They rested briefly by the river's edge, filling their water skins and tending to their wounds. The Ashen Plains had drained them, but there was no time for complacency. Ahead lay the Sunken Marshes—a place spoken of in hushed whispers, a land where the dead did not rest.
Gorim squinted at the thick mist curling over the waterlogged land. "Two days through that," he grumbled. "And that's if nothing decides to eat us."
Khaltar adjusted his pack. "Let's move before I start thinking this river is paradise."
They stepped into the marsh, and immediately, the ground swallowed their feet. The once-solid ground gave way to cold, knee-deep water, sending shivers through their bodies. Tangled roots and twisted reeds clung to them like grasping hands, while the dense fog veiled the world beyond a few paces. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rot and stagnant water.
By midday, their progress was slow. The deeper they went, the harder it was to find solid footing. Quicksand pits lurked beneath the murky water, hidden traps that threatened to pull them under.
Soraya took a cautious step, and suddenly, the ground vanished beneath her. She let out a sharp gasp as she sank, the marsh sucking her down like a living thing.
"Nadra! The rope!" Khaltar barked.
Before Soraya could disappear beneath the surface, Nadra tossed a coil of vine rope. Gorim grabbed it as well, and together they pulled. Soraya emerged gasping, mud coating her from head to toe.
She spat out a mouthful of filth. "I hate this place."
"Noted," Yaraq muttered, shaking his head.
They pressed on, but they were not alone. The waters rippled, disturbed by something unseen. At first, they dismissed it as the shifting marsh, but then came the sensation—something brushing against their legs, something large.
Hadeefa gripped her spear. "We're being hunted."
Then came the first attack. A sudden splash—a blur of dark scales and gleaming fangs—a giant serpent lunged from the water.
Khaltar barely dodged as its jaws snapped shut where his leg had been. He slashed, his sword cleaving through flesh, and the creature let out a guttural hiss before vanishing beneath the water.
But it wasn't alone. From the mist, three more serpents slithered toward them, their glowing yellow eyes the only thing visible before they struck.
Yaraq reacted first, throwing his dagger. The blade buried itself in one of the serpent's skulls, and it collapsed instantly. Gorim swung his axe in a wide arc, severing the head of another. Soraya, still covered in mud, let out an exasperated sigh before driving her sword deep into the last creature's throat. As the water settled, they remained tense, waiting. But no more came. "Let's keep moving," Khaltar muttered.
By nightfall, they found a small patch of dry land surrounded by thick reeds. Exhausted, they set up a makeshift camp, but none of them trusted the silence. Then came the whispers. Soft at first, barely more than a breath on the wind. Then closer.
They spoke in languages long forgotten, their voices laced with sorrow, with longing. The fog shifted, and shadows moved within it—tall, gaunt figures with hollow eyes, flickering like candlelight.
"The wraiths," Gorim murmured, gripping his axe. "They call to the living."
Nadra shivered. "They're just voices, right?"
No one answered. Then one of the wraiths stepped forward. It was not a mindless specter—it had form, the tattered remnants of old armor clinging to its skeletal frame. Its hollow gaze fixed upon Khaltar.
"You… carry his blade…" The voice was like dry leaves rustling in the wind.
Khaltar's hand tightened around his sword. "What?"
The wraith reached out, and for a brief moment, Khaltar saw flashes of a forgotten war—a battlefield drenched in blood, dwarves and men fighting side by side against a monstrous shadow. And at the heart of it, a warrior wielding a sword identical to his own.
Before he could react, the vision faded. The wraith let out a mournful wail, and the fog swallowed them once more. Silence returned.
"Let's not stay here," Soraya whispered.
No one argued.
By the second day, they were close to the edge of the marsh. The ground became more stable, the mist less suffocating.
That's when the arrows came. One struck a tree inches from Hadeefa's head. Another buried itself into Khaltar's shoulder, though his armor stopped it from going deep.
From the murky shadows, goblins emerged—small, wiry creatures with webbed hands and sickly green skin, their eyes glowing like swamp fire.
"Ambush!" Yaraq roared, drawing his sword.
The goblins attacked in waves, shrieking and leaping from the water. They moved fast, their weapons coated in poison.
Gorim took the first one down with a brutal axe swing, splitting it from shoulder to chest. Soraya fought in close quarters, dodging dagger thrusts and returning with deadly precision. Yaraq fought two at once, parrying their crude blades before shoving his sword through both their throats in one brutal motion.
Khaltar, still aching from his wound, grabbed a fallen goblin's spear and hurled it—skewering one of the creatures mid-leap.
Soon, the goblins realized they had underestimated their prey. Those who could fled into the mist, leaving their dead behind.
Khaltar yanked the arrow from his shoulder with a grunt. "I'm starting to hate everything that crawls in the dark."
By the end of the second day, the trees began to change—thicker, healthier. The ground rose, and the smell of rot faded into crisp, clean air.
Then, at last, they saw it. Beyond the marsh, nestled between hills and riverbanks, Marsh Town stood.
The first sight of Marsh Town beyond the hills was a brief but welcome relief. After the nightmares of the Sunken Marshes, the idea of solid ground—even among ruins—felt like a gift from the gods.
But Gorim was the first to shatter that moment of peace. "We're not there yet." His voice was grim as he pointed toward the ancient remains sprawled before them like the bones of a long-dead beast. Old Marsh Town.
Arianne shaded her eyes, studying the crumbling watchtowers, their once-proud banners long since devoured by time. The streets were nothing but cracked stone, and the houses stood half-buried in vines and decay. The air itself felt different here—thick, heavy, as if something still lingered.
"This place was abandoned after the dragon attacked," Gorim muttered. "But that doesn't mean it's empty."
They moved cautiously through the ruins, every step stirring centuries-old dust into the air. Roofs sagged under their own weight, and walls stood one breath away from collapse. Some buildings had caved in entirely, forming deep chasms of rubble that blocked the roads, forcing them to climb or find alternate paths.
Soraya tested the ground with her foot. "Feels unstable."
The words had barely left her lips when the street beneath her caved in. With a sharp cry, she plunged into darkness.
"Nadra, rope!" Yaraq shouted.
Nadra was already moving, tossing a vine rope down as Gorim and Khaltar anchored it. Soraya hung above a deep underground chamber, dust and debris swirling around her. Below, the faint glint of metal caught her eye.
"The forge…" she whispered.
They climbed down after her, their boots landing in a forgotten hall of stone and rust. Columns rose around them, barely standing, their dwarven carvings worn smooth by time. Then, the moment they stepped forward—click.
The walls groaned, ancient mechanisms stirring to life. Blades shot out from the walls, whirling through the air. Hadeefa barely dodged as a rusted sword buried itself in the ground where she had stood a second ago.
"Traps are still active?!" Nadra gasped, ducking as a spear shot past her ear.
"Of course they are!" Gorim roared. "Dwarves don't mess around!"
They had no choice but to run, weaving through a gauntlet of death—dodging collapsing floors, swinging axes, and hidden pits filled with spikes of old steel. Khaltar grabbed Arianne as she nearly slipped into one, pulling her back just as the ground beneath her fell away into a dark abyss.
At last, they reached a great stone door, half-buried beneath fallen beams and rubble. With effort, they cleared the entrance, revealing a cavernous forge, its once-mighty furnace now cold and silent.
But the Red Steel was still there. Scattered across the floor, buried in dust and forgotten crates—weapons forged in the legendary metal, their edges untouched by rust, still gleaming a faint crimson even in the dark.
Yaraq picked up a sword, testing its weight. It was perfect. For a moment, they dared to hope. Then, the whispers began.
The air grew colder. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the stone walls, and a faint red glow pulsed from the steel itself.
Gorim paled. "It's cursed."
A shudder passed through the group.
"Of course it is," Khaltar muttered.
The spirits of the dead still guarded this place. Their voices rose in anger, echoing through the chamber. And then, they took form.
Phantom warriors, clad in spectral armor, their hollow eyes burning with fury. They had died protecting this forge, and they would not let it be disturbed.
Soraya gritted her teeth. "Looks like we're fighting ghosts now."
Khaltar raised his blade, its crimson edge reflecting the haunting glow around them. "Then let's see if Red Steel works on the dead."
The spectral warriors stood in silence, their armor translucent, their eyes flickering like dying embers. Some were dwarves, broad and stout, their beards flowing like mist. Others were humans, clad in ruined tabards, swords raised in an eternal stance.
For a moment, the living and the dead simply stared at one another.
Khaltar tightened his grip on his sword. "So, do we fight them or—"
"No!" Gorim snapped. "Don't be an idiot."
Khaltar blinked. "Excuse me?"
Gorim stepped forward, keeping his voice low. "They're not here to fight us. They're just wandering—fragments of the past, echoes of the war between men and dwarves. They don't even know they're dead."
The group exchanged uneasy glances. The phantoms drifted, some moving in slow patterns, repeating moments of a war long ended.
A dwarven specter raised an axe, shouting something in a forgotten tongue. A human ghost parried an invisible strike, his face twisted in anger. Yet neither made contact. Their weapons passed through each other like smoke, locked in a battle that no longer existed.
"They're stuck," Hadeefa whispered. "Reliving the war."
Arianne, ever the scholar, frowned. "Then why haven't they moved on?"
"Because the war never ended for them." Gorim exhaled heavily. "It ended for the living, but not for the dead."
The weight of his words sank in. Khaltar cleared his throat. "So… what do we do?"
"We don't get in their way." Gorim gestured to the far end of the chamber, where the ruins sloped downward into a crumbling stairwell. "We keep moving. Quietly. No sudden movements."
"For once, listen to the dwarf," Yaraq muttered, already edging toward the exit.
Carefully, they stepped around the phantoms. The ghosts continued their silent war, oblivious to the intruders. A spectral arrow flew past Arianne's face, but it was nothing more than mist.
Soraya clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to reach for her bow. She hated standing down. But she hated fighting something she couldn't kill even more. Step by step, they moved past the battlefield of the dead.
Nadra, always the boldest, was the last to go. She hesitated, watching as a dwarf and a human specter stood face to face, neither striking, neither speaking. Their expressions were lost to time, but for a fleeting moment—just before she turned away—Nadra swore they looked… tired.
She swallowed hard and hurried after the others. Behind them, the war raged on, unseen by the living world.