The swamp began where the forest ended, a sudden collapse of earth into sucking mud and stagnant pools. The air thickened, heavy with decay, buzzing with unseen insects. A veil of mist stretched endless and impenetrable, and beyond it, no horizon.
Kaelen paused at the edge, boots sinking in the wet earth. "This is where you want to go?"
Lyra's silver hair clung damp to her cheek, her expression taut. "It's the only path they won't follow. Even Verrick fears the Shadowfen."
Kaelen scanned the mire, unease prickling his skin. The swamp seemed alive, its twisted trees bending like watchers, its waters rippling though no wind stirred. "And why is that?"
"Because," Lyra whispered, "nothing leaves unchanged."
---
They waded in.
The muck dragged at Kaelen's boots, each step a battle against the earth itself. Strange lights flickered in the mist, soft as candle flames, vanishing whenever he looked directly at them.
Lyra moved with eerie confidence, stepping from stone to root to submerged path as though she had walked here a hundred times. Her presence was the only thing keeping him steady.
Hours blurred. The sun vanished, or perhaps the swamp swallowed it. The mist grew thicker, pressing in, dampening sound. Even Kaelen's breath seemed muffled, absorbed by the silence.
And then the whispers began.
At first faint, like distant echoes. Then louder, voices that weren't his own.
Kaelen.
He froze. The voice was familiar—his brother's, low and steady, just as it had sounded the night before his death.
You left me to die on the field. You ran when the arrows fell.
Kaelen's chest constricted. His brother had fallen at the Battle of Skyridge. Kaelen had fought to the last blade, dragging comrades to safety until his hands bled. He had not run. He hadn't.
"Don't listen," Lyra's voice cut through the fog, sharp and commanding. "The fen feeds on memory. On guilt. It will wear your face against you."
Kaelen clenched his jaw, forcing his steps forward. "Then tell it to find another prey."
But the whispers didn't stop.
Now it was his father's voice, filled with scorn. You were never worthy of the family name. You're no son of mine—only a failure grasping at honor.
Kaelen's vision swam. The swamp pressed tighter, the ground threatening to swallow him whole. He nearly stumbled until Lyra's hand caught his arm, her grip fierce.
Her silver eyes glowed in the dim. "Anchor yourself. Hold to something real. Me. Now."
He met her gaze, breathing ragged, and for a moment the voices dulled. Her touch was warm, steady, a tether in the endless mire.
They pressed on.
---
Night—if it could be called night—fell without warning. The swamp shifted beneath them, paths rearranging, pools bubbling with unseen life. Strange shapes drifted in the mist, tall and twisted, moving when no wind stirred.
"Shadows," Lyra murmured. "The remnants of the Shadowborn."
Kaelen gripped his sword. "Remnants?"
"They were once fae, long ago. Touched by the crown's fire, but it consumed them. Now they wander, half-mad, hungering for the spark in others."
As if summoned, one emerged.
It stepped from the mist, its form wrong, stretched too thin, its eyes empty voids. Its mouth opened, but no sound came—only a low hum that rattled Kaelen's bones.
Another appeared. Then another.
The swamp grew darker, filled with their shapes, closing in.
Kaelen raised his blade. "Tell me this isn't the part where you say running is our only chance."
Lyra's expression was grim. "No. This is the part where you burn."
The shadows lunged.
Kaelen swung, his blade cleaving through mist and half-flesh. It shrieked, dissolving, but two more took its place. Lyra unleashed fire, brilliant and white-hot, her flames brighter here than ever before. They cut through the swamp like a beacon, but for every shadow burned, another rose.
Kaelen felt the heat in his chest again—the spark, restless, demanding release. His pulse thundered, the fire clawing to be free. He hesitated.
Lyra's voice reached him, sharp and urgent. "Stop resisting! If you don't wield it, it will devour you."
The shadows surged closer, claws raking across his arm, leaving lines of frost instead of blood.
Kaelen roared, thrusting out his hand.
The crown's fire exploded from him, not a controlled flame but a storm—gold and scarlet, wild and searing. The swamp lit like dawn, shadows burning away in a chorus of screams.
The light lingered in the mist, then dimmed. Silence returned.
Kaelen dropped to one knee, gasping. His hands shook, his veins glowing faintly before the light faded.
Lyra knelt beside him, her face pale. For once, there was no mockery in her voice—only awe, and fear.
"You're changing faster than I thought."
Kaelen swallowed hard. "If this is what your crown does, I want no part of it."
Her gaze searched his, unreadable. "Want it or not, the Shadowfen has marked you. The spark is binding itself to your soul. Every step we take, you walk further from the man you were."
Kaelen's chest tightened—not from the fire, but from her words. He didn't want to lose himself. He didn't want to become a monster.
But as they rose and pressed deeper into the swamp, he couldn't shake the feeling that a piece of him had already been left behind.
They camped on a patch of dry ground, surrounded by stagnant pools that reflected the faint glow of the mist. Kaelen sat with his back to a twisted tree, sword laid across his knees.
Lyra sat opposite, firelight painting her sharp features. For the first time since their flight, she looked… weary. Mortal.
"Why do you care if I survive?" Kaelen asked quietly.
Her silver eyes lifted to his. Shadows danced across them, but her voice was steady. "Because if you fall, the crown falls with you. And then all of us are damned."
Kaelen studied her, the way her fire lit her pale skin, the way her words held both steel and sorrow. He hated that he believed her.
The swamp whispered still, but now it was quieter, cautious—as though it knew the fire within him was no longer prey, but predator.
And Kaelen realized, with a chill he couldn't shake, that the Shadowfen hadn't tried to kill him.
It had tried to welcome him.