Hollowglass Fen had many names: The Sinking Place, The Witch's Throat, and Rose's personal favorite—The Swamp That Hates You.
The moment their boots touched the damp, squelching ground, Rose felt the land hum with old magic. Twisted trees loomed like skeletal hands, and the water reflected things that weren't always there.
Nimbus hovered close to her shoulder, unusually quiet. "I don't like this place," he whispered. "The fog smells like old nightmares."
"That's because the Fen remembers," Basil said. "It's a cursed memory. You don't walk into it—you're invited."
Rose muttered, "We should've declined the invitation."
They followed a trail barely visible between patches of black moss and luminous fungi. The deeper they went, the quieter the world became—no birdsong, no wind. Just the occasional squish of something moving just beneath the water's surface.
The scroll Belladoma gave them had pointed to an old chapel sunken in the heart of the Fen. It was there, she said, the Crimson Thread would be weaving their next ritual.
"You'd think cults would pick cozier spots," Rose muttered. "Like a basement. Or a nice, haunted library."
"Necromancers love drama," Basil replied.
After two hours of navigating muck, illusions, and a sentient vine that tried to eat Basil's scarf, they found it—the chapel.
It had sunken sideways, half-swallowed by the earth, its spire broken like a snapped tooth. Runes glowed faintly along its base, pulsing red.
Rose crouched. "Those are binding glyphs."
"Blood magic," Basil confirmed. "The ritual's already started."
Inside, cloaked figures circled a floating obsidian shard. Each chanted in a language that made Rose's bones itch. At the center, a woman in crimson robes directed them—her mask shaped like a serpent devouring its own tail.
Rose's ring pulsed. The leader looked up.
"She felt me," Rose whispered. "Through the bond."
Basil reached for his blade. "We go in fast. Disrupt the focus. Scatter the chant."
Nimbus buzzed. "I'll create a distraction. Like a sentient foghorn. Or fake screaming babies. Or both!"
Without waiting, Rose stepped forward and unleashed a bolt of lightning from her palm. It struck the ground just shy of the ritual circle, shattering a line of glyphs.
The chant faltered. The shard cracked.
Cloaked followers turned, snarling spells under their breath. Basil lunged in, sword gleaming with shadowlight, slashing through a binding rune before it could reactivate.
Nimbus shrieked like a possessed cat and dive-bombed the cultists, dropping glowing mushrooms into their hoods.
"Chaos is my gift!" he yelled.
The shard pulsed violently, destabilizing. The crimson leader snarled and hurled a chain of magic at Rose—but the ring flared, absorbing the energy and snapping it back like a rubber band.
The serpent-masked woman stumbled, her mask cracking down the middle.
"You don't belong here," she hissed. "You are out of balance."
Rose stood tall. "Then I guess you're afraid of what happens when balance fights back."
With one final pulse, the shard exploded, knocking everyone flat.
When the smoke cleared, the Crimson Thread was gone.
But the echo of their spell lingered, like a thread tugging tighter.