The dawn came slowly, as if reluctant to disturb the stillness of the Mire. James awoke with a startle, his body stiff from the cold, the rough stone floor beneath him pressing into his back. His head ached, and the fog that had clouded his memory the night before seemed to have thickened overnight. He still couldn’t remember anything before waking up in this forsaken place. No family. No past. Just his name—James Forsyth—and even that felt tenuous, like a forgotten dream.

He pushed himself up from the floor, rubbing his eyes. The room was dim, the only light filtering through cracks in the walls, casting long, uneven shadows. Rook was already awake, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the door, sharpening his blade with a rhythmic scrape.

“Morning,” Rook muttered, not looking up. “If you plan on making it through this hellhole, you better start thinking on your feet.”

James didn’t respond immediately. His thoughts were still swirling, a mess of confusion. But Rook’s words cut through it, reminding him that survival was all that mattered here.

“Survival?” James repeated, his voice hoarse. “How do you survive in a place like this?”

Rook looked up, his mask glinting faintly in the low light. “By not asking stupid questions,” he said, standing up. “And by staying off the streets as much as you can. The Mire doesn’t take kindly to those who aren’t quick on their feet.”

James followed Rook’s lead and stood, his legs still shaky. The hunger gnawed at his stomach again, the hard bread from last night doing little to quell it. He scanned the room again, wondering if there was something more to this place, something that might give him a clue about what was going on.

The walls were covered in that same eerie growth, the fungal-like substance pulsating as if alive. The air smelled of rust and decay, and James could almost swear it was getting thicker, harder to breathe.

Rook moved to the door, pausing as if listening. The scraping noises that had haunted them the night before had stopped, but there was an unsettling quiet now—too quiet.

“Ready to move?” Rook asked, his voice low.

James nodded, though he wasn’t sure if he was ready for anything. But he didn’t have a choice. If he stayed here, he’d be just as vulnerable as the people who were already gone.

The outside world was worse than he imagined. The streets of the Mire were narrow, crisscrossed with tangled debris and shattered concrete. The sky above was still covered with those heavy clouds, casting everything in a dull, oppressive light. The air tasted bitter, and every step James took seemed to echo with the ghosts of those who had wandered these streets before him.

“Stay close,” Rook said, his voice gruff as he led the way. “And keep your head down.”

They moved quickly, weaving through the alleyways and over broken streets. James tried to keep up, his breath coming in ragged bursts as the weight of his confusion pressed on him. Every few steps, Rook would glance over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of movement.

“Where are we going?” James asked, unable to silence the question in his mind any longer.

“To the Dregs,” Rook replied, his voice matter-of-fact. “It’s where people like us go when we’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“The Dregs?” James repeated, frowning. He hadn’t heard of anything like that.

“It’s a part of the Mire,” Rook explained, stepping over a pile of rubble. “A place for scavengers, outcasts, and the ones who’ve given up on trying to survive in the more… civilized parts of this place.”

James’s stomach churned again. “And what exactly do we do there?”

“Survive,” Rook answered simply. “Or die. Those are your options.”

As they continued through the streets, the eerie quiet remained, but James couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching them. The buildings around him seemed to lean in, the flickering lights in the distance creating strange shadows that danced like specters. His eyes kept darting to the dark corners of the alleyways, his heart racing with every sound.

They reached a large, crumbling structure after what felt like hours of wandering. The building was a haphazard assembly of rusted metal, wood, and stone—half-sunken into the muck that surrounded it. A few figures moved about the area, their faces obscured by dirt and masks, their eyes wary.

“This is it,” Rook said, pushing open a creaky door. It groaned in protest, but Rook didn’t seem to care. Inside, the space was dim and crowded. People milled about, some tending to small fires, others huddled in groups, whispering among themselves.

The air inside was thick with smoke and the scent of something far worse than rust. It felt like the kind of place where secrets were kept, where things went unsaid.

Rook didn’t stop to acknowledge anyone. He led James through the narrow corridors, past doorways that led into dark rooms filled with the sounds of low murmurs and the occasional cough.

They stopped in front of a small door at the end of the hall. Rook knocked twice, sharply, and after a long pause, a voice from the other side growled, “What?”

“It’s Rook,” came the reply. “I’ve got company.”

The door creaked open, revealing a small room lit only by a single lantern. A man sat inside, hunched over a workbench, his hands stained with something dark. He looked up slowly, his eyes narrowing when he saw James.

“What’s this?” the man asked, his voice rough.

“A problem,” Rook said, stepping inside. “This kid’s got no memory, and no place to go. I’m thinking you might be able to help.”

The man eyed James for a long moment, before pushing himself up from the workbench. “I don’t do charity,” he muttered.

“I’m not asking for charity,” Rook retorted. “But you’ve got your ways of finding things out. And you know damn well you don’t want another wanderer turning up dead in your streets.”

The man grunted, then motioned for James to come closer. “Alright,” he said, tapping a bench beside him. “I’ll take a look at you. See what I can figure out.”

James hesitated. Something about the man’s tone made him uneasy, but he had no choice. He stepped forward, hoping this would provide some answers, even if they were the kind he wasn’t ready for.

As he sat down, the man’s fingers hovered over his head, brushing against his temple with an almost unsettling precision.

James felt a sudden sharp twinge in his mind, like a needle pricking his thoughts. For a moment, everything went black, and then—

—he saw flashes. Faces. Places.

A name. A word. Forsyth.

And then the vision faded, leaving only confusion and a lingering sense of dread.

The man pulled his hands back, his expression unreadable.

“Well, well,” he muttered. “Looks like you’re more than you seem.”

James’s pulse quickened. “What does that mean?”

The man met his gaze, and for the first time, something like recognition flickered in his eyes.

“You’re marked,” the man said quietly.

James frowned, trying to make sense of the words. “Marked?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at Rook, then back to James.

“Marked,” he repeated, “for better or worse. And that, my friend, could mean a lot of things in the Mire. Some good. Some very, very bad.”

And with that, the real questions began.