The Wolf Squad crosses the Castle perimeter not as conquerors, but as wreckage washed ashore by a black tide. The mud of the Cursed Marshes encrusts their armor and coats their boots: a secondary skin, dark and foul-smelling, that seems intent on reclaiming them even now that they are safe.

  Yet, the crowd is there. Settlers huddle along the walkways, faces etched with hunger and dust, searching the features of the young explorers for a spark of hope they no longer possess. Even the veterans of other squads, men and women with gnarled fingers and dull stares, stop to watch. There is a new respect in their eyes, a solemn silence acknowledging those who descended into the abyss and managed to climb back out. The colony’s consensus cements in that silence: the "Wolves" are no longer recruits, but survivors. They have brought a great haul with them: precious metals, vital for the High King’s Castle.

  ***

  The medical wing of the structure is a labyrinth of chipped tiles and lights that hum like dying insects, powered by the internal combustion generators reserved for the Castle's most critical wards. The scent of antiseptic is not enough to mask the stench of rot emanating from their wounds. The convalescence drags on longer than expected. After cleaning them and ensuring no squad member has succumbed to poisoning, the doctors move around them with mechanical gestures. Yet, the youths' bodies refuse a swift recovery; the flesh is battered, but it is the spirit that is frayed.

  Marianna Serpieri watches from the shadows of a corridor. Her clinical gaze pierces the facade of duty. She sees the despondency that has taken root in their minds, an invisible parasite fed by trauma. Vargo Cortez stands before the doctors, rigid as a pillar of salt. His report is a cautious dance on a razor’s edge: he relates the facts and describes their journey for survival, but he omits the unspeakable horror, adhering to the protocols and taboos imposed by the General. Marianna, however, reads between the lines.

  She understands the brutality of what they endured—an oppression that leaves not just bruises, but furrows in the soul. She is a doctor, but she is also a believer; thus, she does not struggle to hypothesize that the traumas have a metaphysical origin. She informs only her closest collaborators of this, those who have learned to heal the explorers not just in body, but in psyche.

  ***

  Among them all, Giada is a hollow shell. She sits on the edge of the bed, her gaze lost on an indefinite point of the floor, her hands trembling imperceptibly. Beside her, Mira Vance burns with a different light. Her turmoil has transformed into a cold rage, a fuel that allows her to remain standing while the others collapse. Mira sees no misfortune in what happened; she sees intent. In the secrecy of her heart, she accuses anyone who chooses ignorance to protect the colony’s fragile stability. Even Vargo Cortez, who was initially her hero, now appears to her as merely one of General Valerius's many instruments.

  ***

  Night falls, heavy as a shroud of lead. In the women’s dormitory, the silence is broken only by the ragged breathing of those dreaming of the mud. Mira sits on Giada’s bed.

  ?I will speak with Elian,? Mira whispers, her voice thick with a dark determination. ?You have a choice, Giada. Follow orders, ask no questions, and trust blindly in the captain. Or you can dig with me. Find out what truly happened to us in that cursed place with Elian’s help.?

  Giada turns. For an instant, Elian’s name brings a light of hope to her glassy eyes—the promise of a consolation that might save her. But then the demons return to whisper. The hell she carries inside is too vast to be shared; dragging Elian into that darkness would be an act of weakness she cannot afford. It is pride speaking, disguised as a bitter altruism.

  ?I don’t care, Mira,? Giada replies, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. ?Leave me be.?

  Mira does not insist. She knows her companion’s stubbornness well, that self-destructive desire to suffer in solitude. She turns away, her face a mask of indifference. She pulls out two white pills—the sedatives granted by the doctors—and swallows them without water. She drops onto the thin mattress, sliding into a chemically induced sleep to escape a reality she cannot yet change.

  Beside her, Giada remains awake, counting the beats of her own heart in the dark.

  ***

  The first night the Wolf Squad is discharged, Mira stakes out the spot where the Castle’s architecture creates a zone of shadow in front of the door leading to the Serpieri residence. Here, the oil lantern light is weak, allowing her to observe who enters and leaves without drawing attention. Motionless as a predator, she waits until she sees Elian’s silhouette returning home. It is roughly eighteen-thirty. Elian, with his stooped gait, reveals that he is not particularly confident these days. Mira hypothesizes it isn't just his obsession with Giada, but that there is something more.

  The second day, Mira does not hide. She is there, a dark stain against the cold stone of the Serpieri dwelling, her back pressed against the rough wall. The sickly light of the exterior bulbs carves her face, accentuating the dark circles under her eyes and the hard line of her jaw. As Elian approaches, she does not move. She stares at him with a mocking smile, a grimace that holds no joy, but tastes of defiance.

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  ?Elian, you and I need to have a talk,? she states. Her voice is low, a scratch in the silence.

  Elian stops a few paces away. There is no fear in his gaze, only a resigned awareness. His astonishment lasts but a moment, then is reabsorbed by his usual analytical composure.

  ?I imagined that the only person with any common sense in the Wolf Squad was you,? he replies, crossing his arms. His words are dry, stripped of the condescension he reserves for the General’s other men. ?Pragmatism, if freed from taboos, is sometimes nothing more than simple common sense applied to the necessity of survival.?

  Mira pushes off the wall, taking a step toward him. The air between the two turns electric, charged with secrets pressing to escape.

  ?Common sense tells me we were sent to the slaughter for something we weren't told,? she counters, closing the distance. ?And it also tells me you’re the only one who isn’t satisfied with General Valerius's fairy tales. Giada is drowning in her ghosts, and Cortez... Cortez is a soldier too loyal to be useful. I, however, want to know what we stepped on in that marsh. I want to know what truly lurks in those ruins covered in mud and foul miasmas.?

  ***

  ?The Raven’s Refuge,? Elian proposes. ?In the midst of the tavern’s noise, paradoxically, we will be shielded from prying ears.?

  Mira consents with a short nod. They walk through the Castle’s twilight, passing the heavy vapors rising from the drainage conduits. The tavern is a cavern of rotting wood and stale tobacco smoke, where the buzz of settlers seeking oblivion is an impenetrable wall of sound. They find a corner table, a sticky surface marked by countless gouges.

  The innkeeper, a man of imposing bulk with skin slick with grease, appears in less than thirty seconds. ?Beer!? they exclaim in unison. Mira permits herself a brief, bitter laugh. As soon as the mugs hit the wood, her face returns to a mask of cold realism.

  Elian wastes no time on pleasantries. ?Tell me what happened.?

  Mira speaks, and every word feels like a weight lifting from her chest. She describes the metal dragging them down, the decision to abandon the safe paths to avoid drowning in the putrid bogs, the rope tied to the waists of her companions so as not to lose one another in the mud. Then, her voice trembles slightly.

  ?When we reached the inner part... the darkness began to speak.?

  Elian does not flinch. ?The voices of the demons of the Cursed Marsh. It is a documented phenomenon, Mira. I have read hundreds of testimonies regarding it.?

  ?No, Elian. They weren't just noises,? she presses, eyes wide with the memory. ?They knew exactly where to strike. Every weak point, every crack in the soul. I am a stray, an orphan, I know I am worth little. But the others... Dax was torn apart for his size and his slow mind. Vargo was accused of being a butcher of boys and young soldiers.?

  Elian nods. The voices are real because they are collective; if everyone hears them, the threat is not a hallucination. Then, the question Mira expected: ?And Giada? What happened to her??

  Mira omits the detail of Martel—the fact that the two held hands for strength. There is no need to destabilize Elian now; she needs his analytical mind, not his broken heart. ?She was accused of having given up a happy life with you for a conceit that made her filthy and beyond saving. Words designed specifically to feed her self-destructive malaise and her diseased pride.?

  ?They are called vexations,? Elian explains, his gaze lost in the dregs of his beer, as he thinks that in the depths of Giada’s heart there is still something binding her to him. ?Physical attacks or, as in your case, psychic attacks from entities that know every fragment of our minds. They are merely lackeys, beings of a past time serving something greater.?

  ?The Lord of the Old World?? Mira anticipates.

  ?Yes. The most experienced explorers call him that. Notes exist on the matter, but the pages were torn out exactly where the mystery might have been unveiled. The Archbishop or the General purged the journals in the Library. But Master Silas... he knows the truth.?

  ?Then make him reveal it!? Mira snarls. ?Wring everything that old man knows out of him.?

  Elian shakes his head. ?To him, Zech and I are protégés. He doesn’t want to shatter us. And I can assure you, Mira, that knowing too much is a true burden.?

  Mira grips the mug, rage reddening her cheeks. ?So you, too, are hiding something that we explorers ought to know??

  ?These are things you will discover as you become veterans. Vargo will prepare you. But if it should be necessary for the squad’s safety, I will speak and tell you everything in advance. Even at the cost of putting myself in danger.?

  Mira knows he is not lying. Giada’s presence in the Wolf Squad is the only guarantee she needs. ?Don Thomas didn't lift a finger,? she snaps, spitting the cleric’s name like venom. ?He didn't even attempt to protect us with his God. He sank into despair before an Evil he couldn't explain with his faith-based rhetoric.?

  ?The Church cannot relate to the Truth of the Wasteland,? Elian replies in a low voice. ?Don Thomas is only there to gather information for Archbishop Aldrich. I am not an atheist, Mira, but the Church failed three hundred years ago, when the world fell into disorder at the time of the Dark Witnesses.?

  Mira leans forward, her voice reduced to a breath. ?And what do you know of this??

  ?Little. But one thing is certain: if the Lord of the Old World still inhabits the ruins, it means it wasn't men who dominated the world before the catastrophe. He is still there, along with his demons, because it is what remains of his kingdom.?

  The silence that follows is heavier than the tavern's clamor. Mira downs a long draught of beer, trying to process the idea that humanity was never at the top of the food chain.

  ?What do I do if we end up back in the marshes?? she finally asks.

  ?After this success—that is, the haul of precious metals—and the misfortune in the swamps, the Wolf Squad will be at rest for a good while. Then they will give you simple missions to rebuild the confidence you’ve lost. In the meantime, I will investigate. But I ask a favor of you: Giada is proud, she won’t accept my help. Use what I tell you to protect her. Do you promise me??

  Mira looks at Elian’s outstretched hand. She thinks of the broken girl in the dormitory, of the demons still whispering in her ears. ?I promise you,? she says with a firm voice, shaking the young Serpieri’s hand. ?I’m starting to grow fond of that fool. I’ll do what I can.?

  ?One last thing: when we got back on the path to the Castle, Vargo noticed some strange prints. Hooves, but of a different shape than the sheep at the colony farm. They were enormous and, for safety, the captain had us take a wide detour to avoid running into that being. What can you tell me about that?? Mira asks.

  ?An animal from the Luminous Forest. No other life forms can survive in the Wasteland. It probably got lost. I couldn't say. From what I’ve read, they aren't aggressive creatures, but if threatened, they become true monsters. In any case, keep me informed on these details as well,? Elian concludes.

  Both drain the last remains of the bitter beer. Mira leaves first, disappearing into the shadows of the alleys to avoid arousing suspicion. Elian remains alone for a moment, his gaze fixed on the empty table. A new determination hardens his features.

  ?I will find out what Master Silas is hiding. At any cost!?