"You're serious about this?" Floris asks after Alvis finishes.
Alvis nods. The unease never leaves his face. "I've never been more serious in my life. Something isn't right out there."
Floris folds his arms, head tilting. Skepticism flickers—more habit than disbelief.
"You've exaggerated before," he says. "Need I remind you of the boar as big as a boulder incident? The one that had you hiding in a tree for an hour?"
"It was a massive boar!" Alvis snaps, throwing his hands up.
"It was pregnant," Floris says flatly.
Alvis freezes. His chin drops. He points at Floris like the accusation might fix it. "That… that doesn't count."
"It counts."
Alvis makes a face and waves it off. "We'll discuss this later."
The humor drains.
"But right now," he says, quieter, "we have a serious problem. I wouldn't joke about this."
Floris watches him.
No grin. No smug angle. No performance.
Just worry.
Floris closes his eyes and inhales slowly. He has work—honey to harvest, mixtures to finish, notes to write. Things that don't pause because a boy feels something is wrong.
He scratches his forehead, thinking. "You're not going to rest until I come with you, are you?"
Alvis shakes his head. "You're the only one I trust to stay calm. Come with me for a day. If nothing happens, I'll admit I'm an idiot."
Floris exhales. "Fine. I'll come. But if this is a waste of time, you'll be harvesting honey from the hives in two weeks."
Alvis swallows. "Even after what happened last time?"
Floris nods once.
Alvis remembers. Everyone remembers. The last time he interfered with Floris's bees, he looked like he'd fought a thorn bush and lost.
"Oh, all right," Alvis mutters. "Deal. Just… get another pair of eyes on the lake and it'll be worth it."
Floris grabs his gear. Alvis is already moving toward the bridge.
Crystal, mid-conversation near the wagon, watches them go.
So do others.
When Floris and Alvis walk into the swamp together, it's rarely without purpose. Sometimes it means laughter. A hunting story. A foolish dare.
More often—
It means something went wrong.
An uneasy pressure settles over Two Creeks like a cloud sliding across the sun.
Crystal's smile fades. "Be careful," she whispers.
The boys don't hear her.
But plenty of others do.
The Trail
Alvis leads.
Conversation thins to necessity. The easy humor from earlier has sunk under something heavier.
They make good time along the same flattened trail Alvis found days ago—beaten down enough that they don't have to hack through brush. No thorns tearing sleeves. No reeds slapping faces.
Just steady ground.
A luxury in the swamp.
Even so, the lake is too far to reach before nightfall—not from the hour they left Two Creeks.
Neither suggests turning back.
Sunset bleeds through the canopy and drains away.
They camp.
Alvis disappears to hunt. Floris gathers wood, builds the fire, and strings their alarm line—thin cord between trees with small metal bits that will clink if anything moves through.
Subtle.
Effective.
Alvis returns with a rabbit slung over one shoulder and two fish dangling from his other hand.
Floris takes the fish without comment.
He hasn't had fish in a while.
They cook separately, as they always do.
Not much is said.
They eat with weapons close. Within reach. Always within reach.
Darkness swallows the swamp.
But not sound.
Owls call high above. Frogs layer their chorus. Fish break the surface in the nearby creek. Insects hum in restless waves. Somewhere far off, bog ox shift through reeds, heavy bodies rustling brush.
The fire crackles between them.
Alvis sits on a fallen log, prodding embers with a stick.
Floris lies back against a thick root, whetstone sliding along the spear edge.
Shhhk. Shhhk.
The quiet stretches too long.
Alvis glances at Floris more than once, careful not to make it obvious.
He sees it in his eyes.
The guilt never left.
Out here—away from the village, away from listening ears—the swamp gives them something rare.
Space.
Alvis clears his throat.
"Don't you think… maybe it's time to let it go?"
The whetstone stops mid-draw.
Floris turns his head slowly.
"She's not coming back, Floris. None of them are."
"They wouldn't be gone if I hadn't messed up," Floris snaps. Not loud. Sharp. "If I'd been stronger… more disciplined…"
Alvis holds his gaze. "We were children. We could barely draw our bows fully back. It took us two more years to even call ourselves decent shots."
Floris drives his knife into the root beside his head.
The wood splits with a crack.
"I had the easiest shot," he says through clenched teeth. "Clear line. Closest distance. I was the one who could've stopped it."
Alvis doesn't flinch. "Nobody blames you."
Floris's fist tightens. His shoulders tremble.
"I still hear them," he says, quieter now. "When I sleep. When I close my eyes, I'm right back there. Powerless."
His voice falters. Then hardens again.
"You heard her," he says. "You heard her scream when that thing—"
The sentence breaks.
The swamp fills the silence.
"…when it started to eat her," Floris finishes. "Alive."
Alvis closes his eyes.
Exhales slowly.
"It was an animal," he says. "Animals do what animals do. It wasn't revenge. It wasn't hatred. It was hunger."
The anger drains from Floris in a long breath. He stares up through the canopy at scattered stars.
"You're right," he says at last. "Maybe it is time."
Alvis nods. "Besides… you shot it in the eye. Poisoned arrow. That should've been the end of it."
Floris doesn't look at him.
"We never found a body."
Alvis hesitates. "But the arrow was poisoned."
"It was," Floris says. "But my poisons weren't what they are now. It might not have worked."
Alvis pokes the fire harder than necessary.
"Well," he mutters, "we're not children anymore. If that eagle—or another—ever comes near Two Creeks again…"
He looks up.
"We'll kill it."
Floris nods once.
"Damn right."
The fire burns low.
They tend their gear a little longer in silence.
Then the swamp claims the night.
Midday — Three Rivers Lake
They reach the hill overlooking the lake beneath the canopy, concealed in tangled undergrowth.
Even in daylight, the shadows feel thick.
The lake stretches below.
Still.
Too still.
Alvis keeps his voice low.
"Do you see what I mean?"
Floris doesn't answer immediately. His eyes sweep the water.
No ripples.
No insects skimming the surface.
No reeds shifting at the edge.
He nods once.
"It's too quiet."
"Yeah," Alvis whispers. "Not the kind that lets you breathe easy."
Floris scans the shoreline.
No deer stepping cautiously down to drink.
No turtles on fallen logs.
No birds circling overhead.
Not even vultures.
"The animals know," Floris says softly. "Something we don't."
Alvis glances at him. "So… you believe me now?"
Floris looks back only long enough to cut the pride out of the question.
"I knew you were serious."
Then he steps forward.
Slow. Measured.
Alvis follows.
The air thickens as they descend. Not humidity. Pressure.
Floris pauses near the waterline, listening again—not for sound, but for absence.
"Even the swamp is afraid," he murmurs.
He crouches.
Mud damp. Undisturbed.
No tracks. No slide marks. No webbed prints.
He shifts left—
Stops.
An indentation.
Narrow. Deep.
As if something sharp punched straight down into the earth.
Alvis steps closer. "What is it?"
Floris presses two fingers into the hole.
Too deep.
He digs around it with the tip of his knife.
The walls are clean. Not torn outward. Not clawed.
Pierced.
Alvis kneels beside him. "That's not a gator."
"No."
Floris's eyes travel ahead.
Another hole. Then another.
Aligned.
Deliberate.
Like something massive walked here—
and stabbed the ground with every step.
Alvis swallows. "How big?"
Floris stands slowly, tracking the pattern toward the water.
"Big enough the mud didn't collapse back in," he says. "Heavy enough it didn't care."
The silence sits on their shoulders.
Alvis stares at the lake.
"I don't want to be right," he says.
Floris watches the water a moment longer, then glances at Alvis.
"Sometimes," he says quietly, "I hate it when you are."
Neither smiles.
The words hang.
Not playful.
Not this time.
The wind shifts.
The reeds barely move.
The lake does not respond.
The Sound
A scream rips through the swamp.
Deep. Ragged.
Not human—
but close enough to twist the spine.
Both boys move at once. Bows in hand. Arrows nocked.
No words exchanged.
Alvis drops low into undergrowth first, slipping forward like a shadow.
Floris follows—quieter than most would expect from armor.
The scream comes again.
Closer.
Agonized.
Not dominance.
Pain.
Then—
a wet tearing sound.
Both freeze.
They exchange a look.
That wasn't a bear fight.
That was meat.
Alvis points up.
Tree.
Floris nods.
They climb quickly and settle on thick branches overlooking a small clearing.
And then they see it.
An adult male grizzly lies on its side, thrashing weakly.
Its right hind leg is gone.
Not raggedly torn.
Removed.
The wound is fresh. Steam rises faintly where blood meets warm air.
The bear screams again—less powerful now. More desperate.
Floris's face tightens.
Bite marks.
Enormous.
Wide. Even. Crushing.
He swallows.
"That's not…" His voice catches. "…possible."
Alvis isn't looking at the bear anymore.
His breathing changes.
Sharp.
Fast.
He taps Floris's shoulder hard. Once. Twice.
Then points.
Toward the lake.
Floris shifts his gaze.
At first—nothing. Just water. Still.
Then movement near the shoreline.
A bulge beneath the surface.
Slow.
Deliberate.
As if the lake is making room for something.
The surface parts.
A tail rises—thick as a tree trunk.
Scaled.
Scarred.
It drags across the mud with a wet, heavy sound.
Not thrashing.
Not rushing.
Controlled.
Floris forgets to breathe.
An arrow slips from his fingers and vanishes into leaves below without a sound.
Neither of them moves.
The tail slides forward.
Then disappears back into the water.
The lake smooths over.
Still again.
As if nothing had been there at all.
The bear's screams fade into broken, shuddering breaths.
The swamp does not react.
It already knew.
Floris inhales slowly through his scarf.
Alvis finally whispers, barely audible.
"Tell me you saw that."
"I saw it," Floris says.
They stay in the tree longer than they need to.
Waiting.
Listening.
Nothing surfaces again.
Eventually, Floris looks back down.
The bear has stopped screaming.
It lies still now. Dead. Or close enough.
Floris's eyes move to the shoreline.
Not the corpse.
The earth.
Mud disturbed. Grass flattened. A narrow channel carved from brush to water.
Deliberate.
Heavy.
He nods once to Alvis.
They descend.
Slow. Measured.
Floris kneels near the drag mark and presses his hand beside it.
Wide.
Deep.
Fresh.
Then he stops.
His brow tightens.
"…That's wrong."
Alvis leans in. "What?"
Floris points.
Another groove.
Parallel.
A few feet apart.
Separate.
Not overlapping.
Not branching.
Another path.
Alvis stares.
"No."
Floris rises slowly, eyes tracing both channels back into the brush.
Two entry points.
Two returns.
Two.
His jaw tightens.
"There's two."
The words land heavy.
Alvis shakes his head slightly. "That's not possible."
Floris doesn't answer.
Because the swamp already did.
Measured
"There's two," Alvis whispers again, like repeating it might make it smaller.
Floris's eyes never leave the water.
"We need to go," Alvis says.
Floris nods once.
No argument.
No pride.
They back away slowly, careful not to snap branches. Careful not to rush.
The drag marks stretch behind them like scars.
Ten steps.
Fifteen.
Then—
the water moves.
Not violently.
Not splashing.
A slow rise. A quiet displacement.
Both freeze.
Farther out, the ridge of a back breaks the surface.
Scaled.
Massive.
Then, across the lake—
another bulge.
Another quiet swell.
Alvis's breath catches.
Floris's voice is barely a thread.
"Don't run."
Prey runs.
Predators watch.
They stand still just long enough to confirm what their bodies already knew.
Two.
Then—slowly, slowly—they step backward into the treeline.
The lake smooths again.
But it doesn't feel empty anymore.
It feels occupied.
And worse—
It feels like they had just been measured.