Night pressed down like a wet cloth.
The roost's gates closed behind them without a word. Kellen had given them supplies—dried provisions, a set of vials Ashra had eyed with barely concealed suspicion, and a rough charcoal sketch of the Basin's approach.
And he had given them their guide.
"You can call me Marris," the woman said, her voice low and rough as gravel. She was small, wiry, her cloak patched and mud-stained, her eyes bright and feral in the torchlight. "You keep up, you keep quiet, and you don't ask questions. That's how you stay alive out here."
Corwin glanced at Liran, who gave a half-shrug. "She's Kellen's best swamp-runner," he said under his breath. "Better her than no one."
Marris led them down a narrow trail that snaked into the marshlands, the ground growing softer with each step until it swallowed sound entirely. The night became a haze of reed shadows, whispering insects, and the slow lap of black water.
Corwin felt the map pulse faintly inside his coat, each beat syncing with the dull throb of the mark on his palm.
The silence was oppressive—only broken when Marris suddenly froze.
She held up a hand. "Listen."
At first, there was nothing. Then Corwin heard it: a faint rustling, too regular to be wind. The reeds just ahead swayed—not with the breeze, but as if something was passing through them.
Marris crouched low. "Carrion scouts. They're sweeping the marsh already."
Liran's hand went to his sword, but Marris shook her head sharply. "Steel is suicide in a place like this. The sound carries. Follow me."
She slipped into the shallows, barely rippling the surface, and they followed—Ashra muttering a quiet binding charm over their packs to keep them dry.
The water was icy around Corwin's boots, and the muck sucked at his feet with every step. The reeds grew thicker until they were moving through a living wall.
Then a shape passed just beyond them—tall, bone-masked, lantern swinging at its hip. The light passed over the water, catching on silver fish scales before moving on.
Corwin held his breath, heart hammering.
The scout stopped. Turned.
The lantern swung back toward them.
Ashra's fingers tightened on the hilt of a dagger.
Marris reached into her pouch, pulled something out—a scrap of fur—and flung it toward the far reeds. It hit the water with a splash.
The lantern light snapped toward the sound, and the masked figure waded after it without a word.
Marris hissed, "Move!"
They pushed forward, fast now, until the reeds thinned and the water drained into a shallow clearing.
Corwin collapsed to one knee, sucking in air. The mark on his palm was burning again—harder now, as if it wanted to drag him forward.
Ashra knelt beside him. "It's reacting."
"To what?" Corwin asked through clenched teeth.
Marris stood at the edge of the clearing, scanning the black water beyond. "The Basin's close," she said. "Closer than it should be. Something's pulling at it."
Liran swore softly. "The Carrion. They must be trying to force it open."
Corwin looked down at his hand. The glow was brighter now, visible even through the fabric of his sleeve.
"They're not just trying," he said slowly. "They're succeeding."
As if to answer him, a low, resonant hum rolled across the marsh—deep and bone-shaking, as though the earth itself had groaned awake.
Every bird in the reeds exploded into the air at once.
Marris turned, her face pale in the moonlight. "Run."
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