The lake pulled.
Not like hunger. Not like fear.
Like gravity.
Vark felt it in his chest when he stood too close to the edge of the Three Crowns platforms, looking down at the mist-veiled water where Snagga Reedscar had been returned wrong. The Gut-Thread hummed faintly, not tugging him toward danger exactly—more like pointing toward answers.
Mogrin felt it too.
He didn't say it at first. He stood beside Vark, sling resting against his hip, eyes narrowed at the reeds where the Bogkin totem clicked softly. His confidence hadn't vanished after the raid. If anything, it had settled into him, like something that had finally decided to stay.
After a while, he said quietly, "Lake want talk."
Vark glanced at him. "You feel it too?"
Mogrin nodded. "Not hear. Feel. Like… mud finger push back."
That was close enough.
Boss Mokh didn't argue when Vark brought it up.
He listened while Vark explained the pull, the feeling that this wasn't just another Bogkin warden or boundary marker. That there was something deeper in the lake—something that decided.
Mokh stared at the water for a long moment, jaw tight.
"Bogkin send message," Mokh said. "They don't kill Snagga. They send mouth."
"Yes," Vark agreed. "Mouth mean talk."
"And trap," Drukk Ear-Torn snapped from behind them. "Talk mean lie."
Mokh didn't even look at Drukk. "Everything mean trap," he said. "But some traps you step in on purpose."
Drukk hissed, but he didn't push further. Not after the night raid. Not after the body that came back wrong.
Mokh turned back to Vark. "You go," he said. "You and Mogrin. Two small. Less threat."
Vark nodded. He'd expected that.
"Rules," Mokh continued. "No weapons raised. No stepping on marked mud. If you feel wrong—run."
Mogrin straightened. "Mogrin not run stupid."
Mokh snorted. "Good. Run smart."
They left at dawn.
Not sneaking. Not charging.
Walking.
Vark kept his spear unthreateningly low, angled toward the ground. Mogrin carried his sling but didn't load it. They wore barkhorn armor dulled with mud and moss, no bright bone, no trophies.
The shoreline felt different when you approached it openly.
The reeds didn't lash. The mud didn't grab.
Instead, the mist parted just enough to form a narrow, winding path of firmer ground—stepping stones of packed earth that hadn't been there before.
An invitation.
"Path," Mogrin whispered.
"Yes," Vark said. "Given."
They followed.
The world narrowed as they moved deeper into the reeds. Sounds softened. The croaking was there, but gentle now, rhythmic, like breathing rather than command.
Vark's head buzzed faintly—not sleepiness, but awareness stretched thin and wide at the same time. The Gut-Thread wasn't screaming. It was guiding.
They emerged into a place that didn't feel like part of the lake.
The water pulled back into a broad, shallow basin ringed with moss-covered stones and twisted roots. Fungal growths clung to everything—soft luminescent caps glowing faint green and blue, casting the place in an underwater light even though they were above the surface.
At the center of the basin rose a mound of earth and root shaped vaguely like a throne.
And on it sat something ancient.
The Mire Oracle.
Ranari.
It wasn't tall like the warden. It wasn't imposing.
It was heavy.
Its body was a mass of layered mud, root, and fungus shaped into a squat, grounded form. Thick limbs rested in the wet earth as if it had grown there. Moss draped over its shoulders like a cloak. Fungal antlers—or perhaps crowns—rose from its head, glowing softly.
Its face was barely a face at all—just a depression where features should be, filled with slow-moving water that reflected Vark and Mogrin back at themselves.
When it spoke, it didn't open a mouth.
The sound rose from the water around them.
"Two-step goblins," the voice said, layered and slow. "One with thread. One with stone."
Mogrin stiffened. "It talk."
"Yes," Vark said softly.
Ranari's presence pressed against Vark's mind—not forcefully, but thoroughly, like being submerged without drowning.
"You bring noise," Ranari continued. "You bring teeth. You bring change."
Vark swallowed. "We bring hunger," he said. "And fear."
"Same thing," Ranari replied.
Silence stretched.
Then Vark bowed his head—not deeply, not submissively, but respectfully. "Bogkin take one goblin. Bogkin return him wrong. Tribe angry. Tribe afraid."
Ranari's fungal crowns pulsed faintly. "One taken. One taught. Many spared."
"You drown goblins," Vark said carefully.
Ranari did not deny it. "Mud does not chase. Feet choose where to step."
Mogrin clenched his fists, but he held his tongue.
Vark forced himself to keep his voice steady. "Then hear us," he said. "We don't want war."
Ranari's presence shifted, attention sharpening slightly.
"Why not?" the Oracle asked. "War feeds ground."
"Because we small," Vark said. "And because metal-men come. And because worgs move."
The water in Ranari's face rippled.
"You smell far," Ranari said. "You see threads."
Vark felt a cold certainty settle in his gut.
"We want live," Vark said simply.
Ranari was quiet for a long time.
The croaking softened until it was almost soothing. Mogrin shifted his weight, then stilled, mimicking Vark's calm without quite understanding it.
Finally, Ranari spoke.
"Goblins may fish," the Oracle said. "But not step sacred mud. Not foul shore. Bones return. Waste sink where told."
Mogrin's eyes widened.
Vark held his breath. "Trade?"
Ranari considered. "Deer for fish. Antler for reed. Meat for moss."
"Yes," Vark said immediately. "We hunt Barkhorn. We bring."
"Agreement binds both," Ranari warned. "Break once, drown twice."
Vark nodded. "Agreed."
The tension in his chest loosened just slightly.
Then Ranari's presence pressed closer.
"One more," the Oracle said.
Vark stiffened.
"You see threads," Ranari continued. "But weak. You pull, but you cannot move."
Vark's pulse quickened.
"I can… give," Ranari said. "Small push. Small hand."
The water-face shifted, and suddenly Vark was somewhere else.
A memory surfaced unbidden.
A quiet evening on Earth. Rain tapping against a window. A cheap takeout container on a cluttered desk. The warmth of a blanket around his shoulders as he watched something forgettable but comforting on a screen.
A moment of nothing happening.
Peace.
Vark's throat tightened.
"Choose," Ranari said, voice close now. "Keep comfort. Or gain hand."
Images followed—mud lifting slightly, objects nudged without touch, danger redirected just enough to matter.
"Telekinesis," Vark whispered.
"Small," Ranari corrected. "Minor."
Mogrin looked between them, confused. "What happen?"
Vark closed his eyes.
He thought of the comfort-memory again. Not identity. Not love. Not pain that shaped him.
Just… ease.
He thought of Mogrin. Of Boss Mokh. Of the tribe rebuilding in the Three Crowns.
He made his choice.
"I give that," Vark said. "I keep rest."
Ranari did not hesitate.
The memory faded—not ripped away, not torn. It simply… softened. The details blurred. The warmth dulled. Like a photograph left too long in sunlight.
Vark gasped quietly as something shifted inside him.
Not power surging.
Control forming.
A small, precise sense—like feeling the weight of objects in a room without touching them.
The blue window flickered briefly.
New Skill Acquired:Telekinesis (Minor)You may exert weak force on nearby objects. Precision increases with focus. Fatigue applies.
Vark's knees wobbled. Mogrin grabbed his arm instantly.
"You okay?" Mogrin asked, worried.
"Yes," Vark said, voice hoarse. "Just… lighter."
Ranari's presence receded slightly.
"Price paid," the Oracle said. "Debt closed."
Then the water-face darkened.
"Now truth," Ranari said.
The croaking changed—deeper, heavier.
"Worgs press borders," Ranari continued. "Their matriarch moves. Forest bends."
Vark's stomach sank.
"And metal-men map water," Ranari said. "They return with fire."
Mogrin swallowed hard.
"We prepare war," Ranari said. "Bogkin do not flee. We root."
The Oracle's gaze—if it had one—fixed on Vark.
"Goblins may choose," Ranari said. "Scatter. Drown. Or stand."
Vark felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders.
"You want alliance," he said.
"Yes," Ranari replied. "Small teeth, many eyes. Mud and branch together."
Silence fell.
Vark thought of Drukk Ear-Torn. Of fear turning inward. Of humans pushing monsters together like pieces on a board.
He nodded slowly. "I bring word."
Ranari's fungal crowns pulsed softly. "Then go. Lake watches."
The mist parted.
The path reformed.
As they walked back toward the Three Crowns, Mogrin finally exhaled hard. "That… big talk."
"Yes," Vark said.
Mogrin glanced at him. "You feel different."
Vark lifted his hand experimentally. A small pebble near the path twitched—just a fraction—then dropped.
Mogrin's eyes went wide. "Vark… magic."
"Small," Vark said. "But enough."
They climbed back toward the Three Crowns with the weight of treaties and wars pressing down on them.
Behind them, the lake breathed.
Ahead of them, the tribe waited.
And somewhere beyond the trees, worgs and humans moved closer to the same water.