The Old Silt-Speaker, whose true name was a series of clicks, whistles, and subtle chromatophore shifts across his mottled green-brown skin, lay utterly still. Only his large, golden-pupiled eyes, set wide on his broad, flat head, moved, peering through a carefully arranged screen of woven reeds and flowering water-hyacinths. His abode was a semi-submerged dome of hardened mud, river stones, and intricately layered bog-wood, its exterior so artfully adorned with living swamp flora that to an untrained eye it appeared as just another tussock in the moon-drenched night of the Western Border Marshes.

  Tonight, the usual symphony of the marsh – the chirrup of night-frogs, the buzz of blood-flies, the distant splash of a hunting marsh-cat – was muted, replaced by a far more sinister chorus: the heavy squelch of countless feet, guttural shouts, the clang of metal, and an earth-shaking tread that vibrated through the water and into the Silt-Speaker’s very bones.

  A horde. Scuttlers and Stone-Shards. Passing less than a spears' throw from his hidden dwelling, a river of destruction cutting a swathe through the familiar waterways and reed-beds, fouling the waters, trampling little dwellers of mud and silt underfoot.

  His three hearts beat a slow, deliberate rhythm against his ribs, a practiced calm learned over many seasons of observing the often-brutal dance of life and death in the fens. But this… this was different.

  He watched, unblinking. Scuttlers numerous as biting gnats after a storm swarmed through the shallows, their torches casting dark demonic shadows on the water. They plundered the half-submerged homesteads of his kin – dwellings much like his own, though perhaps less artfully concealed. They dragged out woven reed baskets filled with preserved fish-strips and sun-dried tubers, smashed intricately carved ceremonial totems fashioned from prized driftwood, and set fire to the carefully cultivated patches of luminous moss that lit K’thrall pathways. Their joy in destruction was a palpable, ugly thing.

  Then came the Stone-Shards. The Silt-Speaker had never seen their like, though the oldest spawning-songs hinted at such beings from the deep-time, before the K’thrall had learned to weave the reeds or speak the silt. Their massive scaled forms moved with a ponderous invincibility, tree-trunk maces crushing K’thrall fish-weirs and defensive mud-banks with contempt. Their off-white eyes seemed to absorb the moonlight, reflecting nothing but emptiness.

  The Silt-Speaker’s thoughts were not in the clumsy, linear word-strings of the dry-skins. They were a flow of interconnected sensory impressions, ancestral memories, and probability-weavings. He felt the fear of his scattered kin, a discordant tremor in the shared water-knowing of his people. He tasted the metallic tang of spilled K’thrall blood on the night air, carried by the faint breeze. He saw the patterns of their advance, the brutal efficiency that spoke of a guiding will far greater than the Scuttlers themselves.

  His own dwelling, thank the Deep Coils, was well-sited, built upon a submerged knoll that the main horde, following a shallower channel, was bypassing. His camouflage, honed over generations by his lineage of Silt-Speakers, was holding. For now.

  He thought of the warning-currents he had tried to send through the deep-water channels, the subtle pressure waves and scent-markings that alerted other K’thrall communities further south. Would they be heeded? Would they be enough? His people were not warriors in the dry-skin sense. Their strength lay in resilience, in adaptation, in their deep understanding of the marsh’s embrace. They had no standing armies, no fortresses of stone. Their defenses were the labyrinthine waterways, the sucking mud, the venomous flora and fauna, and their ability to melt into the landscape like morning mist.

  But against such numbers, such raw power, such focused malice…

  A group of Scuttlers dragged a captured K’thrall, a young female from the neighboring spawning-ground, her limbs thrashing, her distress-clicks sharp and piercing even above the horde’s din. One of the Stone-Shards, with a guttural rumble that might have been laughter, backhanded her with casual brutality, sending her sprawling into the mud, silencing her.

  The Silt-Speaker’s chromatophores flashed a deep, angry crimson for a moment, a wave of cold fury rippling through his skin. He forced himself back to stillness, to observation. Rage was a dry-skin indulgence, a fire that consumed the self. The K’thrall way was to endure, to remember, and, when the tide turned, to reclaim.

  The moon, a pale disc in the inky sky, cast its cold light on the receding tide of invaders. The trail of destruction left behind – smoldering reed-huts, befouled waters, the faint cries of the dying – was a fresh scar upon the sacred face of the marsh. The Silt-Speaker knew his duty. He would remain. He would observe and remember every detail, every atrocity. And when the time was right, he would carry the full weight of this witnessing to the Great Spawning Pools, to the Eldest Speakers.

  The dry-skins, with their clattering metal and their loud, angular thoughts, knew little of the true depths, the unseen currents that flowed beneath their mundane world. But the marsh remembered. And the K’thrall, children of silt and shadow, remembered with it. The tremors sent by this terrible horde would not be forgotten.

  * * *

  The first official assembly of the newly minted Office of Northern Concerns convened in a chamber imposing enough, with its dark wood paneling and stern portraits of past Argrenian military leaders.

  Lord Grellen of Stonebridge, a man whose military experience was more in logistics than frontline combat, presided with a by-the-book formality. Master Horatio Finnigan of the Southern Merchant Consortium, his fingers already tapping on a stack of ledgers, looked as if he’d rather be somewhere profits were being actively generated. Archmage Falazar sat like a storm cloud, shooting occasional bolts of withering glares. And Sir Ronigren of Varden, newly appointed as "Special Liaison," looked like a dove trapped in a cage of sparrows.

  The meeting began predictably: Lord Grellen outlined the Office’s mandate. Master Finnigan immediately raised concerns about the potential cost of "any precipitous military actions" and the disruption to northern trade routes.

  Falazar listened. Finnigan suggested that perhaps the Alderholt incident was an "isolated anomaly, likely instigated by unusually aggressive local goblin tribes, perhaps agitated by a harsh winter.”

  "Master Finnigan," Falazar’s voice was deceptively mild, yet it cut through the merchant’s droning like a shard of ice. "Were you perhaps present at Alderholt when the enchanted ram wrecked the door? Or when creatures of living stone rose to defend the innocent? Have your ledgers perchance informed you of the scaled behemoths now marching alongside these 'unusually aggressive local tribes'?"

  Finnigan flushed, sputtering a retort about "unsubstantiated claims" and "arcane hyperbole."

  "The claims, Master Finnigan, are far from unsubstantiated. And the truth is often more hyperbolic than your accounts. With your permission, Lord Grellen, I have a witness whose testimony might… illuminate the broader context of these 'local tribal agitations.'"

  Before Grellen could do more than blink in surprise, Falazar gestured towards the chamber door, which opened to admit Ruthiel of the Sylvanesti.

  Master Finnigan choked on his water. Lord Grellen’s monocle nearly popped from his eye. Even the stoic guards by the door straightened.

  Ruthiel, twilight robes flowing, glided with ageless grace to the center of the room. "Greetings, esteemed members of this council," their melodic voice resonated. "I am Ruthiel, of the Sylvanesti. And I bring word from the sacred forests of the northwest, the ancestral abode of my people."

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  They proceeded to recount the dire warnings they had shared with Falazar: the ransacked dwarven sites, the stolen artifacts of power, the unnatural mustering of orc warbands, the terror gripping the wild creatures, and the clear signs of a malevolent intelligence guiding these events.

  When Ruthiel finished, a stunned silence filled the chamber. Master Finnigan looked considerably less confident, his ledgers forgotten. Lord Grellen was pale.

  Falazar seized the moment. "As you can see," he said, his voice now carrying the full weight of his authority, "the situation is far graver than a few skirmishes. We are facing a multi-front resurgence of ancient hostilities orchestrated by a singular, powerful enemy. To merely reinforce existing garrisons is to plug a sieve with pebbles. We need intelligence. We need to understand the enemy’s objectives, the source of their new strength, and the nature of the powers they are unearthing – and those we might ourselves possess."

  His gaze fell on the knight, who had been observing the unfolding scene with trepidation.

  "Sir Ronigren," Falazar commanded, his tone leaving no room for debate. "You are now officially attached to this Office. I require you to assemble a small, trusted contingent. Men and women of skill, discretion, and courage, who understand the true nature of the threats we face. Individuals who will act, not just deliberate."

  Ronigren nodded, “You're not asking for soldiers, Archmage,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You're asking for survivors. People who have seen the impossible and didn't break.” Gregan, Myanaa, Finn... yes. He knew exactly who to call.

  "Their initial destination," Falazar explained, "will be Woodhall, to consult with Marta and further examine the 'Keepers.' From there, they will proceed further east, towards the borderlands of the K’thrall Fens, to the very region where the merchant discovered the young woman, Sabine, and her amulet. We must seek answers there: to the girl’s origins, to the amulet’s purpose, and perhaps, to the nature of the power that destroyed her convoy and may now be stirring once more."

  He named the proposed members: “Sir Ronigren...”

  A jolt, and a strange, unexpected thrill ran through Ronigren. This was it. He would not be observing from the sidelines, but go back into the wild, seeking answers at the point of a sword if need be. It was a daunting prospect, but it felt right in a way that the polished halls of the Citadel never could. This was a mission he understood.

  “His chosen military companions, the elder Marta, the merchant Masillius Vasi, the mage Artholan, and young Sabine herself.”

  Lord Grellen, still reeling from Ruthiel’s testimony, looked to Master Finnigan, who for once, seemed at a loss for words.

  "This expedition," Grellen began, hesitantly, "it would require resources… funding…"

  "Indeed," Falazar said smoothly. "A modest investment, Lord Grellen, for intelligence that could save the kingdom from ruin. I am certain Master Finnigan can find the necessary allocations within the contingency funds of this very Office."

  Before Finnigan could recover his composure enough to argue, Ruthiel spoke again, calm but resolute. "If this expedition proceeds, Archmage, members of this Council, I would ask to accompany them."

  Another wave of surprise rippled through the room.

  "The Sylvanesti have a stake in the balance of these lands," Ruthiel stated. "The region you speak of, near the K’thrall Fens and the forgotten borders, holds remnants of powers my people once contended with alongside the Jotunai. My knowledge of the terrain, of the old tongues, and of An-Athame’s influence, may prove… useful. And," the elf added, averting their gaze "I confess a profound interest in the fate of any who might carry the lineage of the Terra-Born."

  Falazar, though surprised by Ruthiel's offer, immediately saw its immense value. An Elven guide and protector, with knowledge stretching back centuries? It transformed the expedition from a risky venture into something with a far greater chance of success.

  Lord Grellen and a now thoroughly cowed Master Finnigan reluctantly acceded. The Office of Northern Concerns, in its very first official act, sanctioned the expedition. The funds would be allocated, the necessary permissions granted.

  Falazar allowed himself a thin smile. The game was afoot, and he had just moved several crucial pieces onto the board.

  * * *

  The depths of Greyfang Tor throbbed with a malevolent pulse. Nell, his consciousness a fickle candle flame in a storm of pain and terror, found himself no longer hauling stones, but chained upright to a massive, rotting tree trunk.

  The wood was slick, smeared with old, dried blood that flaked away at his touch, and coated in patches of unidentifiable viscous materials that oozed a sickly sweet odor. A bright moss glowing with a faint internal luminescence seeped from the cracks in the decaying timber, casting eerie shadows on his haggard face.

  He was not alone. Four other prisoners – the woodsman, one of the trappers, and the mother and her eldest child he’d seen earlier – were similarly bound to equally grotesque trunks arranged in a grim semicircle. Before them, in the center of the cavern, stood an altar fashioned from piled animal skulls and large, blackened femurs.

  Upon this bone altar, a collection of jagged obsidian shards and twisted metal fetishes came alive with a pulsating white-green light, casting the entire chamber in its ghastly glow. The air was thick with the coppery tang of fresh blood, the cloying scent of the glowing moss, and an underlying hum of power.

  The goblin shaman stood before the altar, his bone-adorned form silhouetted against the eerie light. His massive scarred wolf lay at his feet, its red eyes fixed on the prisoners, a low growl rumbling in its chest. Flanking the shaman were two other goblins Nell hadn’t seen before. They were taller than the average Scuttler, draped in tattered, blood-stiffened robes, their faces painted with white and black ritualistic markings. Each carried a shallow obsidian bowl, filled to the brim with dark, steaming blood.

  A low, droning chant began, initiated by the shaman, then picked up by the two robed figures. It was a sound that vibrated in Nell’s teeth, a dissonant chorus of jarring notes that clawed at his sanity. The glowing moss on the trunks pulsed in time with the chant, its light intensifying and dimming in a sickening rhythm.

  The shaman raised his hands, and the chanting grew louder, more frenzied. He took a curved ritual knife from the altar, its obsidian blade gleaming dully. He dipped it into one of the blood-filled bowls held by a robed attendant, then held it aloft, muttering incantations that Nell couldn’t understand.The blade seemed to absorb the blood, a faint, dark vapor rising from its surface. He wrapped the hilt of the knife in a disturbingly supple strip of what looked like skin.

  With slow, deliberate steps, the shaman approached the first prisoner, the woodsman, whose eyes went wide with a terror so profound it rendered him mute.

  The shaman paused before him, his masked face unreadable. With a brutal thrust he jammed the blood-imbued knife from the hollow of the woodsman’s collarbone down deep towards his heart.

  The woodsman gave a choked, gurgling cry, his body convulsing against the chains. A torrent of dark blood erupted from the wound. The shaman held the knife in place for a long moment, his head tilted as if listening to something Nell couldn’t hear, then, with a sharp twist, he withdrew the blade. He barked a command, and one of the robed attendants stepped forward, using a smaller knife to cut the leather binding the woodsman to the trunk.

  The woodsman’s body slumped, lifeless… for a heartbeat.

  Then, with a sickening, unnatural jerk, it straightened. The eyes that moments before were glazed with death snapped open, revealing not the familiar spark of life, but a sickly off-white glow. A wretched moan escaped the woodsman’s lips, devoid of all humanity. His movements were stiff, puppet-like, but he stood, head lolling slightly, his gaze vacant yet somehow… expectant.

  He was no longer the woodsman. He was something else, something bound by dark sorcery to a new, terrible master.

  One by one, the shaman repeated the horrific ritual. The trapper. The terrified mother, whose silent tears streamed down her face as the obsidian blade plunged into her. Her child, who screamed until the very end. Each time, the same gruesome transformation. The blood, the chant, the skin-wrapped knife, the severing of chains, the unnatural reanimation. Four new thralls, their bodies still bearing the marks of their violent deaths, now stood in a silent, gruesome line, awaiting commands.

  Nell tried to scream, but no sound came. He pulled at his chains, but they held firm, biting into his raw wrists. He was next.

  The shaman approached him, the last obsidian knife already dripping with fresh blood, its skin-wrapped hilt slick. The sickly white-green light from the altar pulsed, the chanting reached a fever pitch, the stench of death and dark magic overwhelming. Nell closed his eyes, a single, desperate prayer to any forgotten god who might still listen echoing in the ruins of his mind.

  The cold, sharp point of the obsidian blade pressed against his collarbone. A searing pain lanced through him. His old awareness, his memories, his very sense of self, began to fray, to unravel, consumed by an encroaching icy darkness. Before his clouding eyes the shaman’s masked face, and behind it, the hungry, off-white glow in the eyes of his reanimated former companions. Blurring.

  Then nothing.

  And then… a new awareness. Cold. Empty. Obedient. The chains fell away. He rose, his movement stiff, his gaze fixed on the shaman, awaiting the will of his new master.

  The trapper named Nell was gone, consumed by the blood altar of Greyfang Tor.

  ? My 100th Life Will Be My Last ?

  by Asher Teivel

  Clara Crowsong has died ninety-nine times, and this is her last chance to save her family.