The world was quieter than it had ever been. The marsh lay under a veil of pale mist, reeds motionless, water smooth as glass. Yet beneath that stillness, something new pulsed—gentle, steady, alive. The Sleeper's dreams had ended, but in their place, the pulse of the Warden remained.
Corren stood at the water's edge, staring into the reflection that no longer mirrored him cleanly. The marsh now shimmered faintly with golden veins, like light beneath ice. He'd come every day since the storm ended, though he didn't know why. Maybe to speak to her. Maybe to convince himself she was gone.
Behind him, the sound of hooves approached softly through the mud. When he turned, he saw a rider—a woman in weathered leathers, her cloak streaked with silver thread. It took him a moment to recognize her.
"Lady Maren?" he asked, disbelieving.
She dismounted with care, her steps slow, uncertain. Her eyes had changed—they were no longer the deep gray of the Circle's seer, but a faint luminous blue, like light reflected off still water. "Maren is dead," she said simply. "But something of her remains."
Corren frowned. "An echo, then."
"An echo with purpose." She looked out over the water. "The balance has shifted. The Sleeper's mind is sealed, but the dream lingers. Liora's sacrifice did not erase it—it reshaped it."
He followed her gaze. "Reshaped how?"
"The marsh breathes through her now. It watches. It remembers."
For a moment, silence reigned between them, broken only by the soft hiss of mist drifting across the reeds. Then Corren said, "If she still exists, if she still feels—then she's trapped."
Maren shook her head. "Not trapped. Joined. The Warden isn't bound. She is the boundary."
Corren's fists clenched. "You speak like that's a mercy."
"It is," she replied softly. "Because if she hadn't taken the bond into herself, the Sleeper would have consumed everything from here to the mountains. Her will holds the world together."
Corren turned away, his jaw tight. He wanted to argue, to deny her, but the light beneath the water pulsed once—slow and deliberate, like a heartbeat—and he couldn't bring himself to speak.
Night fell quickly in the hollow lands. The mist turned silver under the moon, and the water glowed faintly where it reflected the stars. Maren sat near the remnants of the old altar, lighting a small brazier. The smoke curled upward, carrying the scent of herbs and salt.
Corren sat across from her, cleaning his sword though he hadn't drawn it in days. "You said the dream lingers," he said. "Does that mean it can return?"
Maren's eyes met his across the flame. "Dreams never die. They wait for a mind to open the door again."
"And whose mind would do that?"
She looked out toward the marsh. "Anyone who listens too closely. Anyone who forgets what she gave to seal it."
Corren stared into the fire, thinking of the villagers who still whispered Liora's name like a prayer—or a warning. Some said she haunted the water. Others said she would return when the world needed her.
He wasn't sure which frightened him more.
At dawn, Maren led him deeper into the marsh. They moved through a forest of blackened willows and pools that shimmered faintly beneath the mist. The air carried whispers—soft and indistinct, like the language of water.
"Do you hear that?" Corren asked.
"I do," Maren said. "It's her voice. The Warden speaks through the currents."
He stopped beside a pool where the light danced just beneath the surface. "Can she hear us?"
Maren hesitated. "Perhaps. But she doesn't speak as we do anymore. She speaks in signs—storms, shifts in the tide, the growth of the reeds."
Corren stared into the water, searching. For a heartbeat, the surface stilled, and a face looked back—not his own. Liora's eyes met his, clear and golden.
"Liora," he whispered.
The image smiled faintly before dissolving into ripples.
His heart twisted painfully. "She's still there."
"Yes," Maren said quietly. "But she can't leave."
He clenched his fists. "Then I'll find a way to free her."
"You can't," Maren warned. "To separate her from the marsh is to unmake what she became. The Sleeper would wake again."
Corren turned sharply toward her. "Then you're saying she's dead forever?"
"I'm saying she's more than alive."
They made camp near the old ruins of the Circle that evening. The stones were half-sunken, but faint symbols still glowed between the cracks, resonating with the same light as the marsh. Maren placed her hands upon them and whispered old words—blessings, or maybe apologies.
Corren sat beside the dying fire, staring at his reflection in the blade. "Do you ever think she knew this was how it would end?"
"She did," Maren said. "That's why she never tried to resist the bond. She understood what the Beast truly was."
He glanced up. "A curse?"
"No," she said, meeting his gaze. "A choice. A voice of the wild world. The Beast wasn't a monster—it was the part of her that refused to let the world be devoured."
Corren's throat tightened. "And it devoured her instead."
Maren smiled sadly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it set her free."
Sometime past midnight, he awoke to a sound—the faint echo of singing. The voice was distant but unmistakable, carried on the wind like a lullaby.
He rose and followed it through the mist until he reached the edge of the water. There, where the moonlight turned the marsh silver, he saw her.
Liora stood waist-deep in the shallows, her form outlined by golden light. Her hair floated like smoke, her eyes burning softly. Around her, the water rippled outward in circles, glowing with every breath she took.
Corren stepped closer, his voice breaking. "Liora!"
She turned her head slightly, as if hearing him. Her lips parted, and he thought she might speak. But no sound came—only the rise of wind through the reeds, whispering in her stead.
He took another step forward, the mud sucking at his boots. "You don't have to stay here," he said, his voice raw. "You did what you had to. It's over."
Her gaze met his. The air shimmered between them, and for an instant, he saw her as she once was—human, tired, strong, her hand reaching toward him. Then the light flickered, and she began to fade, her shape dissolving into mist.
"Wait!" he cried, reaching out. But his fingers touched only air.
A whisper drifted to him, soft and broken: Guard what remains.
Then she was gone.
When he returned to camp, Maren was waiting. "You saw her," she said without surprise.
"She's not gone," Corren said. "She's still fighting to hold it together."
Maren nodded slowly. "The Warden watches always. But if her strength falters, the bindings will weaken."
"Then I'll stay," Corren said. "If she guards the marsh, I'll guard her."
Maren studied him for a long moment before speaking. "Then you, too, will change. The marsh reshapes all who linger."
"I don't care." He looked toward the horizon, where the first faint light of dawn touched the water. "No one else will remember what she gave. Someone has to."
Maren placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then you will be the first of a new Circle."
"The Circle died with her," he said bitterly.
"No," Maren replied. "The Circle was reborn in her. And in you, it endures."
As the years passed, the marsh remained calm. The reeds grew thick, the storms gentler, the waters clearer. Travelers whispered of a golden light seen beneath the surface on still nights, and of a guardian who walked the banks, eyes glowing faintly, sword at his side.
They called him The Warden's Shadow.
No one entered the Dreaming Mire without his leave.
And when storms did come, they broke upon the borders of the marsh, as though guided away by unseen hands. The world beyond forgot the name of the Sleeper. But deep beneath the water, its body remained bound by light and will, sleeping in silence.
Sometimes, when the wind blew just right, those who camped near the marsh would swear they heard singing—low, beautiful, and sorrowful.
A woman's voice.
Far beneath, in the hollow where darkness once ruled, golden roots wound through stone and water alike. The Sleeper's chest rose and fell in slow rhythm, its dreams now gentled by the song that wove through them.
And above, the Warden watched from the veil between waking and dream, her eyes the color of dawn.
The Beast stirred beside her, no longer a separate being but a part of her soul.
They are safe now, it murmured.
"Yes," she whispered, her gaze soft. "But safety is never forever."
Then we will wait.
She smiled faintly. "We will wait."
The marsh pulsed once more with quiet light, as if breathing. Then all was still.
And the world dreamed—not of fear, but of peace.