I wheeled in place, intending to see if I could get out of there. But it was no use. The exit was blocked by a solid hunk of smoothly-cut stone. No doors or egresses, only unyielding rock. I tested it and found to my horror that the stone was as stubborn as an old mule, not giving an inch no matter how much I pressed and prodded.

Nothing, I thought. Suppose my fate is sealed.

Taking a broken breath, I turned, feeling the thump of a fierce rhythm against my ribs, and took a moment to make sure my gear was secure. The club felt good in my hand, and a quick pat reassured me that my small spear hadn't wandered off from its rightful place across my chest.

Breathing deep, I tried to steady the rush of air in and out of my lungs. That goddamn buzzing filled the air, though, one that—now I was paying attention—didn't seem to draw any nearer.

Double checking, I swung the torch this way and that, the light comprised of the strange blue mist hardly making a ripple. No sight of 'em yet, but I could feel it in my bones—those bees were here, alright.

Bees, I mulled over the thought. I’d decided it was bees, then? Fair enough, brain o’ mine. Why bees, though? The buzzing, obviously—and the honey reference. But did bees even live in a swamp? Or hell, would they even live in this world? Seemed like if they did exist here, they likely wouldn’t run afoul of a marshland. Course, this was a Trial, so who knew if…those in charge had imported the suckers for a little bit of extra muscle? For now I’d operate under the assumption it was bees—there was no use in speculating in something worse. When the barn rattles: think milk cows, not coyotes…

That being the case, I considered it might behoove me to try recalling every bit of lore and fact I’d come across about the little black and yellow buggers. If I had to encounter something, I could at least try to be prepared. I usually did this with whatever was ailing me, you know, until I zeroed-in on the likely culprit. I reckoned it would help out in this predicament as well.

So I did.

I knew that the stingers on bee-type critters were something fierce, able to pump venom that could set a man’s skin to burning like it’d been pressed wet against a boiling pot. Most folks could take a sting or two without much fuss, but for some, a single prick could spell disaster. Swelling, trouble breathing—heck, it could shut a body down if they were allergic. I had never shown signs of allergy—I’d never had more than a welt myself, but the possibility of a body deciding to up and change on you, developing an allergy out of the blue in the prime of your life? That was a chilling thought. I knew that could happen.

Well, if nothing else, I’d need to be careful. Especially as there sounded like a fair few in the distance and I doubted I’d be able to abide more than a handful at once.

Alright, Leo, I said to myself. Let’s just ease into this.

But the path only went one way, and that was forward, down where the sound was leading.

Then, there it was—a doorway. The first honest-to-God door I'd seen since I set foot in this godforsaken trial. It stood there, proud and ominous, the wood thick and dark, aged by time, and framed by rusting metal that spoke of ancient craftsmanship. Beyond it, I could hear the buzzing. It was quite a bit louder and scarier, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. My eyes roamed over its surface, tracing the intricate mural that seemed to come alive under the blue torchlight.

"ÆTTRÄSK," the etching shouted down at me from the top of the door frame, letters as grand as the swamp it depicted below. Clan Trask, perhaps? The thought flickered in my mind as I considered my heritage, this place—the hereditary proving ground I’d found myself in. It felt right, yet I couldn't be sure—nothing in this place was ever certain.

The centerpiece of the mural was a tree, grand and stoic, its roots deep in the marshy ground—a clear symbol of the ancestral mangrove, I reckoned. And there, on the outskirts, depicted to catch the eye, stood a figure. The Marsh Knight, had to be, with spear in hand and helmet on head, an old guardian of sorts.

Opposite to the knight was a behemoth—a vague shadow, its features indistinct yet imposing, towering over the knight, at least four times the size. A foe? A protector? The image was too blurred by time and corrosion to make out any clear intent. But it gave me the willies.

“That better not be what’s in here,” I said, rapping my fingertips lightly on the wood. “Or I’m beyond boned. Couldn’t even manage a big gator, ain’t no way I’m taking on something that can make a fist.”

Then, like a cold draft through a keyhole, that voiceless voice slithered into my mind.

The son of the bog descends into the pit. Prepare, ye, for a challenge.

Its tone held no malice, but it didn't need to—it was the calm before a storm that promised to be anything but gentle.

I squared my shoulders, my grip on the club tightening. Whatever lay beyond that door, I was as ready as I'd ever be. Which was not at all. My blood was beebopping about inside me, frantic, as the edge of my panic threatened to overtake me. But, there was nothing for it. Had to see this through, didn’t I? Time to face what awaited on the other side.

And then it happened. As I shifted, preparing to face whatever lay beyond, the blue mist from my torch surged forth as though drawn by a silent command. It left the end of the wooden rod and I watched, astonished, as it kissed the mural, winding through the grooves and lines like a sentient thing. It brought life to the stone, the images of the swamp, the knight, the behemoth, all glowing as if moonlight bathed them from an unseen sky.

The words "ÆTTRÄSK" ignited last, shimmering with a light that seemed to pulse with the beat of my own heart. I blinked, and in that fraction of a second, the door creaked open.

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Let’s fucking tangle, bees.

I reckon my jaw must've hit the floor.

What I saw inside was…well, it sure was something, I can say that much. It was like stepping into a dream, one where the works of nature and man were woven together so tight, you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. But it weren't bees.

The first thing I noticed was just precisely how overgrown everything inside was—but also…mechanical? I’ll admit, I felt a little bit like a dumb ape at that moment. Here I’d been, assuming that wherever I was was something akin to a medieval world—and it still might have been, with one distinct difference. Machines. Contraptions of some variety—seeming ancient but also far too advanced than they should have been, pushed through the walls, but surrounded by greenery most curious. That was the buzzing sound, it was these things moving, flitting around autonomously and I had so think they'd been up to...whatever they were doing for quite some time now.

The air was sweet—but it weren’t from no honey, honey. Instead it was from a whole mess of floral splendor. Wildflowers. Growing fierce and free among gears and pulleys I couldn't make heads nor tails of. The vines laced through the metal, soft as a whisper, making even the stern iron seem part of the green, living world.

It appeared my torch had done a little more than just ignite the doorway, because this whole place was filled with the light: like dawn creeping through a sapphire. From small braziers hanging from the ceiling, the glow emanated, casting holy shadows that swayed and turned, as if they were alive and praying to the strange and beautiful light.

I stepped forward, noticing a flat, featureless metal surface took up part of the floor. It was a large circle with a raised lip around the edge making it look similar to a massive coin. It made a strange hollow clang as I moved across it, even in tennis shoes. I got up closer to examine the machinations of the…machinations, trying to divine their purpose.

Now, the contraptions in that room would've made anyone back at Rollins Customs go green with envy. If for no other reason than to want to play with ‘em for a bit—maybe take them apart and see what they were working with. There was one, all rings and spheres, like it was mapping the stars themselves. Then there were these scales and vials, chasing after some kind of perfect balance, as mysterious as a night-time howl in the distance.

There were colored smokes snaking through glass tubes, moving with purpose and grace, and metal arms that fussed over the greenery like the gentlest of gardeners.

Right smack in the center stood an altar, hewn from a stone that looked like it swallowed light whole. It felt like the whole room was holding its breath around that stone, like it was the heart of some secret in this baffling place.

I felt like I'd walked into a place that was a…I dunno, a damn bridge or something between what was and what could be. I couldn't tell if it was…magic or advanced mechanics—or both. But I knew I’d not be able to concentrate on much until I took a peek under the hood of how these things worked.

Still, there was more to explore. Drawn like a moth to a flame, I approached the altar, each step deliberate, almost reverent. There was something there, resting upon the cold, light-swallowing stone: a… compass? Maybe that was a stupid thought, because it was no ordinary navigational tool, that much was clear as crystal. This ‘compass’ was an intricate working of gears and tiny catches and pieces, a damn masterwork of art plus engineering that left me nearly breathless.

I didn’t pick it up, I just gaped, examining how it worked, watching as it moved. There was a central needle, and it danced—a wild, entrancing two-step, oscillating and rotating with an elegance that felt…ancient? It made a soft but persistent buzzing, much like everything else in this room, and I mused that perhaps it was speaking in a language too ancient and complex for my ears to comprehend. Was it a compass or a pocket watch? I didn’t see any numbers that might indicate a time piece. The needle jolted, rather than make a smooth circumnavigation around the interior. Still… it spoke to me on some primal level. Like the device knew I was there, and with every tickity-tock of its inner workings, it seemed to grow more excited, its movements more pronounced and purposeful.

Was it…? Was this thing attempting to guide me? Beckon my ass? I dunno why I thought that. It didn’t make sense on a logical level—but that’s the thing about logic: sometimes it took a break and left you scrambling to piece together meaning on your own.

So, like a little kid on the sidewalk in front of a toy store, I just stood there—bewildered and entranced. But, I knew I was going to need to steel myself, and so, pretending I was brave—not very, but there's merit in bluffing confidence if only to fool your own trepidations—I picked up the compass. Nothing happened.

“Huh,” I muttered. “Figured that woulda made something happen at least. What’s the big idea, though? Thought I was supposed to prepare for something…?”

I really shoulda just kept my big ol’ gums shut.

There was a loud slam and I whirled around, club raised. The door I’d entered was now closed, and almost immediately, the giant coin-shaped metallic platform in the floor began to open, like the aperture of an eye. But rather than the expected darkness, more blue light poured out. I crept cautiously toward it, peering over the edge to see…nothing. Just a circle full of light that had a shallow depth of only about two feet.

“Well, I’m not a dunce,” I said. Aloud. Like a dunce. “I’ve played games before, Bog. This is a portal.” I paused. “...p-probably.”

The son of the bog moves forward, prepared to face the Trial and all that it offers.

“Uh, no the hell he don’t,” I said. “I ain’t prepared for—”

The light inside the hole flashed, and I found myself suddenly standing on it. Apparently, I’d been too close.

“Now, wait here just a minute, Bog! I’m not—”

Mid-sentence, my words were cut off as another flash like summer lightning wrapped around me, and I felt a tug—a lurch, sorta like an elevator deciding to start before you’re ready. It was an odd sensation, not painful, but it certainly put me on high alert. After a moment, the intense light subsided, and I was left squinting into…a different part of the swamp.

“Well hell, am I going to have to walk all the way back? Is that the Trial? Lord on high, there’s more hiking in this world than the damn Lord of the Rings trilogy…”

I paused, taking in my surroundings. It was like the area was suddenly becoming more clear—like a veil I hadn’t been witness to suddenly subsiding and I could catch a glimpse of where I really was. It was the swamp, yeah, but the terrain was a weird thing. This new location had me standing atop a…hill, if I was judging right. Some manner of elevation in any case. The twilight here wasn't as dense, neither, allowing me to discern more than just vague shapes and muffled sounds. The area was expansive, roughly half the size of a football field. Its boundaries were defined by the blue-light braziers, making me very aware that this looked a lot like an arena. Shit. I’m going to have to fight something.

And then, about fifty feet away, my gaze settled on something — a creature? It wasn’t particularly big, but maybe it…was, for whatever it was? Something four-legged. It stood motionless, its true form obscured by the dim light where the blue lanterns didn’t touch. From this distance, its appearance was indistinct, but there was an undeniable aura about it that set my nerves on edge. It was just an inky silhouette against the faint light. But time felt frozen, the world holding its breath, waiting for…something. Me? The beast before me? The Bog?

Then the voice returned—well, it wasn’t the same voice, actually. This wasn’t voiceless. Anyway, there was a voice. Deep, stilted, like it was bored—which all things considered was kind of amusing. However, the content of its statement was not worth chuckling over. It was more of a death sentence.

Lo, kin. The son of the bog stands upon the precipice of a grievous endeavor. A harbinger of the swamp's hidden wrath stands, to test thy mettle in dire combat. Not merely a battle of flesh and blood, it remains as a crucible to assay the very worth of thy spirit.

A hardship most arduous, a test of endurance and will as much as strength and cunning. Where thy tread, is a path fraught. Peril. Recompense. To traverse is to submerge in dark waters. To abandon is folly and death.

Lo, kin, the spoils of victory are not of gold or gem, but of greater value still; for triumph in this combat shall grant thee one step further on the corridor of the Trial. Each adversary vanquished, each challenge overcome, brings with it a further delve, a closer resolution.

Prepare, ye kin, with courage. Pursue thy claim to the legacy of the Bog. The Trial cares not for fear or mercy; it seeks only measures in the depth of thy conviction. Advance and face thy fate, for the Bog watches. The Bog waits. Silent, its judgment ever present. Let us listen. Let us observe.

Well, I thought. That’s a lot of old words just to say, ‘you’re fucked.’

But before I could do anything but lift my club, the creature in the center of the ring began to move.