Murkrest had its own rhythm, a silent pulse that ran through every tangled tree root and vine, that seemed to hum underfoot with every step. Agan had learned to listen to it, to feel its presence in the cool mud and still water, in the wet mist that hung over the village each morning.
He was nine years old now, tall for his age and wiry, with sharp eyes and a quick, sure way of moving that set him apart from the younger children. The villagers had grown used to seeing him dash between huts or cross the narrow wooden walkways with barely a sound, his curiosity always pulling him just a little further than he should go.
Today, Agan was gathering water plants along the edges of the village, his hands and feet slick with mud as he crouched beside the shallow pools. The plants were spiny and tough, their roots tangled and thick, but his mother had taught him how to twist and pull just right to free them without breaking the stems. The village elders used these plants in salves, medicines, and tonics, and his mother was skilled at crafting them.
Nearby, he heard the splash of footsteps, and he looked up to see his friend Nara, a sturdy girl with a tangled knot of dark hair, trudging through the mud with a basket slung over her shoulder.
“Catching frogs?” she asked, her grin wide and teasing.
Agan scoffed, holding up a handful of roots. “Gera wants these for her bone salves. My mother said we’re out.”
Nara wrinkled her nose. “So boring. At least frogs put up a fight.” She leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “I heard Old Saka has a jar of swamp eels back at his hut. Says they’re for some special brew, but I think he’s just keeping them to scare the little ones.”
Agan smirked. “Swamp eels? Bet he’s just afraid to eat them himself.”
Nara laughed, the sound carrying through the mist, as she started to help him gather the roots. They worked in silence, the familiar sounds of the village filling the air around them—voices calling from across the walkways, the scrape of wooden tools against bark, the bubbling of swamp fish jumping in a nearby pool.
As they finished filling the baskets, a loud voice called out across the village. “Agan!”
He turned, recognizing his mother’s voice. She stood at the edge of the clearing, her hands on her hips, her face set in that familiar look of mock annoyance she always wore when she was pretending to be cross with him.
“Agan, I asked you to fetch water, not make a feast out of it!” she called, though her tone was gentle, almost amused.
Nara smirked, nudging him with her elbow. “Better hurry before she puts you on frog duty.”
Rolling his eyes, Agan waved her off and hurried over to his mother, who ruffled his hair affectionately as he came to her side.
“Did you get the roots?” she asked, inspecting his basket with a practiced eye. She reached out and felt a few of the stems, nodding approvingly. “Good work, little one.”
Agan grinned up at her, feeling the swell of pride in his chest. His mother was one of the best herbalists in Murkrest, her remedies sought after not just in their village but among the smaller swamp tribes that visited from time to time. Her hands were always stained with the earthy green-brown hues of swamp plants, and her hut smelled of dried herbs and roots, a sharp, clean scent that Agan found comforting.
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As they walked back toward the village center, Agan noticed Tarek and a few other hunters gathered near the fire pit, talking in low voices. They were preparing for a trip into the deeper swamp—a ritual for the tribe’s hunters, who went out to collect special plants and gather offerings for the swamp’s guardian spirits. His uncle Tarek spotted them, giving Agan a nod and a faint smile.
“Come here, Agan,” Tarek called, motioning him over.
Agan glanced up at his mother, who nodded, and he quickly jogged over to the group of hunters. Tarek, his face painted with the dark greens and browns of the swamp, crouched to his level, his expression serious.
“We’re heading out into the deeper paths today,” he said. “I want you to stay close to the village. Keep an eye on your mother, alright?”
Agan’s heart sank slightly. He had been hoping, maybe even expecting, that Tarek would take him along this time. He knew the paths through the swamp as well as any of the young hunters, and he could move quietly enough to avoid disturbing the swamp creatures. But he nodded, keeping his disappointment to himself.
“Good lad,” Tarek said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ll have your chance soon enough. But for now, listen to your mother, and don’t wander too far.”
Agan nodded again, trying to ignore the sting of being left behind. Tarek stood, shouldering his pack, and with a final nod to his nephew, he and the other hunters disappeared into the mist, their figures fading into shadows as they moved silently through the swamp.
Agan returned to his mother’s side, his heart heavy with a mixture of pride and frustration. One day, he would join them. One day, he’d walk those deeper paths as a full hunter of the Hallowed Walkers. But for now, his world was bound to the village, to the daily tasks and routines that made up life in Murkrest.
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The sun dipped low in the sky, casting the village in shades of amber and shadow. Smoke curled lazily from the fire pit, and the smell of roasting fish filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of wet wood and moss. The villagers gathered around the fire, some sitting on rough-hewn logs, others crouching beside the flames as they passed around steaming bowls of broth and chunks of fish.
Agan sat with his mother and Nara, their bowls balanced on their laps as they talked quietly, sharing stories of the day’s work and gossip about the village. Across the fire, Old Saka sat with his pipe, his gaze distant as he puffed out wisps of smoke, his fingers absently tracing the bone charms that hung from his belt.
“Tomorrow’s the festival, you know,” Saka murmured, his voice carrying over the crackling flames. “The spirits are restless this year. Been hearing them more often than usual.”
Nara leaned closer to Agan, her eyes wide. “The festival,” she whispered. “Last year, Gera swore she saw the guardian spirits in the smoke. She said they looked like shadowy birds, with eyes that glowed in the dark.”
Agan listened, intrigued but skeptical. The festival of the spirits was an old custom, a time for the village to make offerings to the swamp and ask for its protection. It was a tradition older than anyone in Murkrest could remember, passed down from the elders who claimed to have seen things hidden from the rest of the tribe. Agan didn’t know if he believed all the tales, but he liked the mystery of it, the way it made the swamp feel alive, as if it were watching over them.
“Will you stay up this time, Agan?” his mother asked, giving him a playful nudge. “Last year, you fell asleep before the spirits even arrived.”
Agan flushed, mumbling, “I won’t fall asleep this time.”
His mother chuckled, ruffling his hair. “Then I’ll hold you to it.”
As the fire died down, the villagers began to drift back to their huts, their voices fading into the mist as night settled over the swamp. Agan lingered, watching the embers glow in the dark, his mind drifting back to the stories of the spirits, of shadowy birds and ancient guardians that watched over their village.
Finally, he rose and made his way back to his family’s hut, the familiar weight of sleep settling over him. But as he lay on his mat, staring up at the dark, thatch-covered ceiling, he felt a quiet thrill. Tomorrow, he would stay awake. He would see the festival with his own eyes. And maybe, just maybe, he would catch a glimpse of the spirits that watched over them.
As he drifted into sleep, the swamp’s quiet hum wrapped around him, a faint, soothing pulse that eased him into dreams.