The defiant flicker of warmth from the campfire did little to dispel the bone-deep chill. They had made camp on a solid islet of packed earth and gnarled roots. Murky water lapped at its edges with squelching sounds. The silence and the scent of decay swelled to swallow their thoughts.

  After a meager meal of dried rations rehydrated to a slimy mulch with the water Myanaa had boiled and filtered, most of the party succumbed to an uneasy slumber. The K’Tahn’Corr, with its unseen watchers and its festering hostility had drained them more than their endless trudging.

  Ronigren and Sabine found sleep elusive. They volunteered for the first watch, positioning themselves near the edge of the islet, their backs to the flickering fire, watching the impenetrable darkness.

  They stayed in a companionable silence, broken only by the sigh of the wind through the skeletal trees and the distant, mournful cry of some unknown night bird.

  "Can’t sleep or won’t sleep?" Ronigren asked, his voice low.

  Sabine shook her head, her tall silhouette outlined against the faint, swamp-gas luminescence that shimmered over the distant waters, reflecting and twisting the glow of their campfire. "Too much… quiet. It feels louder than any battle, somehow." She sat down gingerly on the muddy ground and hugged her knees to her chest. "Back in Millford, if I couldn't sleep, I’d climb the old Watcher’s Oak by the river. You could see the stars so clearly from up there. Made everything feel… smaller. Simpler. It would calm me down. So much so that I’d have to be careful not to nod off and fall off the tree." She offered with a strained smile while absent-mindedly tracing lines in the mud with the heel of her water-proof boots.

  Ronigren nodded slowly. "See, I used to patrol the northern borders near the Whisperwind Peaks. On clear nights, the stars looked close enough to touch. I felt alone, but not lonely. Just… part of something. Something vast and ancient. Reassuring, in a way." He paused, then found himself adding, "My father… he wanted me to be a scholar. Or a courtier. Sent me to the Academy in Alkaer. Hated every moment of it. All I ever wanted was a sword in my hand and the wind at my back. Be careful what you wish for, huh?"

  Sabine turned to look at him, intrigued by this glimpse into his past. Sir Ronigren of Varden was the steadfast leader, the brave knight who had faced goblins and stone guardians, who made difficult decisions with a calm assurance she deeply envied. "You don't seem like you hated it," she said. "You must have been a good student. You always seem to know what to do."

  Ronigren let out a short, humorless laugh. "Appearances can be deceiving, Sabine. Most of the time, I’m just choosing the least terrible option, and hoping it doesn't get us all killed." He turned to her. "You, on the other hand… you seem to face every new terror, every strange revelation, with a kind of fearless curiosity. Even when that arrow struck you in Woodhall, you were more angry than afraid."

  Fearless? She, who had spent half her life feeling like an awkward, oversized outsider, who was currently terrified of the oppressive silence and the unseen things lurking in this cursed swamp? "I just don’t like being helpless, Sir Ronigren. And I suppose… I’ve always been a bit too curious for my own good. Father always said it would get me into trouble." A shadow crossed her face as she thought of Masillius, sleeping fitfully nearby. "He… he worries so much. I wish I could be as strong, as sure of myself, as he thinks I am. Or as you are."

  As the fire dwindled and the deep, rhythmic breathing of their sleeping companions filled the small islet, a foul creature stirred. From the murky, stagnant water at the edge of their camp, a thick, dark vine, glistening with a lurid sheen and covered in moss, began to uncoil. It slithered with a silent, serpentine grace, an extension of the swamp’s own uneasy torpor.

  Its tip quivered as if tasting the air, bypassing Ronigren and Sabine, creeping towards the deeper sleepers.

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  The vine slithered on Gregan’s exposed hand. The corporal, lost in dreams of sunnier, happier days in Woodhall, merely twitched, a faint smile on his lips. The moss on the vine released a fine shimmering powder. Gregan’s smile deepened, and his breathing grew heavier.

  The vine continued its insidious work, coiling gently around Masillius’s ankle, then Artholan’s wrist, reaching for Myanaa, Marta, Finn, even Snik and Xylia-Kai where they slept. With each touch, the same shimmering powder, accompanied by faint, troubled murmurs.

  Ronigren and Sabine shared their quiet confidences, oblivious. The insidious vine continued its silent work. The fine, shimmering powder it released settled upon the sleeping forms, drawing them deeper and deeper into a venomous slumber. And in that slumber, true horror bloomed.

  He was back in Millford, but the town was… wrong. The familiar cottages were dilapidated, their windows like vacant, staring eyes. The Verdant River, usually so clear and life-giving, flowed thick and black, like congealed blood. An unnatural silence hung over everything, broken only by a faint, incessant whimpering, a sound that clawed at his heart.

  He searched frantically for Sabine. "Sabine! Sabine, where are you, child?" His voice was a choked whisper, swallowed by the oppressive stillness. He ran through the deserted streets, his boots kicking up clouds of choking dust.

  He found her in the market square, a tiny, fragile babe, the same lost, petrified infant he had found in the wreckage of the carriage all those years ago. She was alone, huddled in a basket woven from thorny, black vines, and the whimpering was coming from her. Her small face was contorted in a silent scream, her eyes wide with unutterable terror.

  He reached for her, desperate to comfort her, to shield her, but his hands passed right through her, as if she were made of smoke. He tried again and again, his frustration mounting to a frantic, helpless agony. He could see her suffering, hear her gut-wrenching cries, but he could not touch her, could not save her. The black vines from the basket began to writhe, to grow, coiling around the infant Sabine, drawing her down, down into the black, viscous earth of the market square.

  "No!" he screamed. But no sound came. He was trapped, a helpless spectator, unable to protect his beloved daughter from a world intent on devouring her.

  The last sight before the darkness consumed him was Sabine’s tiny hand, reaching for him, her eyes filled with accusatory sorrow.

  Gregan was in The Weary Axe in Lastwall, the familiar stench of stale ale and woodsmoke filling his nostrils. But the tavern was empty, save for one figure seated at his usual table: Silla, his ex-wife, her face young and beautiful as he remembered it from their first meeting in Glencross, but her eyes… her eyes were cold, filled with an icy contempt.

  "You always were a disappointment, Gregan," she said in a venomous whisper that cut deeper than any blade. "A drunken, gambling lout. Always running away. Running from responsibility. Running from… me." The hurt in her eyes stabbed a hole in his gut.

  The tavern walls began to melt, to flow like muddy water, and he was back in Alderholt, amidst the burning ruins, the screams of the dying echoing in his ears; dead comrades by his side, dead foes under his blade. Hovering around him, the faces of the villagers he had failed to save, their rotten eyes accusing, their spectral hands reaching for him. He tried to swing his axe, but it was heavy, rooted to the ground. He was a coward, a failure, his bravado a hollow sham.

  Then the scene shifted again. He was in a vast, opulent gambling den, far grander than any he had ever frequented. The stakes were impossibly high, mountains of gold and glittering jewels piled on the table. But the other players… They were Stone-Skins, Drinkers-of-Fear, their off-white eyes gleaming with a cruel amusement. And the cards they dealt were but shards of bone, inscribed with screaming faces.

  He tried to fold, to run, but his hands were fused to the table. He was forced to play, forced to lose everything. His coin, his honor, his very soul. With each lost hand, Silla’s contemptuous laughter echoed louder, mingling with the triumphant roars of the ogres.

  "See, Gregan?" her voice whispered in his ear. "You lose everything. You always lose everything. You’re nothing but a broken, drunken fool, good for nothing but disappointing those who cared for you."

  He wanted to scream, to fight, to prove her wrong, but a crushing despair settled upon him. He was trapped, his will sapped, his spirit broken, drowning in a sea of his own failures and regrets.

  The nightmare vine tightened its coils, its mossy surface pulsing with each stolen dream, each harvested fear. The sleeping forms twitched and moaned, their faces contorted, their minds ensnared in personalized hells.