Far away, beyond two winding channels and a field of tall marsh grass, another kind of settlement breathes quietly beneath the moon.
A village. But not a normal one.
The huts of the village are not built from cut timber or hammered planks. They grow. Twisted roots form the foundations, rising from the swamp like natural pillars. Living trees bend inward to shape walls and roofs, their trunks carefully guided rather than severed. Vines weave across the structures like patient stitching, binding bark and branch together into shelter. Moss clings to the surfaces, softening every edge. Lanterns hang from low branches overhead, their glow filtered through green glass and damp leaves. The light they cast is gentle and dim, turning the entire settlement into a quiet forest of shadows and silver reflections.
Druids move between the homes with slow, deliberate steps. To those unfamiliar with them, their forms seem strange. Antlers rise from their heads like the young limbs of trees reaching toward the sky. Their legs bend slightly backward, shaped more like those of deer than humans. Yet nothing about their movement appears awkward. They glide through the pathways with natural grace, barely disturbing the damp earth beneath their feet. These druids practice a kind of magic that does not command the world but listens to it. Their power comes from living things — roots beneath the soil, the breath of the wind, the slow patience of growing plants. Their presence gives the village a quiet harmony, as though the entire settlement breathes together.
Not far from them sits another gathering around a low ring of stones. These are the Hags. They are old mages, their faces carved with deep wrinkles earned through years of dangerous study. Heavy cloaks hang from their thin shoulders, the fabric layered with charms and faded sigils. They lean over a wide stone basin filled with dark water that slowly swirls though no hand stirs it. Their voices remain low as they speak to one another, trading murmured words that drift through the night air. The magic they wield feels different from that of the druids. Where druidcraft is gentle and living, theirs is dense and weighty. There is darkness in it, the kind born from long contemplation of forces most people would rather ignore. Yet it is not chaos. Their power is disciplined, carefully restrained by experience and caution. Among the villagers walk several other figures who look out of place beside antlers and moss-covered robes. They wear academy-grade suits, black cloth reinforced with thin patterns of silver thread that catch the lantern light. Their posture still carries the rigid habits of formal training, the discipline drilled into them within the structured halls of magical institutions. But they no longer belong to those halls.
These are the outcasts. Mages who rejected the rigid laws and suffocating regulations enforced by the great academies of the wider world. Some were expelled after pushing too far into forbidden research. Others left of their own will, unwilling to accept limits placed upon their curiosity. Here, hidden deep within the swamp, they have found a place where no council watches them and no official doctrine binds their studies. In this enclave they continue practicing their arts as they see fit, experimenting freely with disciplines that would bring immediate punishment elsewhere. Among them sits a young woman near the quiet edge of the village pond. Moonlight reflects across the water beside her, trembling with each faint breeze. Her skin carries a warm olive tone that glows softly under the pale light. Her name is Zuwena. She watches the reflection of the moon ripple across the surface as though studying a slow-moving puzzle. One hand lowers toward the pond. Her fingers trace delicate symbols across the water, barely disturbing the surface. For a moment nothing happens. Then the pond answers. Small crimson ripples spread outward in thin rings before dissolving back into darkness. The color fades quickly, but the meaning of it remains clear. Blood magic. A discipline strictly forbidden within the academy walls. Yet here, in this hidden village, it lives quietly in practiced hands.
Zuwena exhales slowly.
[They called this corruption] she thinks. [Yet here… it simply exists.]
Behind her, two druids hum quietly as they guide living vines across the curved frame of a hut. The plants respond to their touch, tightening slowly into a new wall. Their voices rise and fall in a low rhythm that blends with the rustling leaves. Not far away, children run laughing between the massive tree roots that twist across the village floor like natural corridors. A
hag sits alone on a flat stone, lifting a ring of carved bone toward the sky as she studies the slow drift of stars. Along the outer edge of the settlement, guards walk steady patrol routes through the trees. Lanterns sway above cooking fires and quiet conversation. The enclave carries a strange calmness that settles over everything like soft mist.
None of it resembles the stories Zuwena heard growing up. The academies described places like this as monstrous. Lawless enclaves filled with reckless sorcery and unstable minds. But what she sees is something else entirely. People talk softly while preparing meals. Someone stirs a pot above a small fire. Others sit beneath the branches reading worn books or watching the moon glide slowly across the night sky. Zuwena studies the reflection rippling across the pond and allows herself a faint smile.
"Still awake?"
The voice comes from behind her. Another outcast mage approaches, carrying a wooden cup that releases thin curls of steam into the cool air.
"Always."
He lowers himself beside her and follows her gaze toward the dark surface of the water.
"You stare at the pond every night."
She lifts one shoulder in a small shrug.
"It listens better than people."
He chuckles quietly. Around them the enclave continues its evening rhythm. One druid kneels beside a tree root and whispers softly into the soil. Another mage sketches careful arcane diagrams inside a weathered notebook. Two guards stand on a wooden platform overlooking the outer swamp. One of them suddenly tilts his head.
"Movement !" he murmurs.
His partner squints.
From the far edge of the trees, a figure appears.
A woman.
She leaps from one root to another with incredible agility.
The tribeswoman.
She rushes toward the central fire ring.
Guards step forward immediately.
"Stop!"
She raises both hands and drops to one knee.
Then she unties the rolled paper from her waist.
The guard takes it.
Unrolls it.
The strange plan drawings stare back at him.
He frowns.
"Bring this to the council." he says.
In the distance, Zuwena watches the commotion from the pond.
Her curiosity sharpens.
[Visitors ?] she thinks.
The village remains outwardly calm. Lantern light still sways gently between the branches, and the quiet murmur of evening work continues among the huts grown from roots and living wood. Children have slowed their games, drifting back toward homes and fires. Druids remain beneath the trees, and the hags keep their slow, watchful rituals.
Yet beneath that calm surface, something shifts. The feeling spreads quietly through the enclave like a ripple through still water. The swamp beyond the trees has always been like that—silent above, restless below. And somewhere within the long, shadowed corridors of the Samel Swamp, Aldo Patriot's scattered squads continue their careful infiltration, moving through reeds and black water without lanterns or noise.
The disturbance begins with a splash.
It is small. Barely louder than the sound of something brushing the surface of still water. Under normal circumstances, no one would notice it. But within the enclave the sound travels sharply, cutting through the quiet like a crack through glass. Zuwena's head lifts at once. Her fingers tighten around the slender wand resting across her knees as she turns toward the pond. Across from her, the outcast mage sitting beside her stiffens as well, his shoulders rising slightly as he listens.
"Did you hear that?" he whispers.
Zuwena does not answer. She is already standing.
The pond's surface ripples outward in slow widening rings, moonlight trembling across it like broken silver. Around the village the guards react almost instantly. Figures along the perimeter shift their stance. Druids rise from their resting places beneath the trees, their antlers tilting slightly as they listen to the night. Their deer-like legs adjust silently on the damp soil. Near the central fire, one of the hags slowly lifts her staff from where it rested beside her knee. Several outcast mages raise their wands without speaking.
The air tightens.
A moment later the water breaks again. Something slips briefly above the surface of the pond. For an instant the movement looks larger than expected, a dark shape catching moonlight before dropping back into the water.
A fish.
It flicks its tail, arcs above the waterline, and falls back with a dull plop. Ripples spread across the pond once more.
Zuwena exhales slowly. Beside her, the other mage lowers his wand a little.
"Just a fish…" he murmurs.
Even so, neither of them fully relaxes. They step back toward the nearby huts, shifting their positions so the thick roots and wooden walls offer partial cover.
"Strange." Zuwena says quietly.
Her companion glances toward her. "What?"
She nods toward the water.
"That splash sounded heavier than a fish."
He shrugs faintly. "Everything sounds heavier tonight."
The druids remain alert along the perimeter. Several move quietly along the outer paths, placing their hands against bark and soil as they listen through the living roots beneath the ground. Their magic spreads outward into the swamp, feeling for disturbance.
For now, it finds nothing.
The guards maintain position through the entire night.
No one sleeps deeply.
The swamp beyond the enclave appears unchanged.
Moonlight glides across water channels. Tall grass shifts slowly in the wind. Tree canopies sway with soft, endless murmurs.
Nothing moves where intruders should be.
The quiet becomes unsettling.
Hours pass.
Some outcast mages attempt detection spells.
One kneels near the pond, drawing faint glowing circles across the water's surface.
"[Mana detection]" he mutters.
Thin strands of pale blue light drift outward like spider silk, spreading across the surrounding swamp.
They dissolve slowly into the darkness.
He frowns.
"Nothing !?" he says.
Another mage attempts the same method from the opposite side of the village. He walks to the edge of the grass where the roots sink into shallow water and lifts his wand toward the dark swamp beyond the trees. A faint shimmer spreads outward for a moment before fading into the night. He waits, listening, his eyes searching the reeds and moonlit channels between the trunks.
Nothing answers.
Zuwena watches from beside the pond, her gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the grass line. The swamp stretches outward in layers of shadow and pale silver reflections. Tall reeds sway gently in the faint wind. Water pools lie still between the roots of ancient trees, their surfaces reflecting fragments of the moon like scattered glass. Everything looks quiet. Everything looks ordinary.
If they are there, she thinks, they are hiding well.
The swamp rarely reveals its secrets willingly. It shows only what it wishes to show—grass bending softly in the breeze, water rippling beneath drifting leaves, trees standing silent beneath the pale light of the moon. Beyond those simple images, anything else can vanish completely.
After a few minutes, an older hag finally steps forward from the edge of the gathering. Her cloak drags softly across the damp ground as she walks, brushing moss and fallen leaves aside. Deep wrinkles line her face like the rings of an old tree, yet her eyes remain sharp and bright with long experience.
"Enough guessing." she mutters.
She lifts both hands slowly in front of her chest. The air around her grows faintly colder, as though the night itself is holding its breath.
"[Life detection.]"
The words are quiet, but the spell moves quickly. Invisible magic spreads outward from her like a widening dome. Beneath the ground, roots tremble faintly as the spell travels through soil and water alike. It stretches far beyond the huts and fires of the enclave, beyond the outer patrol paths, reaching deep into the surrounding swamp. Nearly a kilometer in every direction.
The hag closes her eyes as the signals return.
Animals moving in distant grass.
Fish gliding through shallow channels.
Birds sleeping in branches.
The faint buzzing of insects hovering above dark water.
Closer to the center of the village she senses warm clusters of sleeping children inside the huts. Druids standing watch beneath the trees. Outcast mages scattered across the enclave, their magical signatures flickering like small lanterns.
Nothing else.
Her eyes open again.
"Empty." she says with a soft scoff.
A younger mage standing nearby frowns at the result.
"Impossible…" he murmurs.
The hag shrugs, lowering her hands as the cold air slowly fades.
"Then the intruders are prepared."
Her tone carries more irritation than fear.
Not far away, one of the outcast mages sits cross-legged on a wooden platform overlooking the pond. A sheet of folded paper rests open across his lap—the same paper delivered earlier by the tribeswoman. The lantern beside him casts warm light across the inked lines.
He studies the writing again for several long moments before clearing his throat.
"According to this…" he says, raising his voice slightly.
Several people turn toward him.
"The intruders plan to invade the enclave three days from now."
Silence spreads through the clearing.
Zuwena blinks slowly. "Three days ?"
The old hag snorts with quiet contempt.
"Then tonight was paranoia."
Another mage leans closer to examine the page.
"Read the rest !" he says.
The outcast scans the document again. His eyebrows rise gradually as he follows the lines of ink. After a moment he shakes his head in disbelief.
"This plan…"
He looks up at the others.
"It is extremely basic."
He taps the paper lightly.
"Advance in three columns. Direct assault on the outer defenses. Standard suppression with firearms."
A nearby druid lets out a small laugh beneath his antlers.
"So they truly are Mikhland troops."
The outcast sighs, folding one corner of the page.
"Predictable tactics."
A few quiet chuckles pass through the group. The tension that had tightened the village moments earlier begins to loosen, drifting away like mist across the swamp water.
Zuwena folds her arms.
Three days, she thinks.
That means we have time.
Eventually the guards relax slightly, though the druids still maintain patrols until morning.
The swamp gradually brightens.
Soft gray light filters through the trees as dawn approaches.
Morning arrives slowly.
Mist drifts across the pond.
Zuwena walks the perimeter path again, counting the figures around the village.
Druids.
Hags.
Outcasts.
Guards.
No one missing.
She nods to herself.
"So the plan is real," she murmurs.
"Three days."
Behind her, preparations begin.
Druids weave living barriers from roots and vines.
Hags inscribe protective symbols along the ground near the huts.
Outcast mages reinforce the watch platforms with arcane wards.
Defenses rise quietly.
The enclave prepares.
Then a shout echoes from the outer path.
A tribesman staggers into the village.
His clothing is soaked and smeared with mud.
Tears run down his face.
He collapses near the central fire.
"Help!" he gasps.
Guards rush forward.
Zuwena approaches cautiously.
"What happened?" she asks.
The tribesman points weakly toward the swamp.
"The intruders…"
His voice breaks.
"They destroyed our village."
Shock ripples through the enclave.
"Destroyed?" someone repeats.
The tribesman nods frantically.
"Burned huts… broken homes… our people fleeing…"
His words dissolve into sobs.
The experienced hag from earlier steps forward again.
Her eyes narrow.
"Stand still," she says calmly.
She lifts one hand and presses her fingers gently against the tribesman's forehead.
"[Lie detection]" she murmurs.
The spell activates.
A faint glow spreads across the man's temples.
Moments pass.
The hag's eyes close.
She searches deeper.
Into his memory.
Images flicker behind her eyelids.
Armored figures.
Strange metal plates.
Muskets.
A burned patch of huts near the edge of a village.
A soldier standing beside the flames, smirking slightly as he watches the tribesman flee.
The hag withdraws her hand slowly.
Her expression darkens.
"He is telling the truth." she says.
The murmurs grow louder.
"Too evil !!!" the hag mutters.
She turns toward the assembled villagers.
"We cannot ignore this."