Mist clung low to the marsh, curling around the twisted roots and skeletal branches that jutted from the waterlogged earth. The air smelled of damp soil and distant rain. Dainar Grevath trudged along the narrow path, his boots sinking slightly into the mud. Each step sent ripples through stagnant pools, disturbing clusters of buzzing gnats.

The satchel at his side was half-filled — bundles of blackroot, curled marsh thistle, and fragments of shimmering wyrdstone. The stone pulsed faintly with residual magic, cool to the touch. Dangerous stuff. It could warp the land if left unchecked, but in careful hands, it was a tool. Or so the mages claimed. Dainar wasn’t one to put faith in words alone.

A raven called overhead, its cry hollow and distant. Ashmane, tethered a few paces behind, flicked his ears, snorting at the noise. "Easy, boy," Dainar murmured, running a rough hand along the horse’s muzzle. The beast’s black coat gleamed, though flecks of marsh mud marred his legs.

The sky, bruised and heavy with clouds, promised rain before dusk. Dainar bent to inspect a patch of ghostvine, its silver tendrils curling like smoke. Useful for warding charms — not that he believed in them. Still, the village mages paid well. He cut a clean length, tucking it away.

A ripple broke the surface of a nearby pool. His hand instinctively went to the knife at his belt, his muscles tensing. The water stilled. Likely a marsh frog. Or something less harmless.

“Just the marsh watchin’,” he muttered under his breath.

With one last glance at the shifting water, Dainar straightened and pressed on, the weight of wyrdstone at his hip a quiet reminder of the magic that still clung to the land — and the questions that refused to let him be.