Rian nodded. “They’ve been whispering all evening. Every time I pass, the talking stops.”

“Not just you,” Gurjin replied, sheathing the blade with a final click. “They doubt this whole pact. Some see it as weakness. Others…” His jaw tightened. “Others think Stonewood only sends you here to spy. To steal from us.”

Rian flinched, guilt stinging sharper than any blade. He was here to learn, after all—but not in the way they thought. He opened his mouth to protest, but Gurjin stopped him with a glance, softer this time.

“I don’t doubt you, Rian.”

It was all he said, but it was enough to quiet the ache in Rian’s chest.

---

That night, the whispers grew louder. The swamp itself seemed to carry them to Rian’s ears as he lay in the nest-like bedding of Gurjin’s hut. He turned, restless, the damp rushes rustling under his back. Gurjin’s breathing was steady, but not asleep. Rian knew him too well.

Finally, Rian whispered, “Do you think they’ll act on it?”

A long silence stretched before Gurjin answered. “Not yet. But soon.” His voice was edged like steel. “Tomorrow, there’s a moot. The elders want to hear the clansfolk speak on this pact. Some will stand with us. Some will not. You should be ready for both.”

Rian stared at the ceiling, made of woven vines and peat. He was ready for many things—fighting Skeksis, leading rebellions, carrying the memory of those he had lost. But standing in front of a hall of strangers who wanted him gone? That was a battle he didn’t know how to fight.

---

The moot was held in the grand marsh hall at the swamp’s heart. Wide rafts of bound reed floated upon the water, linked together into a shifting platform. The roof overhead was a canopy of woven kelp, dripping constantly, so that everything beneath was damp. Drenchen of all ranks crowded the space, their eyes gleaming like wet stone.

Rian stood beside Gurjin, every muscle in his body taut. He wore the amber necklace still, though tonight Gurjin had also painted a streak of swamp-green across his brow—an ancient mark signifying kin-bond. Rian hadn’t wanted it, but Gurjin had insisted. “It tells them you are mine,” Gurjin had said. Rian wasn’t sure whether that was a comfort or another heavy weight, but he hadn’t argued.

The first voices to rise in the moot were supportive—an elder woman praising Gurjin’s loyalty, a younger warrior saying Stonewood alliance could bring strength. But soon the mood shifted.

“He is not one of us,” hissed a fisherman with webbed fingers, pointing at Rian. “Look at his skin. His hair. He walks among us, but he will never be Drenchen.”

Another spat into the water. “Stonewood betrayed us before. Their warriors marched at the Skeksis’ call, same as the rest. Why should we trust one now?”

The crowd stirred, nodding, growling.

Rian’s throat went dry. He had faced Skeksis, faced the Crystal itself—but this, this silent judgment, was worse.

Then Gurjin rose.

The platform shifted under his weight as he stepped forward, his voice carrying like thunder over the swamp. “You will not speak of him so. This pact was sworn by Elder Marda herself. If you question him, you question me. And I will not have it.”

The hush was immediate. Even the frogs outside seemed to still. Gurjin’s gills flared as his gaze swept the crowd. “Rian Stonewood is my mate. My kin. My word binds him to us. If you doubt him, fight me instead.”

The challenge hung in the air like a blade.

Rian’s heart hammered in his chest. He wanted to speak, to soften Gurjin’s threat, but he knew better. This was Drenchen law. To interrupt would only weaken them both.

At last, an elder leaned forward on her staff, the swamp-water dripping from her robes. “No blood in the moot,” she rasped. “Let the pact stand—for now. But the swamp remembers. And it waits.”

The crowd dispersed, muttering, but the sharp edge of hostility had not dulled.

---

That night, back in the hut, Rian confronted Gurjin in a low, heated whisper.

“You nearly challenged half your clan!”

“They would’ve torn you apart otherwise,” Gurjin snapped back, then softened. “I won’t let them, Rian. You don’t understand how close it came.”

Rian’s anger dissolved into something else—something warmer, sharper, almost frightening. Gurjin had risked everything, not for politics, not for alliances, but for him.

“You can’t keep protecting me like that,” Rian said, though his voice shook.

“I can,” Gurjin murmured, leaning close. “I will.”

The fire between them lingered long after the swamp outside had gone quiet.

Chapter Text

The swamp at night was never quiet. Even under the silver veil of Thra’s moons, when most clans lay in slumber, the Drenchen marsh sang with restless life—croaking swamp-beasts, the shrill trills of night-insects, and the bubbling sighs of unseen things beneath the mire. Rian lay awake in the hammock that Gurjin had hung for him between two thick-rooted mangroves. The woven vines cradled his body far more comfortably than the hard cots of Stonewood barracks ever had, yet sleep refused him.

He rolled onto his side, listening to Gurjin’s deep, steady breaths in the hammock across from his own. His friend—his mate now, if the Drenchen pact was to be believed—seemed at peace. Moonlight glistened faintly across the ridges of Gurjin’s skin, picking out the lines of strength in his broad shoulders. Rian’s chest tightened with something he couldn’t name.

He thought of how Gurjin had stood at his side during the chieftain’s council, wordlessly supporting him, then had spoken with a pride and conviction that made the Drenchen elders nod in respect. Rian hadn’t known his friend could wield his voice like that—firm as stone, calm as the tide.

And yet here they were, bound together in a lie.

A mosquito-bird whined near his ear. Rian batted it away with a muttered curse, then sat up. His skin was slick with humidity. The swamp pressed in around him, hot and damp and alive. He swung his legs over the side of the hammock, bare feet finding a root that jutted out of the muck. The air smelled of moss, rot, and night-blooming flowers—cloying, heavy, intoxicating.

“Can’t sleep?” Gurjin’s voice was low, roughened by drowsiness, but it carried easily across the small clearing.

Rian started. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Gurjin pushed himself upright, the hammock swaying beneath his weight. His long hair fell loose over one shoulder, tangled from sleep. He studied Rian for a long moment, then huffed a quiet laugh. “You look like a Stonewood owl, eyes wide and twitching at every sound.”

Rian managed a half-smile. “Hard to sleep when every branch croaks or hisses.”

“That’s the swamp singing. Means it’s safe. If the swamp goes quiet, then you should worry.” Gurjin stretched, the motion rolling muscle across his arms and chest. He stood and padded barefoot over the roots toward Rian, crouching beside him. His presence was grounding, the heat of his body close even in the thick air.

“Want me to keep watch so you can sleep?” Gurjin asked, softer now.

Rian shook his head. “No. Just… thinking.”

“About what?”

“About this.” He gestured vaguely between them, then to the swamp. “About pretending to be your mate in front of your whole clan. About the chieftain watching us like we’re some… test.”

Gurjin’s eyes flickered, moonlight catching green-gold in them. “It is a test. The pact only holds if it looks real. If the Drenchen believe you belong here—believe you belong with me—then you gain their trust.”

“And if I fail?”

“You won’t.” The certainty in Gurjin’s voice was so steady, so absolute, that Rian’s breath caught.

For a moment, neither spoke. Only the swamp murmured around them. Then Gurjin nudged his shoulder against Rian’s, casual, grounding. “Come. Walk with me. The night’ll feel lighter if you move through it instead of lying awake.”

They followed the narrow root-paths into the marsh, torches left behind. Gurjin moved as if he could see in the dark, each step careful but assured. Rian trailed after him, heart thudding with every slip where the muck tried to swallow his boots. Twice, Gurjin’s hand shot out to steady him—strong fingers around his wrist, heat seeping into his skin. Each time, Rian muttered thanks, flustered at how steady those hands felt.

The swamp widened into a moonlit pool. Its surface shimmered with pale blossoms, wide as plates, that opened only at night. Frogs croaked lazily along the edges, and fireflies blinked in slow rhythms above the water. Gurjin crouched at the bank, trailing his hand through the water, his gills flexing faintly at his neck.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmured.

Rian lowered himself beside him, wary of the mud. “It is.”

“This is the place my mother brought me when I was a hatchling,” Gurjin said quietly. “Said the swamp remembers us when we’re small. Said if you listen, the water whispers back your name.” He glanced at Rian with a crooked smile. “Want to try?”

Rian snorted. “The swamp doesn’t know my name.”

“You’d be surprised what it knows.” Gurjin leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Rian’s. “Go on. Just listen.”

Feeling foolish, Rian closed his eyes. The swamp sang—a chorus of water, insects, distant croaks. Beneath it, softer still, he thought he heard… something. A murmur like breath through reeds. A sound that tugged at him. He opened his eyes, startled, and found Gurjin watching him.

“You heard it.” It wasn’t a question.

“Maybe,” Rian admitted. “I don’t know what it was.”

Gurjin’s grin softened into something warmer. “The swamp knows when someone belongs.”

The words sank deep, pulling at Rian’s chest. He looked away quickly, focusing on the lilies glowing on the water. His throat felt tight. “This pretending… it’s harder than I thought.”

“I know.” Gurjin’s voice was quiet. “But we’ll carry it together. You don’t have to bear it alone.”

Rian let out a shaky laugh. “You always say the right thing, don’t you?”

“Not always. But for you, I try.”

The warmth in Gurjin’s tone made Rian’s heart skip. He glanced at him—and in the still, shimmering light, Gurjin looked less like a warrior, less like a Drenchen giant, and more like the boy who had once shared stolen sweets with him in the castle kitchens.

A silence stretched between them, charged and fragile. Then Gurjin shifted back, breaking it gently. “Come on. Let’s head back before the marsh decides to swallow us whole.”

They walked side by side, closer now, Rian brushing Gurjin’s arm each time the roots narrowed. And when they returned to their hammocks, sleep finally came to Rian—not because the swamp had quieted, but because Gurjin’s steady breathing was enough to drown out the rest.

Chapter Text

The days passed slowly in the Drenchen swamp, time stretching out in a way Rian wasn’t used to. In Stone-in-the-Wood, life was regimented, measured by the ringing of the guard bells, the shifting of patrols, the bustle of the market square. Here, there were no bells, no patrols, no shouted orders. The swamp dictated its own rhythm, and Rian was still struggling to fall in step with it.

Some mornings began with fog thick enough to blind him, and others with the sun burning hot and heavy on his back. Gurjin’s people rose with the changing of the marsh tides, sometimes waking before dawn to hunt the eel-frogs, sometimes lingering until midday before stirring. It all seemed so careless to Rian—until he realized how naturally everything still flowed. They wasted no effort, no breath. Even idleness here had purpose.

But he was not idle. Every day, he felt the eyes on him. Watching. Weighing. Measuring whether this Stonewood ambassador was strong enough to endure the swamp—or foolish enough to drown in it.

And so, he trained. Gurjin made sure of it.

---

The morning of the eighth day, Gurjin shook him awake with a rough hand and a grin that was entirely too wide for dawn.

“Up, Rian,” he rumbled, his voice a gravelly bass that carried no softness. “You’re coming with me.”

Rian groaned, rolling onto his side, clutching the thin moss-woven blanket around his shoulders. “It’s barely light,” he muttered. “Can’t this wait until—”

“No,” Gurjin cut him off, tugging the blanket away with a single jerk. “You’ve been here over a week. You’ve seen our fires, our feasts, and our councils. Time you learned something real.”

That earned Rian’s attention. He sat up, blinking blearily at Gurjin’s sharp smile. “Something real?”

“Swimming,” Gurjin said simply. “Not paddling like a scaredling. Not flailing about when the water’s over your head. Swimming like a Drenchen.”

Rian’s stomach twisted. He’d been avoiding this particular inevitability since his arrival. He wasn’t helpless in water, not exactly—but compared to the Drenchen, who seemed born of it, he might as well be a drowning pup.

Still, refusing wasn’t an option. Not if he wanted to keep the respect he was scraping together day by day.

---

They went down to the deeper waters of the marsh, where the fog thinned and the trees opened into a pool vast and still. It mirrored the sky, the surface broken only by the occasional ripple of a swamp-creature lurking beneath.

Rian hesitated at the edge, boots sinking into the mud. “It’s… deeper than I expected.”

“That’s the point.” Gurjin shrugged off his armor and tossed it onto the reeds. Bare-armed and broad-shouldered, his skin gleamed with the morning damp. “If you’re going to pretend to be my mate, you need to know how to survive here. That means water. Drenchen water.”

“I never agreed to pretend drowning,” Rian muttered.

But Gurjin only laughed, a low, rumbling sound that carried more fondness than mockery. “You’ll be fine. I won’t let you sink. Unless you try to cheat, then maybe I’ll dunk you.”

Rian shot him a glare. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would,” Gurjin countered easily, before diving into the pool.

The water swallowed him whole in a single movement, leaving only a cascade of ripples. Rian held his breath, waiting for him to resurface—until he realized he wasn’t coming up at all.

Just as panic prickled his chest, Gurjin burst from the water a few lengths away, hair plastered to his face, gills fluttering at his neck. He flicked his wet hair aside with one clawed hand, grinning like a predator.

“Your turn.”

---

The water was colder than Rian expected. It clutched at his chest, dragged him down with every kick. He thrashed, gasping, his strokes clumsy compared to Gurjin’s sleek, easy movements.

“Stop fighting it,” Gurjin called, circling him like a swamp-shark. “Let the water carry you.”

“I’m trying!” Rian spluttered, choking on a mouthful of marsh water.

Gurjin sighed, swam closer, and caught him around the waist in one powerful arm. “Relax. You’re stiff as a tree branch. You’ll never float like that.”

“I don’t float,” Rian gritted, clinging to Gurjin’s shoulder for balance.

“Then I’ll make you.”

And before Rian could argue, Gurjin flipped him onto his back. Rian flailed, swore, then stilled as Gurjin’s broad hand held him steady beneath the spine. The sky stretched above him, wide and endless. For the first time, the water did not feel like an enemy.

“There,” Gurjin murmured, voice unexpectedly soft. “See? You won’t sink. Not while I’ve got you.”

Something in his tone made Rian’s chest tighten—not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.

---

The lesson stretched long. Gurjin taught him how to breathe, how to let the water move around him, how to dive and kick in rhythm. Rian swallowed more than his share of swamp, but each failure only made Gurjin grin wider.

“You’re stubborn,” Gurjin teased, hauling him up after another failed dive.

“Says the one who won’t let me drown in peace,” Rian shot back, panting.

“If you drown, who’s going to keep pretending to be my mate?”

Rian flushed, the heat burning even against the chill of the water. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Of course I am.” Gurjin’s grin softened into something steadier, more serious. “But you’re learning. And that matters.”

---

By the time they dragged themselves back onto the bank, Rian was exhausted, clothes clinging wet to his skin. Gurjin stretched out beside him, chest heaving, droplets rolling off his shoulders.

For a long while, they lay in silence, the swamp humming around them.

Finally, Rian spoke, voice low. “When you said… if I drown, you’d save me. Did you mean it?”

Gurjin turned his head, meeting his gaze. The playful spark was gone now, replaced by something weightier. “Always.”

Rian swallowed, heart hammering harder than it had in the water. He turned away before his face betrayed too much.

---

That night, as they returned to camp, Rian found the Drenchen watching him differently. Where before there had been doubt, there was now a glimmer of acknowledgment. He had faced their water and lived.

And though he would never admit it aloud, a part of him thrilled at that silent acceptance. Another part thrilled at something else entirely—the memory of Gurjin’s hand steady at his spine, the promise in his voice.

The swamp was no longer just hostile territory. Slowly, dangerously, it was beginning to feel like something else. Something almost like home.

Chapter Text

The swamp had a way of holding secrets. Mist rolled low across the water, curling around the roots of blackened trees, and frogs sang their endless chorus somewhere deep within the reeds. By now, Rian had grown accustomed to the strange music of the Drenchen night. What he had not grown accustomed to was the weight of so many eyes on him—eyes that watched from the shadows of huts, from the water itself, from warriors who lingered just long enough for him to notice before melting back into the murk.

He tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders. It was damp from the marsh air, but more than that, he felt exposed. He had survived Skeksis lies, rebellion, bloodshed, and betrayal, but here, in the heart of the Drenchen, his survival hinged on a pact held together with reeds and suspicion.

And at the center of it stood Gurjin.

The ruse had been Gurjin’s idea, but it was Rian who felt the full brunt of it. Every time someone referred to him as “bonded,” every time Gurjin’s hand rested casually against his back, every time the older Gelfling spoke in low Drenchen tones that rolled like thunder over stone—Rian felt himself falter. It was easier to face Skeksis steel than the press of his own racing heart.

That evening, in their shared dwelling, Gurjin was oiling his armor with a cloth soaked in swamp resin, his movements slow and practiced. The firelight carved out his shoulders, broad and scarred, his gills flaring faintly with each steady breath.

“You’re glaring again,” Gurjin rumbled without looking up.

“I’m not glaring,” Rian muttered. “I’m…thinking.”

Gurjin finally lifted his head, amusement flickering across his face. “You think very loudly, stone-boy. What’s gnawing at you this time?”

Rian crossed his arms, shifting his weight. “I don’t like how they look at me. Like I don’t belong. Like I’m some—some soft Stonewood pet you dragged in.”

The humor in Gurjin’s eyes dimmed. He set down the cloth and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “You do not belong,” he said simply. “Not yet. That is why we are pretending. They will not accept an outsider unless they see you as mine. It is the only way.”

The words were blunt, but not unkind. And though they should have stung, there was something steadying in Gurjin’s honesty.

Later, Gurjin insisted they walk through the village together. Rian had resisted—he hated the way the marsh clung to his boots and the way every Drenchen gaze weighed him down—but Gurjin would not be swayed.

“You must be seen,” Gurjin said, strapping on his shoulder-plates. “If you hide, they will never accept you. If you walk beside me, they will have no choice but to watch and wonder.”

Rian tried to argue, but when Gurjin’s hand closed around his wrist, firm but not forceful, he relented.

The village was alive with smoke and chatter. Drenchen children darted between huts, their laughter echoing. Warriors polished their weapons, and elders sat weaving reeds into charms. Everywhere, eyes followed them.

Rian felt the burn of suspicion, but Gurjin walked with his head high, every inch the warrior. When they passed the chieftain’s hut, Gurjin’s arm slid around Rian’s shoulders, pulling him close in a gesture so casual—and so utterly possessive—that Rian nearly tripped over his own feet.

Heat rushed to his face. He wanted to shove Gurjin away, but the look in the warrior’s eyes silenced him: calm, commanding, as though daring anyone to question what they saw.

For the first time, the stares softened. Some curious, some assessing, but less sharp. Less cruel.

And that was when Rian realized the truth—Gurjin had been right.

Of course, not all were convinced.

As they neared the edge of the village, a group of younger warriors blocked their path. The leader, a broad-shouldered male with webbed fingers scarred from years of spear-work, sneered.

“So this is your mate, Gurjin? A Stonewood runt?”

Rian bristled, stepping forward. “Careful what you call me—”

But Gurjin’s arm was already across his chest, holding him back. His gills flared wide, teeth bared in a flash of warning. The swamp went quiet, even the frogs silenced by the growl in Gurjin’s throat.

“Say it again,” Gurjin said softly, deadly calm.

The warriors shifted uneasily, but their leader spat into the mud. “Stonewood are weak. If he is your mate, prove it. Show us he can survive here.”

Rian’s pulse thundered. He half expected Gurjin to fight then and there, but instead the Drenchen warrior only leaned down, lips brushing dangerously close to Rian’s ear.

“Do not flinch,” he whispered.

Then Gurjin pressed a firm kiss to his temple, slow and deliberate, his hand gripping Rian’s jaw with a possessive force that made the watching warriors murmur.

Rian froze, his entire body stiff with heat and shock. Gurjin’s breath ghosted against his skin, deep and steady, until finally he released him and turned his glare back on the group.

“Mine,” Gurjin said, voice low and final. “Question him again, and you question me.”

The silence stretched. Then, one by one, the warriors looked away. The leader spat once more, but with less confidence, and shoved past them.

When they were gone, Rian’s knees nearly gave out.

Back in their dwelling, Rian finally burst.

“You—You kissed me!” he hissed, pacing. His face still burned, his chest tight. “In front of everyone!”

Gurjin leaned against the doorway, arms folded, expression maddeningly calm. “Yes. That was the point.”

“The point?!” Rian nearly threw his cloak at him. “You could have just said something, or—”

“Words are weak,” Gurjin interrupted. “Drenchen believe what they see. Now they have seen.”

Rian gaped at him, torn between fury and…something else. Something hot and aching that curled low in his stomach.

Gurjin’s gaze softened slightly. He pushed off the doorway and stepped closer, close enough that Rian had to tilt his chin up to meet his eyes.

“You did well,” Gurjin murmured. “You did not flinch. That matters.”

Rian swallowed hard, his voice failing him.

For a heartbeat, he thought Gurjin might touch him again—might close the last sliver of space between them. But instead the warrior stepped back, retrieving his armor as though nothing had happened.

“Rest,” Gurjin said. “Tomorrow, we train.”

Rian stood rooted, the ghost of Gurjin’s touch still burning across his skin, knowing sleep would be impossible.

Outside, the swamp whispered and shifted, secrets carrying on the mist. Somewhere in the reeds, frogs resumed their song, but Rian could still hear Gurjin’s voice, deep and steady in his mind.

Mine.

And though it had been only for show, only to protect the pact, Rian could not shake the shiver that ran through him.

Not from fear.

From something far more dangerous.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of the ambush lingered long after the last enemy had fallen. The swamp was hushed now, but not with peace—it was the silence that came after violence, heavy with the smell of blood, churned mud, and the faint metallic tang of sweat and steel. Even the insects kept their distance, the natural rhythm of the marsh interrupted by spilled essence and fear.

Rian sat slumped against the roots of a massive tree, his chest heaving. His sword was still in his hands, though his grip was trembling and slick. He barely registered the weight until Gurjin knelt before him and carefully pried the blade away.

“Enough,” Gurjin said softly, though his tone carried the authority of command. His hands—large, strong, stained with the swamp’s muck and streaks of crimson—closed around Rian’s wrists and steadied them. “You’ve fought hard enough. Let it go.”

Rian let the sword slide free. His breath hitched as he finally looked up at Gurjin, seeing not the stalwart warrior he always seemed to be, but someone battered—cuts scored along his arms, blood trickling down his temple, his armor dented where a blade had struck too close. And yet his eyes—those deep, steady Drenchen eyes—were fixed only on Rian, unwavering.

“You’re hurt,” Rian whispered, his voice raw.

“We both are,” Gurjin admitted. He sat back slightly, still close, and began to inspect Rian’s side where blood had soaked through his tunic.

Rian flinched when Gurjin pressed against the wound, but his protests died when Gurjin gave him a sharp look. “Don’t you dare pull away. Let me see.”

The warmth in his voice softened the order, but the command remained. Gurjin tore a strip of cloth from his own sleeve and began to bind the wound with careful, precise movements. His hands were rough, yet his touch was gentler than Rian had expected, as though he feared breaking him if he pressed too hard.

Rian studied him, the weight of the moment pressing down like a tide. For years, Gurjin had been his anchor, the one constant when the world felt too heavy. But tonight, after bloodshed and terror, there was something different in the air. The closeness wasn’t just comfort—it was need.

“Gurjin,” Rian murmured, his voice trembling more than he wished. “Back there, when they had you surrounded—you didn’t hesitate. You threw yourself into it, without thinking. For me.”

“For us,” Gurjin corrected firmly. His hands tied off the bandage and lingered on Rian’s side, his thumb brushing against his ribs almost unconsciously. “Always for us.”

The words struck deeper than any wound.

For a long time, neither spoke. The swamp hummed faintly in the distance, as if it too was waiting for something. Finally, Rian broke the silence.

“I was afraid,” he admitted. His gaze dropped to his hands, still trembling in his lap. “Not just of dying. Of… losing you.”

Gurjin’s breath caught. He reached forward and tilted Rian’s chin up so their eyes met. “You won’t lose me,” he said, with a quiet ferocity that allowed no room for doubt. “Not now. Not ever. I swore that long ago—even if I never said it out loud.”

Rian’s throat tightened. He wanted to speak, but words tangled in his chest, trapped behind the storm of emotions welling up. Gratitude. Fear. Something deeper, sharper, that he hadn’t dared to name until now.

Gurjin must have seen it in his eyes, because he leaned closer. His forehead touched Rian’s, grounding him in a way nothing else could. For a heartbeat, the world stilled.

“We should move,” Gurjin murmured eventually, though his voice was low, reluctant. “Others might come looking.”

Rian gave the smallest nod, though his hands gripped Gurjin’s forearms, as if to hold him in place just a little longer. “Just… a moment more.”

And Gurjin, despite the urgency, obeyed.

They made their way through the swamp slowly, the adrenaline fading into exhaustion. Gurjin insisted on walking slightly ahead, clearing the path, though he kept glancing back to check on Rian. The Drenchen’s body bore the marks of battle, but his posture remained strong, almost protective to a fault.

Rian, limping slightly, found comfort in that steady figure before him. Yet with every glance, he felt the storm inside him swell. He had seen Gurjin fight like a beast unleashed, heard him snarl with a rage that shook even hardened soldiers. But he had also felt the tenderness in Gurjin’s hands, the devotion in his words. Both sides were part of him. Both sides Rian craved.

By the time they reached a half-sunken hut on the edge of the marsh—a place Gurjin deemed safe enough for rest—Rian’s legs were trembling. He collapsed onto a pile of woven reeds while Gurjin barred the door with a heavy branch.

“You should lie down,” Gurjin said, his tone firm again.

Rian smirked faintly despite his exhaustion. “You’re bossy when you worry.”

“Only because you’re stubborn when you’re hurt.” Gurjin knelt beside him, checking the bandage again. His large hands brushed against Rian’s skin, sending a shiver that had nothing to do with the wound.

Rian caught his wrist. “Gurjin.”

The weight in his voice made Gurjin pause. Their eyes locked again, and this time, neither looked away.

“I can’t keep pretending,” Rian whispered. “Not after tonight. Not after everything.”

Gurjin’s breath grew shallow, but his hand turned under Rian’s grip, their fingers lacing together. “Then don’t.”

The silence stretched, thick with meaning.

And then, as if the swamp itself demanded it, Rian leaned forward. His lips brushed against Gurjin’s, tentative at first, then more certain as Gurjin responded. The kiss was slow, reverent, a promise sealed in the quiet between battles.

When they pulled apart, Rian rested his forehead against Gurjin’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

“I meant it,” Gurjin said softly, his arms encircling him. “Always for us.”

Rian smiled faintly, his eyes closing as exhaustion finally claimed him.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he slept without fear.

And Gurjin kept watch, a silent sentinel in the dark, ready to face whatever came next—so long as Rian was by his side.

Chapter Text

The swamp was alive that night. Lanterns carved from hollowed gourds swung gently from branches overhead, glowing like clusters of stars fallen into the trees. Bioluminescent moss spread along the damp ground, pulsing in slow rhythms that made the earth itself seem to breathe. The air shimmered with mist and the faint hum of insects, their wings singing counterpoint to the deep drums beating somewhere in the heart of the Drenchen gathering.

Rian had seen festivals before—Stonewood revelries marked by firelight, song, and wine—but this was different. This was darker, heavier, as though the swamp itself had risen to join the clan in a communion of secrets. Gurjin had explained only briefly: the Feast of Shadows came once a cycle, a ritual where the Drenchen honored their ancestors, their lost warriors, and the deep waters that protected them from the outside world. It was both a celebration and a warning—a reminder of power, of strength, of the price of survival.

Rian could feel eyes on him already.

Every step into the gathering circle tightened the knot in his stomach. His hand brushed instinctively against Gurjin’s, though he didn’t dare take it openly—not here, not when every gaze weighed him down with suspicion. Gurjin’s presence was steady, a quiet anchor, but Rian knew he couldn’t hide behind him forever. Tonight, he would be tested.

The Drenchen had gathered in concentric rings around a great pool of black water at the swamp’s center. The surface reflected little of the lantern light—it seemed to swallow brightness whole. In the middle stood a platform of reeds and woven roots, strong enough to hold dozens of Gelfling. Already, the elders were there, draped in swamp-green garments threaded with bone charms and feathers slick with swamp mist.

Drummers crouched low at the edge of the pool, striking heavy rhythms on stretched skins. Each beat echoed in Rian’s chest, making his heart pound to match their cadence.

Then came the warriors. Painted in streaks of ash and ochre, their arms slick with swamp mud, they entered in a slow, deliberate procession. Gurjin’s sisters were among them, carrying spears tipped with obsidian stone, their steps silent despite the wet earth. They circled the pool with the ease of predators, their gazes sharp, their smiles faint but dangerous.

When Rian stepped forward with Gurjin, the drumming shifted.

It wasn’t just his imagination—the rhythm faltered for half a breath before resuming, lower, heavier. The gazes sharpened. The air felt thicker.

“Stonewood,” someone muttered under their breath, just loud enough for Rian to hear.

His chest tightened, but Gurjin leaned subtly closer, his voice low, almost swallowed by the drums:

“Walk steady. Don’t bow your head. You’re with me.”

And so he did.

A tall Drenchen elder stepped forward onto the platform. Her hair was bound with reeds, her skin marked with scars old and new, her gills flaring faintly with each breath. When she raised her arms, the drumming ceased, and silence swept over the crowd like a tide.

“We gather in shadow,” she intoned, her voice deep and resonant. “We gather to honor the unseen, the drowned, the lost who guard us still. We gather to bind ourselves in strength.”

The crowd responded as one, their voices rumbling: “In strength.”

Rian felt the words vibrate in his bones.

The elder’s gaze cut toward him. He fought the urge to step back, though her eyes seemed to pierce through him as though he were already submerged in that black pool.

“And tonight,” she said slowly, “we witness a stranger among us. A Stonewood, standing in shadow that does not belong to him. Why does he come? Why is he allowed?”

Murmurs spread like ripples. Dozens of eyes bore into him, sharp as spear-tips.

Rian’s throat went dry. His tongue felt thick. He looked to Gurjin, but Gurjin didn’t speak for him. He only gave the slightest nod—an unspoken command: answer them yourself.

Rian swallowed, then stepped forward. His voice was rough, but he forced it to steady.

“I came because I was sent. Stonewood and Drenchen have struck a pact, and I am here to keep it. I came because I trust Gurjin, and he trusts me. And I came because… because I want to understand. I want to stand with you, not against you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Then, a low, derisive laugh rose from the crowd. One of the warriors, a broad-shouldered Drenchen with sharp teeth bared, stepped closer to the pool’s edge.

“Pretty words. But shadow is not won by words. Shadow is earned.”

The elder nodded once. “So it has always been. So it will always be. If you are to stand among us, Stonewood, you will prove yourself.”

The crowd rumbled approval. The drums resumed, slow and thunderous.

Rian’s gut twisted. He had known this moment would come—yet knowing did nothing to ease the dread.

They led him to the edge of the black pool. Gurjin followed, but was stopped by two warriors crossing their spears before him.

“This is his shadow to claim,” the elder said.

Gurjin’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists, but Rian shot him a look—a look that begged him not to interfere.

Rian stood at the water’s edge, staring into the pool. It was darker than night, its surface unbroken. He could see nothing below, only his own reflection trembling faintly in the ripples.

“What’s in there?” he asked.

The warrior who had mocked him grinned, gills flaring. “You’ll see.”

The elder raised her hand. “Enter. Submerge. Find what waits in shadow. Return, and you will be counted among us. Fail, and the swamp will decide your worth.”

The crowd chanted low, rhythmic: “In shadow, strength. In shadow, strength.”

Rian’s skin prickled. His heart hammered. But he could not back down. Not here. Not with Gurjin watching. Not with the weight of the pact resting on his shoulders.

He stripped off his cloak, his boots, the belt at his waist, leaving only his tunic and trousers. He felt exposed under so many eyes, but he forced his chin high, his steps steady, as he waded into the pool.

The water was icy, clinging to him like oil. He gasped as it reached his chest, then his shoulders. His skin burned with cold.

And then—he took a breath, closed his eyes, and dove under.

The world vanished.

Sound, light, even thought seemed swallowed whole. The water was thick, pressing against him from all sides, dragging at his limbs. He kicked, but the weight seemed endless.

Shapes flickered in the dark—shadows that weren’t his own. A hand brushing past his leg. A face forming in the murk, hollow-eyed and grinning before dissolving into black. His lungs burned already, but still he pushed downward, searching for… what?

The drums above had vanished. He could no longer tell which way was up or down. Only endless dark.

And then—he saw it.

A faint glimmer, deep below. A shard of light, small but steady, glowing like the heart of a star.

Something in him knew: that was what he had to reach.

But as he swam toward it, shadows closed in. Hands clawed at him, pulling, dragging him backward. He kicked, twisted, thrashed, his chest screaming for air. His strength faltered. The shadows whispered—voices of doubt, of failure, of betrayal.

“You are not one of us.”
“You will drown here.”
“Stonewood weakling.”

He tried to shut them out, but they pressed in, louder, closer. His body convulsed as his lungs begged for breath. The light seemed impossibly far.

And then—another voice.

Low, steady. Familiar.

“Rian. You are stronger than this. Swim.”

It wasn’t real—he knew that. Gurjin wasn’t here, couldn’t be. But the voice steadied him all the same.

He clawed forward, every stroke agony. The shadows ripped at him, but he pressed on, inch by inch, until his hand finally closed around the shard of light.

It pulsed in his palm, warm even through the freezing dark.

And in that instant, the shadows let go.

Rian burst from the water with a ragged gasp, clutching the glowing shard to his chest. The crowd erupted—not in mockery, but in raw, guttural cries that echoed through the swamp.

He staggered to the edge, dragging himself onto the reeds, every muscle trembling. Water streamed from his hair, his clothes clinging heavy to his skin. But in his hand, the shard burned bright—a fragment of swamp crystal, glowing with deep green fire.

The elder stepped forward, eyes alight. She lifted the shard high for all to see.

“He has faced shadow,” she proclaimed. “He has claimed strength. Tonight, this Stonewood stands among us.”

The crowd thundered approval, pounding their fists to their chests. Gurjin was at his side in an instant, hauling him to his feet, steadying him.

“You did it,” Gurjin murmured, pride thick in his voice.

Rian, still gasping, managed a weak grin. “Told you… I wouldn’t drown.”

Gurjin’s laugh was rough, but full of relief. His arm tightened briefly around Rian’s shoulders before he let go—aware of all the eyes still watching.

But Rian didn’t need the gesture to feel it. He had proven himself tonight—not only to the Drenchen, but to himself.

And yet, as the feast truly began, and the drums rose again in triumph, Rian couldn’t shake one thought that lingered in the back of his mind:

The shadows had whispered with too much clarity. Too much intent.

And he wasn’t sure they were done with him yet.