Chapter 11 THE SWAMP OF UNFINISHED VOICES

The Whispering Mire was not a swamp.

It was a memory of one.

Mist curled around their ankles like cold breath. Water the color of ink glistened under patches of weak daylight. Trees rose crookedly from the murk—long-dead husks whose bark peeled like old skin. Ivy and moss hung in thick curtains, d...

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