They didn't speak of the Crypt again.
No official report. No recognition. No punishment.
Just silence.
The kind that lingers after something sacred has been violated.
Even Captain Varro, who usually greeted returning squads with sharp eyes and sharp words, had only looked once at Eudora's scarred arm, once at Marx's deadened stare—and said nothing.
But things changed.
Eudora was summoned the next morning.
---
The Briefing Room
He stood before a heavy oak door engraved with a hawk devouring a snake—the symbol of the Bound Path's inner command.
Inside waited Guildmaster Drevin, flanked by two senior hunters. Shadows flickered from lanterns despite no wind. The air was brittle with authority.
"You entered something we never sanctioned," Drevin said, eyes not blinking.
"Yes."
"You brought something back with you."
Eudora didn't respond.
Drevin's gaze narrowed. "We have reason to believe a... presence, has attached itself to your squad. Marx has not spoken coherently since the return. Cray has gone missing."
Eudora's jaw clenched.
"I don't care what you found," Drevin continued, "but the city is uneasy. People are disappearing near the southern marshes. The same scent lingers in the air as what clung to your clothes. Whatever was beneath that crypt didn't die—it moved."
He tossed a scroll onto the table. The wax seal was black.
"Congratulations. You're no longer Iron-rank."
Eudora stared.
"Your team is now Steel-tier. And your next mission starts now."
---
The Marshes of Vermyre
It took two days to reach the swamps.
This time, it wasn't just three of them.
Five members.
Marx, still pale but walking.
Reeve, a woman known for setting traps in the corpsefields.
Dagon, a hammer-wielding brute with the eyes of a dog that's lost every fight but keeps coming.
And Eudora, who felt the shift in the wind before they even saw the fog.
The marshes stank of wet rot and something older—like memory gone rancid.
"Don't trust the water," Reeve warned. "Or your reflection."
---
What Lurks
The first day, they found bones.
Not scattered, not torn.
Arranged.
Some in circles. Some shaped like runes.
Reeve muttered something about "blood rituals" and stayed ten paces behind Eudora.
Marx said nothing at all. He barely even blinked anymore.
At night, the fog didn't settle.
It stood.
Like a wall. Like it was watching them back.
Eudora didn't sleep.
He couldn't.
Because every time he closed his eyes…
He heard breathing.
Not his.
Not human.
Just below the surface.
---
The Revelation
On the third night, they reached the heart of the swamp.
An altar stood there—old, moss-covered, forgotten by men but remembered by monsters.
Skulls lined the base. Carved runes pulsed faintly, as if the air itself remembered the rituals once cast there.
Eudora approached.
The ground beneath his boots vibrated with something… alive.
Marx followed behind him, whispering:
"She's here."
Eudora turned. "Who?"
Marx's eyes were pitch black. Not dark.
Black.
"She wants to see what you've become."
Before Eudora could move, Marx's body jerked, seizing as if something gripped his spine. His mouth opened unnaturally wide, and a voice—not his—spoke through it.
> "I bled into you. I bled through you. And still, you deny me."
The altar cracked.
The swamp shook.
The others shouted. Drew weapons. But it was too late.
The waters split open—and something crawled from below.
Not a beast. Not a god.
Something that looked like hope, if hope had eyes that remembered your sins.
---
The Fight
The creature didn't roar.
It whispered.
Its tendrils lashed out—not to kill—but to pull.
To bind.
Reeve was the first to go, dragged screaming into the water, face frozen in horror.
Dagon swung, connected—only to have his hammer corrode in his hands.
Eudora stepped forward.
Marx collapsed behind him, breathing ragged.
He felt his scars burn.
His healing screamed.
But this wasn't about pain anymore.
This was about ownership.
He drew his blade, stepped into the muck, and attacked.
The creature struck.
Ripped into his side.
His ribs cracked. His lungs filled with blood.
But he didn't stop.
Because even as he fell, even as darkness closed in—
His wounds healed.
Not fast.
But fast enough.
And as he plunged his blade into the thing's core, it hissed—not in pain—but recognition.
> "You are mine."
Eudora's eyes flared.
"No," he growled. "I'm your end."
---
Aftermath
The swamp stills.
Reeve was gone.
Dagon injured.
Marx silent again.
But the fog retreated.
And the altar was gone.
As if it had never been.
They returned to the Guild bloodied, breathless, and changed.
Steel-tier had become more than a rank.
It was a burden.
And as Eudora walked past the gates, someone stood waiting near the stables.
An old man.
Wearing familiar robes.
His eyes locked with Eudora's—and narrowed.
His father.