NOVEL NEXT Chapter 107: Mud, Mayhem, and the Fen Fiasco
The Flooded Fens lived up to their name from the jump. We slogged into them at dusk, the ground turning from solid earth to a squelching soup that sucked at our boots like it had a personal grudge. Water pooled everywhere, murky and dotted with lily pads that looked suspiciously like eyes watching us pass. Mosquitoes droned in clouds thick enough to choke a dragon, and the air hung heavy with the tang of rot and regret. My relics picked up the vibe quick, the scone-scepter now laced with that new shard giving off a faint glow that lit our way through the gloom. It felt good, like adding the perfect spice to a stew—everything sharper, more alive. But the fens? They were the kind of place that made you question every life choice leading up to that moment.
Thorne waded ahead, staff parting the muck like a plow through dough. "The second shard's buried in the heart of the bog, guarded by the Fen Wraith. Old spirit, tied to the land's grudges. It'll drag up your worst memories, make 'em real enough to drown in." He glanced back, water dripping from his robes. "Stay sharp. The mud lies."
Lilith splashed alongside, scythe held high to keep the blade dry. "Memories? Great. Just what I need—reliving that time Cecil tried to 'charm' a unicorn with stale biscuits." She smirked, but her eyes scanned the ripples warily. The fens brought out her cautious side, the one that remembered too many close calls in swampy ambushes.
Vorren powered through the sludge like it was a minor inconvenience, his boots churning up geysers of muck. "Wraiths don't scare me. Give me something I can punch." He swatted a mosquito swarm away, leaving a wet smack in the air. The big guy hated anything he couldn't see coming, and these fens were full of sneaky surprises.
Jex skipped from hummock to hummock, somehow staying drier than the rest of us, his tambourine tucked under his arm to avoid the splash. "Mud, memories—sounds like my last blind date. Oi, Thorne, any treasure in this soup? A boy's gotta eat." His cheer cut through the gloom, but even he kept glancing over his shoulder, fingers twitching for something to grab.
Yvra picked her way carefully, skirts hiked up with a determined frown. "This is undignified. If that wraith so much as suggests I relive my debutante ball, I'll drown it in etiquette lessons." She shot me a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. The fens clashed with her polished world, but she adapted like always—turning potential disaster into just another story to tell.
Fog drifted above it all, untouched by the slop, his tea steaming defiantly. "The wraith feeds on what you carry, Cecil. Lighten the load, or it'll pull you under." He took a sip, calm as ever, like we were strolling a garden path instead of a boggy deathtrap.
Thrain and Gorrim brought up the rear, turning the trek into a slapstick symphony. Thrain planted his lance for balance and sank it deep, yanking himself off-balance into a face-full of mud. "Treacherous tide!" Gorrim lunged to help, only to slip on a root and belly-flop beside him, sending up a splash that drenched us all. "Slippery sabotage!" They hauled each other up, caked in filth, laughing through the grime.
The whispers started subtle, threading through the drone of insects. At first, I thought it was the wind. Then they sharpened, picking at old wounds. "Useless... always the fool... they'll leave you..." My step faltered, boot sinking deeper than it should. Visions flickered—me alone in that first dark void after the microwave blew, the party's laughter echoing without me. The others heard it too; Lilith's smirk faded, Vorren's jaw set hard.
The wraith rose from the murk like smoke given teeth, a swirling mass of water and shadow with eyes like drowned stars. It hissed, coiling around us, dragging up ghosts. My parents' faces, disappointed shakes of the head. Lilith saw her old clan, turning away in shame. Vorren faced shadows of fallen comrades, accusing stares. Jex whimpered at visions of empty pockets and colder streets. Yvra's echoes were ballrooms full of sneers. Even Thorne staggered, his scar burning white-hot.
The mud turned alive, sucking us down, illusions clawing at our minds. Thrain swung wild at phantoms, Gorrim shouting valor into the void. Fog's mist thickened, but the wraith laughed, a wet gurgle that chilled deeper than the water.
I gripped the scepter, the circle flaring to life. "Not. Today." The relics sang back, drowning the whispers in a rush of warmth. I focused on the real—the crew's faces, fierce and familiar. The illusions shattered, the wraith screeching as I plunged the scepter into the bog's heart. Light bloomed, the shard rising clean and clear, slotting home with a snap.
The fens stilled, the wraith dissolving into harmless ripples. We hauled ourselves out, gasping and grinning, mud-caked but unbroken. Thorne clapped my back. "Two down. The third's in the peaks—fire and fury next."
Lilith wrung out her hair, laughing. "Bring it. After this slop, a mountain sounds like a vacation."
We trudged on, lighter now, the shard's fire warming the chill. Memories lingered, but they didn't drag. With this lot? They just made the wins sweeter.
We hit the foothills of the Ironspike Peaks just as the sun decided to play hard to get, dipping behind jagged ridges that clawed at the sky like a baker's mitt gone rogue. The air up here was thinner, sharper, carrying the bite of pine resin and distant thunder, with wind that whipped through the passes like it had a grudge against warmth. My relics thrummed in rhythm with the climb, the newly slotted shards adding a sparkly edge to their usual chaos—the scone-scepter now hummed with a low, eager buzz, like it was itching for a fight or a fondue dip. The Heart of Glimmerfen pressed steady against my chest, a reminder that we were piecing together something bigger than bad luck and bread puns. My coat, bless its ragged soul, flapped like a flag of defiance, snagging on scrubby bushes that seemed determined to add more holes to the collection. I was Cecil Dregs, the accidental anchor of this merry band of misfits, the guy who'd once turned a goblin raid into an impromptu pie-eating contest. Two shards down, one to go, and yeah, the peaks looked like they could chew us up and spit out the bones. But with this crew? Felt more like a group hike with extra explosions.