The camp was quiet, but the quiet of the Mire was never peaceful. It was the kind of silence that prickled at the edges of awareness, laced with the faint rustle of unseen movement and the occasional distant cry of something that had no name. James lay on his back, his makeshift bedroll offering little comfort against the cold, damp ground. His mind buzzed with fragments of thoughts: the Forsyth name, the stranger’s warning, and the weight of the Mire’s gaze pressing down on him.

Sleep eluded him, each time he drifted close yanked back by the feeling of being watched. The shadows beyond the campfire flickered and writhed, but whether it was the flames or his imagination, he couldn’t tell. He turned to Rook, who sat a few feet away, sharpening a blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The metallic scrape of steel on stone was oddly grounding.

“Do you ever sleep?” James asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rook didn’t look up. “Not when I’m in the Mire.”

James frowned, propping himself up on one elbow. “Is it really that dangerous here? Even with others around?”

Rook finally glanced at him, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “It’s more dangerous because of them. Never forget that.”

James blinked, taken aback. He glanced toward the other campers. The scarred man and the wiry woman sat close to the fire, speaking in hushed tones. The third figure, a younger man wrapped in a tattered cloak, was fiddling with a strange device that glinted faintly in the firelight.

“They don’t seem dangerous,” James said cautiously.

“They aren’t,” Rook replied, turning back to his blade. “Not until they need to be.”

The cryptic response sent a chill through James, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he lay back down, trying to will himself to rest. The distant sound of the blade scraping stone faded into the background as his thoughts drifted.

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When James woke, the fire had burned down to embers, and the camp was eerily still. A thin mist had rolled in, clinging to the ground and softening the shapes of the tents and trees. He sat up, his breath visible in the cold air.

Rook was gone.

Panic flared in James’s chest, but he forced it down, scanning the clearing. The other campers were still there, huddled in their own spaces, their forms barely visible through the fog. He stood, his legs unsteady, and stepped carefully around the remains of the fire.

“Rook?” he called softly, his voice swallowed almost immediately by the mist.

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No answer.

James hesitated, a sick feeling twisting in his gut. He thought about Rook’s words the night before: The Mire notices you. It doesn’t let go.

His skin prickled as the thought repeated in his mind, unbidden. It wasn’t just the silence—it was the way the fog seemed to shift, the way the shadows felt closer than they should.

Stay calm, he told himself.

He took a step toward the edge of the clearing, then another. The fog parted slightly as he moved, revealing a narrow trail leading deeper into the woods. His heart pounded in his chest, but he pressed on, his steps careful and quiet.

The trail wound through dense undergrowth, the trees looming overhead like twisted sentinels. The further he went, the more the air seemed to hum with an unnatural energy, a faint vibration that set his teeth on edge.

And then he heard it.

A whisper.

It was faint, almost indistinguishable from the rustling of leaves, but it was there. A single word, carried on the wind:

“Forsyth.”

James froze, his breath catching in his throat. His name—his family’s name. But the voice was unfamiliar, hollow and echoing, as though it came from somewhere far away and impossibly close all at once.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice trembling.

The whisper came again, softer this time, but no less chilling. “Forsyth.”

James spun around, his eyes darting between the trees, but there was nothing. Only the fog and the oppressive darkness beyond. He took a shaky step back, his heart racing.

And then he saw it.

A figure, barely visible through the mist, standing just off the path. It was tall and thin, draped in tattered, blackened fabric that seemed to merge with the shadows around it. Its face—or what should have been its face—was obscured, a void of shifting darkness that made James’s stomach churn.

The figure raised a hand, skeletal and impossibly long, and pointed directly at him.

“Forsyth,” it whispered again, the word slicing through the air like a blade.

James stumbled backward, his mind screaming at him to run, but his legs felt like lead. The figure didn’t move, but the shadows around it seemed to writhe, stretching toward him like tendrils.

Suddenly, a sharp, familiar voice cut through the fog. “James!”

Rook burst onto the trail, his blade drawn, his expression grim. The figure turned toward him, its movements unnaturally smooth, before dissolving into the mist like smoke on the wind.

James collapsed to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Rook demanded, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him to his feet.

“I... I heard something,” James stammered, his voice shaking. “It said my name.”

Rook’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening. “The Mire knows you now,” he said darkly. “And that wasn’t just something. That was an Obsidian Wraith.”

James stared at him, the name unfamiliar but deeply unsettling. “What does it want?”

Rook didn’t answer immediately, his gaze scanning the fog as though expecting the figure to reappear. Finally, he looked back at James, his expression grim. “It wants you to remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Everything.”

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The journey back to camp was tense and silent, every shadow a potential threat. When they arrived, the other campers were awake, their expressions wary. The scarred man approached them, his eyes narrowing at James.

“What happened out there?” he demanded.

“None of your business,” Rook snapped, brushing past him.

James followed, his legs weak, the weight of the encounter pressing heavily on his mind. The Mire had noticed him now, and it wasn’t going to let him go.

For the first time, he realized just how much danger he was truly in.