Forge crouched beside the torn corpse of what had been a swamp bear. Three days dead, judging by the decomposition and insect activity. The massive predator had been ripped apart with what looked like focused rage. Claw marks everywhere. Bite wounds on the throat. But the strange part was the head.

  The skull had been cracked open. Brain matter consumed.

  That made it the fourteenth creature he'd found with the same pattern in as many days.

  He stood and scanned the surrounding swamp. Dense mangroves. Stagnant water. The humid air thick enough to chew. This was deep territory, far from the coast where Hawth sat quietly by the sea. Far from safety. Far from anywhere sensible people went.

  But Forge had never been accused of being sensible.

  Something's wrong out here. And it's getting worse.

  The wildlife had been going berserk for months now. Reports from the few hunters brave enough to work the deep swamp told of predators attacking each other without provocation. Prey species fleeing toward civilization. The entire ecosystem destabilizing like something was tearing through it without regard for natural order.

  The village elders had sent him to investigate. Forge was the best tracker Hawth had. Former soldier before the Pantathians had disbanded all human military forces decades ago. Now he worked as hunter, scout, and occasional enforcer of village law. Not that there was much law to enforce when everyone lived quietly enough to avoid serpent attention.

  That was the lesson Hawth had learned twenty-three years ago. Make waves, and the Pantathians crush you. Stay quiet, pay tribute, keep your head down, and maybe they leave you alone.

  Most of the village had internalized that lesson. Forge pretended he had.

  But he was part of the faction. The quiet resistance that met in basements and spoke carefully about freedom they'd never achieve. They shared rumors of uprisings on other islands. Whispered about weapons caches and coordinated rebellions. Dreamed of a day when humanity could stand against their serpent overlords.

  Forge knew it was fantasy. The Pantathians were too powerful. Too organized. Too willing to make examples. Every uprising he'd heard about had ended in massacre. Every rebellion crushed so thoroughly that even the memory became dangerous.

  But he kept attending the meetings anyway. Kept hoping. Kept preparing for an opportunity he suspected would never come.

  Right now though, his concern was more immediate. Whatever was tearing through the swamp wasn't natural. And if it reached Hawth, if it caused the villagers to turn on each other like he suspected it might...

  The fishing town couldn't survive that kind of chaos. The Pantathians would use it as excuse to purge them. Clean slate for next human settlement. Efficient.

  Forge needed to find the source. Needed to understand what was happening. Needed to stop it before it spread.

  He'd been tracking for three weeks now. Following a trail of carnage that made no sense. The pattern, if there was one, escaped him. Creatures killed seemingly at random. No territorial logic. No hunting behavior. Just violence radiating from... somewhere.

  Two days ago he'd found something worse.

  The gremlin village had been tucked into mangrove roots like most of their settlements. Mucksnout Hollow, he'd heard it called. Small community. Maybe two hundred gremlins before... whatever happened.

  Now it was mass grave.

  Forge had seen combat. Had witnessed the aftermath of Pantathian "discipline." Had helped bury his own neighbors after that lesson twenty-three years ago. He thought he was hardened to death.

  The gremlin village proved him wrong.

  The gremlins had killed each other, that much was immediately obvious from the weapons and wound patterns. Gremlin blades in gremlin bodies. Children struck down by adults. Adults torn apart by their own young.

  What made his stomach turn wasn't the violence itself, but the complete absence of external cause. No invading force. No raiding party. Just an entire community tearing itself apart in what could only be described as synchronized berserker rage.

  Bodies were scattered everywhere. Buildings had been burned. Blood soaked into the ground. Six orc corpses lay among the gremlin dead, their Mudfang clan markings still visible beneath dried blood. That raised uncomfortable questions.

  What had brought an orc patrol this deep into gremlin territory?

  The tribute system didn't work that way, gremlins brought their payments to designated collection points, not the other way around. For orcs to come here meant something had gone catastrophically wrong. And they'd died for it along with everyone else.

  But the chief's body was missing, and that detail bothered Forge more than anything else he'd seen. A gremlin chief should have fought. Should have defended his people. Should have died in the center of his village. The largest corpse Forge could find was just a warrior - covered in wounds that told of a desperate last stand, but clearly not the chief. Where had the leader gone?

  Whatever had happened there wasn't disease. Wasn't poison. Wasn't anything Forge had encountered before.

  It looked like madness. Pure, violent insanity that had infected an entire village simultaneously.

  And the brain-eating. That was new since the village. Before that, creatures had just been killed. After, every corpse showed signs of brain consumption. Something had changed. Something had escalated.

  Forge checked his weapons. Bow across his back. Knife at his belt. Short sword on his hip. Minimal armor, too hot for swamp work. Just leather vest and bracers. Enough to deflect glancing blows. Not enough to stop determined attack.

  He didn't expect to fight whatever this was directly. His job was reconnaissance. Find the source. Report back. Let the village decide how to respond.

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  Though what response was appropriate for something that caused mass psychotic breaks in entire communities, he had no idea.

  The trail led deeper into the swamp. Toward territory Forge had only heard about. Where apex predators lived. Where the truly dangerous things made their homes.

  Where Jonas had his tower.

  The necromancer had lived in the deep swamp for years. Younger than Forge by a few years, but powerful in his own way. Strange by any measure. The village traded with him occasionally, preserved foods for alchemical components. Healing salves for information about Pantathian movements. Uneasy arrangement but functional.

  But Jonas made Forge's skin crawl. Not because of the necromancy. Forge didn't care about death magic particularly. In a world ruled by serpent lords who could reshape entire species, raising a few corpses seemed minor.

  No, what bothered Forge was Jonas's loyalty.

  Jonas spoke positively about the Pantathians. Actually praised their rule. Talked about the "order" they maintained. The "stability" they provided. Defended their right to subjugate other species because they were "naturally superior."

  Collaborator thinking. Slave mentality dressed up as pragmatism.

  It made Forge sick.

  But Jonas knew the deep swamp better than anyone. If something was tearing through the ecosystem, the necromancer would have noticed. Might even know what it was.

  Worth asking. Even if it meant dealing with the man's insufferable ass.

  The tower appeared through morning mist like skeletal finger pointing at gray sky. Bone construction. Actual bones forming the walls. Ribs creating archways. Skulls decorating windows. Femurs as support beams.

  Dramatic as hell. Exactly the kind of thing that made people suspicious of necromancers.

  Forge approached openly. No point in stealth. Jonas would sense him coming anyway with whatever death magic he used.

  "I know you're there, Jonas!" Forge called when he reached the tower base. "Need to talk!"

  Silence for a moment. Then the door opened. Not by hand. Just swung inward on creaking hinges.

  "Enter, Forge of Hawth," a voice called from inside. Deep. Theatrical. Artificially ominous. "Though I warn you, the Dread Lord Jonas is not pleased by interruptions."

  Forge rolled his eyes and entered.

  The interior was exactly what you'd expect. Shelves of preserved specimens. Bubbling alchemical equipment. Books stacked haphazardly. Ritual circles drawn on the floor. And in the center, behind a desk made from what looked like giant ribcage, sat Jonas.

  Younger than Forge by maybe five years. Dark hair that hadn't started graying yet. Too-intense eyes that never learned when to look away. Robes that were probably meant to look mystical but mostly just looked like they needed washing. The kind of person who took themselves way too seriously.

  "Dread Lord Jonas," Forge said flatly, making no effort to hide his skepticism.

  "Yes!" Jonas stood dramatically. "You address the master of death itself! The controller of…"

  "I'm here about the swamp going crazy," Forge interrupted. "Wildlife attacking each other. Creatures eating brains. Entire gremlin village dead. You know anything about it?"

  Jonas deflated slightly at having his introduction cut short. "Ah. Yes. That." He sat back down. "I've noticed the disturbance. Most irregular."

  "Most irregular," Forge repeated. "That's what you call mass slaughter?"

  "Well, death happens. It's rather my specialty." Jonas gestured at the tower around them. "But the pattern is... concerning."

  "What pattern? I can't find one."

  "Exactly." Jonas leaned forward. "No pattern. Just chaos. Something moving through the swamp without logic. Killing without reason. Consuming brains without purpose I can identify."

  "Could it be curse? Disease? Some kind of magic?"

  "If it's magic, it's nothing I recognize." Jonas tapped his desk thoughtfully. "And I am quite well-versed in death magic, as you know. The Dread Lord Jonas has studied under the finest…"

  "Do the Pantathians know?" Forge interrupted again.

  Jonas's expression shifted. Became guarded. "Why would you ask that?"

  "Because you talk to them. Trade information. Probably told them already."

  "I maintain useful relationships," Jonas said stiffly. "The Masters of the Pentacoast appreciate those who provide valuable intelligence."

  Masters. He actually called them Masters. Like they deserved the title. Like subjugation was natural order.

  Forge felt his jaw clench. "So you did tell them."

  "I sent word, yes. But they haven't responded. Which suggests either they don't care or they're already aware."

  "Or they caused it."

  Jonas's face went carefully neutral. "That would be... unwise speculation."

  "Would it?" Forge leaned forward. "Think about it. Something causing creatures to go mad. To kill each other. To destroy communities from within. That's exactly the kind of weapon they'd develop."

  "The Masters have no need for such weapons. Their power is absolute."

  "Their power is built on fear," Forge countered. "And fear requires occasional demonstration. What better way than something that can't be traced back? Just looks like natural disaster. Madness spreading through populations. Convenient."

  Jonas stood. "I think you should leave."

  "Why? Because I'm questioning your precious Masters?"

  "Because you're treading dangerous ground. The kind that gets villages burned."

  Forge held his gaze. "You'd report me? Report that someone from Hawth is asking uncomfortable questions?"

  "I report what's necessary for maintaining order."

  "You're a collaborator. A human who licks serpent boots because you think it'll keep you safe."

  Jonas's eyes hardened. "I'm a survivor. Something you won't be if you continue this line of thinking."

  "I came here for information about what's killing things in the swamp. You clearly don't have it. Or won't share it."

  "I know it's dangerous," Jonas said. "I know it's moving deeper into apex territory. I know you should leave it alone."

  "Can't do that. Not after seeing that gremlin village. Not when it might spread to Hawth."

  "Then you're a fool. Whatever this is, it's beyond you."

  "Maybe. But I have to try."

  Jonas studied him for a long moment. "You resistance types are all the same. Noble. Determined. Dead."

  "How did you…"

  "Please. I'm not blind. Half of Hawth belongs to your little faction. The Pantathians know too. They just don't care. You're not a threat. Just humans playing at rebellion while the real power ignores you."

  The words stung because they were true. Forge knew the resistance was meaningless. Knew the Pantathians could crush them anytime. Knew they were tolerated only because they were harmless.

  But what else could they do? Accept subjugation completely? Stop even dreaming of freedom?

  "I'm leaving," Forge said. "Thanks for nothing."

  "Wait." Jonas sighed. "I don't know what it is. Truly. But I can tell you where it's heading."

  "Where?"

  "Deeper. Into troll territory. Following some path I can't identify. Almost like it's seeking something specific."

  "Trolls. Great."

  "If you go after it, you'll die. Probably badly."

  "Probably. But maybe I'll figure out what it is first. Get information back to Hawth. Let them prepare."

  Jonas shook his head. "You're wasting your life."

  "It's my life to waste."

  Forge turned and left the bone tower. Behind him, he heard Jonas mutter something about the foolishness of idealism. Probably true. Probably didn't matter.

  Outside, the swamp stretched endlessly. Somewhere in that wilderness, something was killing. Something was consuming brains. Something was moving with purpose even if that purpose wasn't clear.

  And Forge was going to find it.

  He picked up the trail within an hour. More corpses. More brain consumption. The pattern, or lack of pattern, continued. Creatures killed seemingly at random. Predator and prey mixed together. No hunting logic. Just violence.

  But Jonas was right about the direction. Everything pointed deeper. Toward the apex territories. Toward the most dangerous parts of the swamp.

  Forge followed.

  The resistance might be meaningless. The Pantathians might be unkillable. Hawth might be doomed to eternal submission.

  But he could still protect his village from threats he could understand. Could still track. Could still investigate. Could still do his job.

  Even if the job killed him.

  That was something, at least.

  More than Jonas's collaboration. More than accepting chains as natural order.

  Forge tracked deeper into the swamp, following death toward its source, and tried not to think too hard about whether this made him brave or just suicidal.

  Probably both.

  - - -

  End of Chapter 23