Ronigren and his companions, still slightly damp and smelling faintly of geothermal minerals from their welcoming ritual, found themselves ushered by solemn amphibians into a space that defied every “Dry-Skin” notion of a council room.

  The chamber they crossed was a vast shallow dome, its walls woven from hardened mud, colossal reeds, and iridescent carapaces of giant swamp beetles. Bones from monstrous swamp beasts – ribcages that could shelter a man, femurs taller than Gregan – were artfully incorporated into the architecture, adorned with sweeping patterns of the usual luminescent shells and softly pulsing mosses. The air was warm, humid. It smelled of damp earth, aquatic blossoms, and a faint musky aroma that seemed to emanate from the K’thrall walking past them.

  Powerfully built froglike creatures the size of large dogs moved with a ponderous gait through the chamber. They carried flat clay tablets or slate stones upon their broad backs, laden with an array of K’thrall canapés: glistening insect larvae skewered on sharpened reeds, small, translucent fish served whole and still twitching, and vibrant gelatinous fungi that cast a soft internal light.

  Vast clouds of jewel-toned beetles, iridescent moths, and tiny, buzzing flies coalesced and dispersed in intricate patterns around certain K’thrall dignitaries, their collective buzzing rising and falling in a form of communication beyond human comprehension. Swarms of larger slower-moving insects drifted like docile clouds through the chamber, and Ronigren watched with fascination and revulsion as several K’thrall Spawning-Speakers plucked insects from the air and popped them into their wide mouths.

  The K’thrall dignitaries’ mottled skin was covered in fractal patterns painted in vibrant mineral pigments, enhancing their loud attire.

  Ronigren settled in the shallow pool his delegation had been assigned, thankfully kept dry by his new swamp-proof clothes, but dignitaries still moved between pools, exchanged clicks and whistles, plucked snacks from the air. Then, all movement ceased. Every K’thrall dignitary settled onto low, smooth stone platforms arranged in concentric circles around a central, deeper pool from which arose a sulfurous steam. An intricate unspoken protocol was clearly underway.

  The Shellwater scribe was flustered, fumbling with his scrolls. Serjeant Allin stood stiffly, hand hovering where his sword would have been. Even Marta was taken aback.

  After a long wait, a K’thrall glided through the shallow water to Ronigren’s side.

  "The Spawning-Council of Xy’tharr… they will hear the Dry-Skin warrior first," she conveyed, her clicking pidgin soft but clear. "The one who leads… the Tall-One… and the Keeper of the Earth’s Key."

  Master Whisty, who as the official civilian attaché from Shellwater Bridge considered it his diplomatic prerogative to open formal proceedings, made a sputtering sound of protest. "But… but the protocols! Surely, as the designated representative of Marquis Finchley and the Kingdom of Argren’s formal delegation—"

  The K’thrall interpreter blinked her large, golden eyes at him, then turned back to Ronigren expectantly.

  Ronigren met Whisty’s indignant gaze with a calm, steady look, then nodded to the interpreter. He stepped forward, each clumsy step sending small splashing sounds in the silent chamber as he moved towards the centre.

  He spoke, steady and clear despite the otherworldly grandeur of the chamber and the hundreds of unblinking golden eyes fixed upon him.

  After his testimony, a long silence filled the chamber, broken only by the hum of countless insects. The K’thrall Spawning-Speakers began to confer amongst themselves in a series of soft clicks, whistles, and skin patterns’ shifts.

  The lead Speaker gestured towards a shadowed alcove at the edge of the council circle. From this alcove, an elderly K’thrall female emerged slowly, leaning heavily on a worn staff of polished driftwood. Her skin, though still capable of subtle color shifts, was faded, and her movements slow, deliberate.

  The interpreter’s voice was hushed, reverent. "This is Xylia-Vec. Keeper of the Old Songs. Mother of Zyl-Phana, She-Who-Walked-The-Dry-Paths."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Xylia-Vec approached the center of the chamber, her watery gaze sweeping over Ronigren’s party, lingering on Sabine with an almost painful intensity. She spoke in a series of soft melodic croaks and whistles imbued with sadness.

  "My daughter Zyl-Phana…" the interpreter translated. "She was a Dream-Walker. A path finder. Curious. Brave. Too brave, perhaps, for safe waters. Twenty Dry-Skin seasons ago she journeyed north. Beyond our fens. Into the dry lands. Seeking old knowledge. Old connections. The spawn songs spoke of… of Stone-Singers who once shared the whispers of the earth with our ancestors. Zyl-Phana… she sought to hear those whispers again."

  "For many moons, we heard nothing," Xylia-Vec continued, her voice trembling slightly. "Then… the winged messengers… they brought word. Zyl-Phana was returning. She spoke of finding what she sought. Of… of giants who still dreamed beneath the ice. Of a great shadow stirring. She… she was bringing news. And… and others with her. She was not far from the Bleeding Marshes, on the edge of Dry-Skin lands."

  Xylia-Vec paused, her golden eyes clouding. "The Sky-Weavers… they did not return after that. Weeks passed. Then… then our bog-crawlers, they found a place of slaughter. Near the marshes. Dry-Skin wagon-things… smashed. K’thrall blood… much K’thrall blood staining the earth. And…and the scent of Stone-Singers. Two of them. All gone."

  Masillius let out a choked sound, his hand tightening on Sabine’s shoulder.

  "Some said it was Zyl-Phana’s blood," Xylia-Vec croaked, her voice raw. "Some said she had perished there, with the Stone-Singers she had found. But I refused to believe. The Deep Waters, they did not sing her death-song to me. For fifteen seasons I have listened to the chatter of the marsh-flies, to the whispers of the reed-beds, to the dreams of the slumbering bog-turtles hoping for a sign. Hoping she would find her way home."

  She looked straight at Sabine, piercing her with sorrowful eyes. "Tall-One, the scent of the Stone-Singers is strong upon you. And the time— it aligns. Could it be that my Zyl-Phana was with your parents? Trying to bring them and you to safety? To the wisdom of our Deep Pools?"

  The question cast a sorrowful hush in the vast, silent chamber, as Sabine’s tears streamed down for this elderly mother, at the spark of hope within her eyes.

  Swarms of iridescent insects zipped back and forth between the dignitaries in a kaleidoscopic blur, carrying intricate messages in their buzzing flight patterns. The hound-sized "dogtoads" lumbered through the shallow waters, bearing fresh, damp clay tablets to certain Spawning-Speakers, who would then inscribe them with swift, deft movements of a sharpened reed stylus before sending them off.

  The elderly K’thrall retreated to a low stone platform near one of the warm pools. Her ancient form slumped, eyes closed in sorrowful contemplation. A younger K’thrall female with a vibrant emerald skin patterned with intricate black swirls approached Xylia-Vec hesitantly. She knelt beside the elder, offering a comforting touch of her webbed hand.

  The deliberation was protracted, but eventually the room settled. The lead Speaker, whose patterns shifted like deep-water currents, made a series of definitive clicks. One of the interpreters hurried over to Ronigren.

  "The Spawning-Council of Xy’tharr has reached a decision," the interpreter said, "the tale of the Lost Dream-Walker, Zyl-Phana, and the connection to the Tall-One… it weighs heavily on their… their water-hearts."

  Ronigren kept his expression neutral, keeping his surge of hope in check. "The Council will grant your request, Dry-Skin warrior. They will provide passage and guidance through the Xy’tharr Fens, towards the northern borders, where the Scablands begin. They say… the journey beyond that, into the lands where the Stone-Singers may dwell, is a path even their oldest bog-crawlers fear. But they will take you as far as their sacred waters extend."

  "The Council recognizes the shared shadow," the interpreter went on. "They will also dispatch swift water-scouts to observe the Scuttler routes north of Shellwater-Place, to harry their supply lines where possible, and to share what intelligence they gather with your Dry-Skin fortress. The representatives from Shellwater-Place… they will be sent back with these assurances, and with what swamp-goods our Spawning-Beds can spare in these troubled times."

  The young K’thrall female who had been comforting Xylia-Vec stepped forward, striding purposefully towards the raised benches of the amphibian rulers. She addressed the Council in a series of clear, resolute clicks, then turned her gaze towards Ronigren’s party.

  The interpreter translated, a note of surprise in his voice. "This one… she is Xylia-Kai. Granddaughter of Xylia-Vec. Daughter of the Lost Walker. She offers herself as a guide for your party. To walk the paths her mother once walked."

  Xylia-Kai looked straight at Sabine, who saw in her a determined sorrow, a flicker of kinship underneath her amphibian expression.

  "We would be honored to have you join us, Xylia-Kai," Ronigren said with a respectful nod and looked back at the wide eyed expressions of his companions.

  And so, the bargain was struck. The Shellwater delegation would return with promises of aid and intelligence. Their party, now with a new, determined K’thrall companion, would prepare for an even more perilous journey into the uncharted north, guided by the wisdom of the Deep Pools and the enduring hope of a grieving grandmother.