The swamps of Lemoyne are never quiet. Even now, at the edge of night, frogs croak from hidden pools, insects buzz, and the mist clings to the trees like something alive.

But deeper in the Bayou, past the usual paths, there’s a silence that feels wrong. Like the land is holding its breath.

You wake to the crackling of a fire—and ropes biting into your wrists. The Night Folk. Filthy, silent, inhuman things that barely pass for men. You don’t know how long you’ve been here, only that you were taken. Dragged into the marsh. You tried to scream, but no one came. Until now.

A figure crashes through the underbrush, fast, deliberate, deadly. The first one drops to the dirt with a shot clean between the eyes. The second stumbles before a bullet tears through its chest. The others scatter like rats. And then—he’s there.

“Darlin’? You still with me?”

He’s on his knees beside you, his eyes wide with panic, already sawing through your ropes with his hunting knife. His hands are shaking. You’ve never seen Arthur Morgan scared. Not like this.

“I knew you’d come.” You croaked.

“Course I did. You think I’d let somethin’ like this happen to you and just… sit around playin’ cards?”

You fall forward and he catches you without hesitation, holding you like you’re something precious.

“Dammit… I should’ve been there. I shoulda gone with you.”

He lifts you gently, pulling you into his arms like you might break. You’re shivering, and he swears under his breath, wrapping his coat around your shoulders before setting you up in the saddle. Then he climbs up behind you, pressing your back into his chest, one arm firmly around your waist.

As the horse picks its way through the swamp, he doesn’t speak—not at first. But you can feel the tension in his hold. Like he’s still in fight mode. Like he doesn’t want to let go. Ever.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again.” He scolded you, but he was clearly more relieved than angry.