"Some doors are not found—they are bled open."
Long before the fever, before the poison, Eliakim was curled in the corner of his home, his face buried in a book.
Rain tapped softly on the roof above, casting a gentle rhythm through the wooden beams of their cottage. Outside, his friends darted through fields, shouting and laughing as they played, but Eliakim remained indoors, fingers stained with ink and dust. Seraphine often scolded him gently: "Go on, you'll forget how to run with your legs if you read any longer," but he would only smile.
His father's bookshelf—more a shrine than furniture—towered against the back wall. Dozens of volumes, gathered through strange travels and even stranger trades, lined the worn shelves. Eliakim read them all: Herbal Alchemy of Hollow Roots, The Songs of Old Tongues, Beasts of Forgotten Realms, and even Chronicles of the Unseen, which made Seraphine quietly close the curtains when he read it.
He read during storms. He read beneath trees. He read in bed until sleep pulled the book from his hands. Not all of it made sense, but the words stirred something deep. It wasn't just curiosity—it was instinct.
Then came the sickness.
The summer sun hung lazily over Yldrahollow, but beneath its golden light, shadows stirred. Mareth had not come to the river that morning. Her fever had returned, fiercer than before, and Seraphine's worried eyes had searched the fields while Eliakim stared out the window, troubled.
"She ate the gallbladder," Lanrick said, wide-eyed. "The healer said it's poison from a riverbeast. She must've thought it was a fish egg."
"She's getting worse," Jora added quietly.
Eliakim didn't wait. He sprinted through the fields, past the wheat and the brook, through the trees into the silent hush of the house. Mareth lay pale and trembling, her breath shallow. The Skyling perched above her, feathers dim. Seraphine held a damp cloth to her brow.
"I can fix this," Eliakim said.
Seraphine looked at him, lips parting to speak—then stopped. Something in his gaze stilled her.
He raced to his father's bookshelf. His fingers skimmed the spines until he found it—Herbal Alchemy of Hollow Roots. He tore through its pages, eyes scanning with urgency. And then—
"There," he whispered, eyes wide. "Mireblossom and blackroot. Found in the Hollow Swamp. Antidote for riverbeast venom."
Without another word, he slammed the book shut, his breath hitching. Rain still trickled outside, now accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder—as if nature itself responded to his urgency.
He dashed from the room, heart pounding, feet barely touching the floor. Out the door, across the porch, into the drenched fields. He ran like a spark on dry leaves, ignoring Seraphine's call. The muddy paths of Yldrahollow blurred past as he veered toward the hills, wind and rain tearing at his cloak.
Toward the Hollow Swamp, toward danger—toward salvation.
Without waiting, he grabbed his sling, knife, and a satchel. The Skyling fluttered after him but quickly tucked itself into his cloak to avoid the rain, its small body pressing close to Eliakim's warmth, silent and sharp-eyed.
The swamp lay beyond the hills, tangled and forgotten. Few ventured there. The air thickened with mist, buzzing with insects. Each step Eliakim took squelched in muck and moss. Gnarled trees loomed like sentinels, their bark twisted and weeping.
He found the mireblossoms quickly—ghostly blue petals glowing faintly under the swamp's canopy. But the blackroot was deeper, buried in mud and shadows.
He crouched by a twisted root system, digging through the muck with careful hands. His blade unearthed something dense and black-veined—
Then the hiss came.
Low. Wet. Hungry.
From the tangle of roots, a serpent emerged. Massive, nearly as thick as a man's torso, its scales mottled with green and pitch. Eyes the color of rotting gold locked on him.
Eliakim froze.
The snake struck.
He rolled aside just in time, mud flying. The beast's fangs snapped shut inches from his shoulder. He slashed at it with his blade, slicing across a scale, but it only enraged the creature. It coiled and struck again, catching his arm.
Pain lanced through him. Blood welled from the bite as the serpent flung him backward. He crashed against a tree, gasping.
His thoughts spiraled—Mareth, dying. The swamp, alive. His own blood mixing with the mire.
The Skyling shrieked from above.
The snake lunged again. Eliakim gritted his teeth, hurled a stone from his sling, striking the serpent's eye. It howled, thrashing wildly. He dove, scrambling for the knife he'd dropped.
The serpent coiled around him—tight, crushing.
He wheezed, ribs groaning under the pressure. Stars danced at the edge of his vision. With his last strength, he jabbed the knife upward, under the creature's jaw, twisting deep.
But the beast didn't die.
It reeled, flailing, smashing him into tree trunks, dragging him through mud. Eliakim's skin tore, limbs screaming in pain. He fought, biting back agony, stabbing again and again. Finally, with a final lunge, he plunged the blade into its eye. The creature shrieked—a sound like boiling steam—and fell still, its weight crashing down.
Eliakim lay beneath it, breath ragged, body bruised and bloodied. Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself free.
Mud soaked his clothes. Blood mixed with the mire. He staggered to his knees, grabbing the precious blackroot from the dirt. But as he stood, he noticed something beneath the muck—a strange circular pattern etched into the earth.
A sigil.
His blood had touched it. For a moment, it shimmered faintly—then faded.
Eliakim blinked, heart pounding. Was it real? Or just his mind playing tricks in pain and exhaustion?
No time to ponder.
He wrapped the herbs in cloth and limped out of the swamp, the Skyling gliding silently overhead.
By nightfall, Mareth's fever broke.
Seraphine wept silently as Mareth stirred, the color slowly returning to her cheeks. Eliakim collapsed in a chair, bandaged and spent, but smiling.
"You saved her," Jora whispered.
"No," Eliakim said softly, glancing out the window toward the distant swamp. "She saved me too."
The Skyling perched on his shoulder, glowing faintly.
And far below Yldrahollow, in the deep where sigils slumbered beneath stone and root, a shard of the ancient seal stirred.