The rain tapers into a fine mist before finally surrendering to silence.
Floris waits inside the hollowed trunk until the birds return.
That's how he measures safety.
When the storm passes, the swamp listens. When the swamp decides the danger has passed, it breathes again.
The first chirp comes from high in the canopy. Then another. Then the slow hum of insects restarting their work.
Only then does Floris move.
He steps from the angled trunk, boots sinking slightly into softened ground. The air is heavy with rain and rot. Good conditions. Moisture pulls scent downward. Sound carries strangely.
He checks the sky. Past midday.
Time enough.
Arrowhead Loch lies quiet and wide before him, its surface broken only by widening circles where rain still drips from leaves. The shoreline is dark and churned from runoff.
Perfect growing ground.
He moves with purpose.
He starts with Blackvein Moss, peeling it from a shaded root. The strands come away damp and thick between his fingers. Packed into wounds, it slows bleeding long enough for better treatment. He stores it carefully in waxed cloth.
Marrowleaf follows along the creek's bend. Broad leaves. Bitter scent. He clips only what he needs. Fever remedy. Pain duller. Reliable.
He steps through Ghostreed in the shallows, pale stalks brushing his thighs. Useful for lung sickness. Not urgent.
Adderblight grows under thorned shrubs. He kneels slowly.
He never reaches blindly.
Snake country.
He scans the mud first. No fresh tracks. No shed skins.
He parts the roots and begins working them free.
The strike is fast.
A flicker of movement. A hiss.
Pain flares across the back of his gloved hand as something sharp grazes skin.
Floris jerks back instantly.
A swamp viper coils where his hand had been moments before—slate-colored, triangular head, body tense and ready.
Not a full bite.
A warning snap.
He exhales once through his scarf. "Fair."
He shifts his weight sideways instead of backward. The viper tracks movement. He doesn't give it a straight line.
Knife in hand.
The second strike comes harder.
This time he moves first.
A short, downward stab pins the snake's head to the mud—blade angled away from his wrist. It thrashes violently, body whipping and trying to coil around his forearm. He keeps pressure steady until the movement slows.
Only then does he withdraw the blade.
He inspects his hand.
The glove is torn.
A shallow cut beneath it. No punctures.
He tears a strip from his inner sleeve, wraps the cut tightly, and packs a small pinch of crushed Blackvein Moss against it.
"Pay attention," he mutters to himself.
He finishes harvesting the Adderblight.
Tanglebloom grows along a depression in the mud where larger bodies pass frequently.
He doesn't like harvesting here.
Large predators use the same paths.
He works quickly, knife cutting the vines at their base.
The swamp quiets.
Not fully.
Just slightly.
He pauses.
Listens.
Wind moves through canopy.
Water laps against shore.
No birds.
That's wrong.
His shoulders tighten.
He doesn't reach for a weapon yet. He straightens slowly, as if stretching.
He turns casually.
Across the loch, something shifts.
Low. Dark. Moving between brush.
He does not stare at it.
Predators key on eyes.
He steps toward the water's edge instead, positioning himself so the shoreline curves at his back.
Cats prefer flanks.
He will not give them one.
The first silverback tiger emerges soundlessly from brush to his left.
Sleek black fur slick from rain. Silver bands across its back like broken light.
Not full grown.
But close.
Its body is low. Tail still. Ears forward.
The second appears opposite.
There it is.
Flanking.
Floris backs slowly into the shallows, boots sinking in mud. Water reaches his calves.
Cats hate uncertain footing.
He keeps them both in sight.
They begin to circle.
One steps closer. Testing.
He does not raise his spear yet.
The closer tiger suddenly rushes.
Fast.
Too fast to outrun.
Floris sidesteps into deeper water instead of retreating. The tiger hits mud where he stood and slips half a step. Not much—but enough.
Floris thrusts.
He aims for the chest.
The tiger twists mid-lunge.
The spear drives into its shoulder instead of its ribs. Deep—but not fatal.
The cat screams and claws forward, snapping at the shaft.
Floris releases the spear immediately.
Never hold onto a weapon when a cat has leverage.
He moves sideways again, forcing water between them.
The second tiger charges from the opposite bank.
He had expected it.
He drops low as it leaps.
Claws rake across his back, tearing cloak and leather. Pain explodes across his ribs.
He rolls with the impact instead of fighting it.
The tiger lands awkwardly in water, splashing hard.
Floris comes up on one knee, knife already in hand.
The first tiger limps toward him, spear still lodged in muscle, blood darkening fur.
They adjust.
No more testing.
They commit.
The injured one lunges first—slower now, shoulder dipping, weight uneven.
Floris steps inside the arc of its claws instead of away.
Closer is safer than retreat.
He drives his knife under its jaw and pushes upward with everything he has.
Hot blood pours over his hand.
The tiger convulses violently, claws raking his side. One claw catches flesh beneath torn armor.
White pain flashes through him.
He twists the blade and pulls free.
The tiger collapses half in water, half in mud.
The second is already on him.
No pause.
It slams into his chest, knocking him backward into the shallows. Water fills his ears.
Teeth close over his shoulder guard.
Pressure builds.
He jams his forearm between its jaws before they close fully.
Leather creaks.
His vision tunnels.
He drives his knee upward into its belly, disrupting balance.
He doesn't try to win.
He tries not to die.
He grabs for the spear still jutting from the dead tiger.
He can't reach it.
So, he changes plan.
Knife again.
He doesn't aim for the throat.
Too exposed.
He stabs into the softer flesh behind the front leg and rips sideways.
The tiger recoils, shrieking.
He rolls away before it regains footing.
They stare at each other.
Both bleeding now.
The cat hesitates.
He takes the moment.
He retrieves his bow from where it fell near shore.
The tiger lunges again.
His injured shoulder fails him.
The bow dips.
The cat is closer than it should be.
Too close.
He sees teeth.
Smells meat on its breath.
He forces the draw anyway.
The arrow sinks into the cat's open mouth as it roars.
It stumbles.
Falls.
Slides into mud.
Still.
Floris keeps the bow drawn for several long breaths.
The swamp holds its breath.
Only when insects resume their hum does he lower it.
He stands there shaking.
Not from triumph.
From survival.
Blood runs down his side. His shoulder throbs where teeth nearly found bone.
He grabs for the spear still jutting from the first tiger and inspects the wound in his ribs. Not deep. Painful. Manageable.
"If they'd been full grown…"
He doesn't finish the thought.
He drags both bodies farther from his campsite. Far enough that scavengers won't be drawn directly to him.
Then he returns to the fire.
He boils Tanglebloom properly this time, hands steady despite the tremor beneath his skin.
Work continues.
Because it must.
That night he does not sleep on the ground.
He climbs.
He ties himself to a branch overlooking the loch.
His shoulder pulses with each heartbeat.
He stares across the water as dusk settles.
Closer than ever.
He wonders if she felt it.
If she saw.
If she would have called him reckless.
He presses his eyes shut until the sting passes.
The swamp does not answer.
By morning, his pack is full.
He leaves Arrowhead Loch without ceremony.
Faster this time.
More cautious.
The swamp watches him go.
And this time, it lets him live.
By the time Floris reaches the first checkpoint on the return journey, his shoulder aches with every draw of breath.
He does not stop long.
He does not hunt.
He does not wander.
He moves.
Arrowhead Loch gave him what he needed. It also reminded him what the swamp demands in return.
The following morning, he is halfway back to Two Creeks when the swamp breaks its rhythm.
Rustling.
Fast.
Not cautious. Not stalking.
Running.
High-pitched shouting tears through the trees.
Human.
Floris freezes.
He knows that voice.
"RUN, FLORIS! RUN!"
Alvis bursts from the undergrowth like something fired from a bow, mud splashing behind him, eyes wide with genuine terror.
Floris doesn't ask questions.
He runs.
"WHAT did you do?!" Floris shouts as he matches pace.
"NOTHING!" Alvis yells back.
A roar answers for him.
Floris glances over his shoulder and immediately regrets it.
Grizzly.
Large.
Female.
Angry.
Very angry.
"She has cubs!" Alvis adds, as if remembering a small detail.
"Of course she does!" Floris snaps.
Alvis veers toward a tree and leaps, grabbing bark and hauling himself upward with frantic speed.
Floris plants a boot against Alvis's backside and shoves.
"Higher! Today would be good!"
"I am climbing!" Alvis shouts, scrambling like a startled squirrel.
The bear hits the base of the tree seconds later and rises onto her hind legs with a roar that vibrates through Floris's ribs.
Floris climbs fast despite his shoulder protesting every pull.
They reach the first thick branch.
The bear begins climbing.
Both boys go still.
"Well," Alvis says breathlessly. "That's new."
"Bears climb," Floris replies through clenched teeth.
"I was hoping this one didn't!"
The bear ascends with disturbing confidence.
Floris scans quickly.
"Other tree," he mutters.
They shuffle along opposite sides of the branch.
"On three," Floris says.
"Three what?"
"Three!"
They run along the branch and leap together into the neighboring tree.
They land badly but hold.
The bear pauses mid-climb.
She tilts her head.
Looks at the empty branch.
Then slowly looks at them.
Her ears twitch.
She huffs.
It is the most offended sound either of them has ever heard—confusion dressed up as judgment.
Alvis clamps a hand over his mouth.
Floris tries to stay stern.
He fails.
The bear climbs down slowly, gives them one last deeply unimpressed stare, and ambles off in the direction of her cubs.
Silence lingers.
They wait.
Then—
Alvis starts laughing.
Not a chuckle.
A full, unrestrained, breathless laugh.
"Did you see her face?!" he gasps.
Floris leans back against the trunk and finally lets it out too.
"Yes," he says between breaths. "I saw it."
"She looked betrayed," Alvis wheezes. "Like we cheated."
"We did cheat," Floris replies.
They sit in the tree, laughing until their sides hurt.
The swamp resumes its normal hum beneath them.
Eventually Alvis climbs down first.
"Good to see you're alive," he says casually, as if they didn't almost become bear food.
"You as well," Floris replies.
Alvis studies him more closely now.
His eyes narrow.
"You fought something."
Floris doesn't answer immediately.
He shifts his cloak aside slightly.
Torn leather. Dried blood.
Alvis goes pale.
"Silverbacks?" he guesses quietly.
"Two."
"Together?"
"Yes."
"You killed them."
"Yes."
Alvis stares at him.
Then breaks into a slow grin.
"Good heavens," he says. "You're going to make me look bad."
Floris shakes his head.
"I got lucky."
Alvis snorts. "Sure, you did."
They walk the rest of the way back to Two Creeks together.
That night the village celebrates.
Food roasts over open fires.
Ale flows more freely than usual.
Alvis retells the tiger story three times, each version more dramatic than the last.
"And then," Alvis says loudly, standing on a crate, "he stared death in the eyes—"
"I slipped in mud," Floris interrupts flatly.
"—and strategically repositioned himself," Alvis corrects smoothly.
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
Floris accepts a new spear. A fresh shoulder guard. A stronger bowstring.
He does not feel like a hero.
He feels tired.
Proud, perhaps.
But tired.
Later, when the fires burn low and the singing softens, Floris looks toward the dark treeline beyond the village.
He wonders if she is watching.
If she approves.
If she still blames him.
The laughter behind him feels distant for a moment.
Then Alvis throws an arm over his shoulders.
"You're thinking too hard again," Alvis says.
Floris exhales.
"Probably."
The night deepens.
The fires burn low.
The swamp hums beyond the tree line.
And somewhere far from the light of Two Creeks, something shifts beneath dark water.