James Forsyth opened his eyes to a sky smothered by swirling, ash-gray clouds. For a moment, he thought it might be night, but the air felt too alive, too suffocating, like the world was holding its breath. He lay there, sprawled on jagged concrete, the faint scent of rust and decay clawing at his nose.

His head throbbed, his limbs ached, and when he tried to remember how he’d ended up here, his mind offered nothing but a heavy, unyielding blankness.

"Get up, boy," a gruff voice barked.

James tilted his head, wincing at the sharp pain in his neck. A man stood a few feet away, wrapped in layers of mismatched cloth, his face obscured by a mask fashioned from scavenged metal. He was clutching a rusted spear, the tip glinting faintly in the dim light.

“You’ll want to move before they smell you.”

“They?” James croaked, his voice dry and unfamiliar even to himself.

The man tilted his head toward the ruins behind him. It took a moment for James to notice the sound—a wet, dragging noise that sent a chill creeping up his spine.

“Shades,” the man muttered. “Smell the fresh ones like you from miles away.”

James struggled to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. He felt lightheaded, his stomach churning, but fear was a powerful motivator. He staggered forward, closer to the masked stranger.

“Where am I?” James managed to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.

The man snorted. “Mire. If you’re lucky, you’ll live long enough to wish you weren’t here.” He turned and started walking. “Follow me or don’t. Makes no difference to me.”

James hesitated but glanced back toward the dragging noise, which had grown louder. Shapes were emerging from the shadows now—bent, shambling figures with jagged limbs and glowing eyes that cut through the gloom.

He didn’t have a choice.

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The Mire was worse than James could have imagined. Narrow alleys twisted between crumbling buildings, their walls covered in strange, spidery patterns of growth—fungus or mold, though it pulsed faintly like it was alive. The streets were littered with debris, and the air was heavy with a metallic tang that made James’s throat burn.

“Keep your head down and your mouth shut,” the man instructed as they moved. He didn’t look back. “The Mire isn’t kind to strangers.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Who are you?” James asked, his voice hoarse.

The man didn’t answer immediately. After a long pause, he said, “Call me Rook.”

Rook led him to a small, crumbling building that seemed more intact than the others. He pushed open a door that groaned in protest, ushering James inside. The space was sparse—a single table, a few chairs, and a ragged bedroll in the corner.

“Sit,” Rook said, pointing to the table. James obeyed, his legs too weak to argue.

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The bread was hard, but James devoured it anyway, each bite scraping against the dryness in his mouth. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the first morsel hit his tongue. Across the room, Rook leaned against the wall, his eyes—hidden behind his mask—never leaving James.

“Tell me something, kid,” Rook said suddenly. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

James paused, mid-chew. His memory was a tangled mess, like trying to navigate a maze in the dark. He swallowed hard. “Nothing,” he said finally. “Just… waking up here.”

Rook chuckled darkly. “Figures. The Mire does that to people. Eats away at your head if you’re not careful.”

James frowned. “What do you mean?”

Rook didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled a crude blade from his belt and began inspecting its edge. “The Mire changes people. Some lose their minds. Some lose their bodies. Few stay the same for long.”

James’s hand trembled slightly as he gripped the table. “Why did you help me?”

Rook snorted. “Didn’t say I did. But you were lying there like a lamb for slaughter, and I’m not in the mood to clean up someone else’s mess.”

Before James could respond, a faint scraping sound reached his ears. He froze, his pulse quickening.

“Shades,” Rook muttered, straightening up. He moved to the door, peering out through a small crack. “Persistent little bastards.”

James glanced around the room for anything he could use as a weapon, but the space was nearly bare. “What do we do?”

Rook turned to him, his tone sharp. “We stay quiet. And you pray they lose interest.”

The scraping grew louder, accompanied by a low, guttural noise that sent chills down James’s spine.

For what felt like an eternity, the two of them sat in silence. The sounds outside grew closer, then began to fade. Finally, they disappeared altogether.

Rook exhaled slowly. “You’ve got the luck of a fool, kid. Let’s hope it holds.”

James stared at the door, his heart still pounding. “What are those things?”

Rook sheathed his blade. “The least of your worries. And that’s saying something.”

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That night, James sat on the cold floor, staring at his hands. They didn’t feel like his own, and the name—James Forsyth—felt hollow, like a borrowed shell. The silence in the room pressed down on him, and every flicker of movement outside made him flinch.

“What’s out there, really?” James finally asked.

Rook, who had been sitting with his back against the wall, looked at him. “Things you don’t want to meet.”

“Like the Shades?”

Rook shook his head. “The Shades are scavengers. What you should fear are the ones who aren’t content to scavenge.”

James frowned. “The Beasts?”

Rook didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter. “Pray you never see one.”

James wanted to ask more, but the exhaustion weighing on him was too much. As he drifted off to sleep, one thought lingered in his mind: who was he, and why did the world feel so wrong?

Unseen by either of them, the pulsing growth on the walls flickered faintly, as if watching.