The swamp did not change.
Mud pressed against their legs with dull persistence–thick, cold, and unyielding–swallowing effort before it could become motion. Every attempt to move ended the same way: resistance without struggle, refusal without violence. The land itself decided how far intent was allowed to go.
Kiaria stood where he had stood before.
Ahead of him, Diala waited.
She was close enough that he could see the rise and fall of her breath, close enough that one step should have been enough. Her expression was calm, unafraid–exactly as it always was before danger revealed itself.
Behind her, the swamp rippled.
He knew what came next.
He had already seen it–
once,
twice,
thrice.
The mud parted slowly, not violently, as if repeating a memorized motion. Blood Worms surfaced in patient arcs, their pale bodies glistening as circular maws opened with mechanical certainty. They did not rush.
They never did.
Diala turned.
She reached for him.
Kiaria moved.
