The fog was getting thicker now. Heavy. Wet. Clinging to my skin like a drunken lover with abandonment issues.

  Each step sloshed deeper. The mud no longer just sucked at my calves — it embraced them. Whispered sweet, fungal nothings. I was now wading through what was either brackish water or the leftover stew from that one tavern in South Rassel.

  Then I heard it.

  Low. Gurgling. Rhythmic.

  Not quite a splash. Not quite a growl.

  Something was down there.

  I froze.

  So did the mule.

  Dead stop. Ears up. Eyes wide. That kind of stillness that only animals and people with really good instincts achieve. Neither of which I had.

  “Come on,” I hissed, giving the reins a tug. “Move. Don’t be dramatic.”

  The mule refused.

  “Listen,” I said, “you’ve been through worse. You survived that bandit orgy. Remember that?”

  Nope. Mule was officially in statue mode. I yanked harder. Slapped its haunch.

  Nothing.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  And then—

  Blurp.

  A bubble the size of my ego broke the surface next to us. The water rippled in an unfriendly way.

  “Okay,” I muttered. “This is not good. This is not good. This is exactly how those morality tales start. With the girl ignoring every single warning sign and ending up a cautionary hymn.”

  I grabbed the mule’s reins in both hands and pulled with everything I had. “Move, damn you! I’m too pretty to be consumed by aquatic metaphors!”

  That’s when it happened.

  Whip-crack — a tentacle the size of a tree limb shot out of the water like a pissed-off eel.

  It arced through the air and slammed into the mule’s flank.

  The mule screamed.

  I screamed louder.

  Another tentacle followed. Then another. Writhing, wet, and offensively pink. They wrapped around the mule like a drunk ex grabbing one last dance.

  The mule bucked. Tried to rear. Failed. Was yanked downward with a splash and a horrible sucking noise.

  I turned. Bolted.

  Didn’t even pretend to save the mule. Sorry, Janet. Your loyalty was admirable. Your fate... wet.

  I lunged toward the nearest bit of elevated, root-covered ground. Maybe twenty paces.

  Got three.

  That’s when something slimy wrapped around my ankle.

  And yanked.

  Hard.

  I didn’t even have time to curse before I went face-first into the swamp. Skirt flying, feet kicking, air gone.

  Water rushed over me like a rude guest. The cold punched into my lungs. Something slithered past my thigh.

  I reached for anything — roots, a log, an old god with a sense of humor — but the grip around my ankle tightened.

  The last thing I saw before going under completely was the shadow of something massive rippling just beneath the surface.

  And then: silence.