The swamp woke slowly, like a wounded animal reluctant to open its eyes. The fog was thick, almost solid, clinging to the skin and leaving a metallic taste in the mouth. Varig woke with his body aching, the damp straw mattress stuck to his thin back.
He was frail, fine-boned, with narrow shoulders that always seemed on the verge of giving in beneath the weight of his old cloak. His pale skin, marked by thin scars from thorns and insects, gave him a fragile appearance that deceived anyone seeing him for the first time. His large brown eyes, too big for his gaunt face, watched the world with a mixture of curiosity and constant fear. Dark brown hair, messy and falling to his shoulders, clung to his sweaty forehead. He looked more like a lost child than a fifteen-year-old boy — small, light, almost breakable, as if the swamp itself could bend him in half with a single breath.
Across the dark room, Vitor was already standing.
His father was the opposite: tall, broad-shouldered, marked by old scars, with a graying unshaven beard and brown eyes that always seemed to laugh before his mouth did. Even with hunger gnawing at them all, Vitor carried a quiet strength, a presence that made the space around him feel less suffocating.
"Up, pup," he said, his voice rough but warm, in that way that made Varig believe the world might not be only suffering. "You look like you were dreaming of warm bread and roasted meat. Good dream. Useless dream. Let's turn it into something real."
Vitor tossed him a half-withered root. Varig caught it with trembling hands and bit down. Bitter to the soul, but his father always said bitterness meant the root still had strength. He chewed slowly, feeling the sour juice slide down his throat as he stood. His knees cracked. His shoulders burned. Everything always hurt.
Vitor waited until he was dressed, then pushed open the cabin door. Damp air flooded in, carrying the smell of rotten mud, decay, and the faint stench of sulfur rising from the black waters. Outside, the village was half-asleep. Wooden platforms creaked beneath the weight of those who had already gone hunting. No one waved. In the swamp, waving could mean you had something worth stealing.
"Today will be different, Varig," Vitor said as they walked along the creaking walkway. He walked ahead, steady stride, bow slung across his back. Every so often he glanced behind to make sure his son was still there. "You're fifteen now. You can hunt with a bow. You can gut a fish without vomiting. Now I'll teach you what really keeps us alive here. What only we, the Vorins, can do."
A cold knot tightened in Varig's stomach. He knew what his father meant. He had seen Vitor do it before — always quickly, always when no one was watching.
Draining.
They reached a stretch where the fog thinned slightly, a small clearing surrounded by twisted trees and roots that looked like fingers clawing out of the mud. Vitor stopped and pointed to a frog the size of a fat cat, motionless on a thick root. Its dark green skin was covered in warts that looked like tiny eyes.
"There he is. Handsome, isn't he?" Vitor let out a low, rough chuckle that made Varig smile despite himself. "Now pay attention, pup. Close your eyes for a second. Don't think about its body. Feel the warmth. The spark inside it. Pure life."
Varig obeyed. His heart pounded in his narrow chest. He felt the frog's warmth — a small, pulsing ember, weak but alive.
Vitor continued, his voice calm, almost proud, like a father teaching his son how to tie his first knot.
"Every living thing carries that. We call it a soul, but it's not exactly a soul. It's… raw life. And we can take a piece of it. Not all of it. Just enough to grow stronger. To survive one more day. Watch."
Vitor extended his open hand toward the frog. He didn't touch it. Just held it there, fingers relaxed.
The animal trembled.
A faint, sickly green light rose from its chest like smoke. The frog let out a low sound, almost a whimper. Then it began to dry. The skin wrinkled. The eyes sank into their sockets. Its body shrank as if years were passing in seconds. In less than ten breaths, what remained was a twisted, mummified husk, still faintly breathing — but empty.
Vitor lowered his hand and looked at his son with a soft, almost sad smile.
"It hurts them. It's not a quick death. It's… emptying. In humans, elves, orcs… it's worse. Much worse. They feel every second. It's pure agony, son. Worse than dying. That's why we only use it when we have no choice. Understand?"
Varig swallowed hard. The mummified frog still twitched faintly.
"I understand."
Vitor placed his large hand on the boy's thin shoulder and squeezed gently.
"Now it's your turn. Go slow. If you feel like you're pulling too much, stop. I'm here. I'm always here."
Varig extended his trembling hand. He felt the spark in another frog — stronger, hotter. He pulled.
The light rose.
The creature let out a thin cry, almost human, and began to shrivel: skin wrinkling, eyes sinking, body collapsing into a dry, twisted shell.
The sensation that rushed into Varig was warm, sweet — and terrible at the same time. The exhaustion of previous days vanished. His muscles ached less. He felt… alive.
Vitor laughed loudly, proud, and ruffled his son's hair roughly before pulling him into a tight embrace that smelled of old smoke, wet leather, and that scent of father Varig treasured like gold.
"Damn, pup… you were born for this! Look at you!" He held his son's face in both hands, eyes shining. "Your old man's already falling behind. Soon you'll be draining boars on your own while I sit around chewing dry roots and clapping like an idiot."
Varig laughed shyly, but his chest swelled with pride. His father never lied just to make him feel good. If Vitor said he was good, then he truly was.
They continued hunting through the rest of the morning. Vitor taught with infinite patience: how to pull slowly so as not to kill too fast, how to stop before taking everything, how to sense when a spark was too weak to be worth it. Between drainings, he told bad jokes about ugly orcs, showed him the best way to grip the bow, and patted his back every time Varig landed a shot.
At one point, while resting against a tree, Vitor wrapped an arm around his son's narrow shoulders and stared silently at the swamp.
"You know, Varig… this world is rotten. The elves look at us like insects. The orcs hunt us for sport. The dragons ignore us until they decide we're a threat. They all hate us. And we hate them right back. Never forget that, pup. They're not like us. They don't feel pity. They don't forgive. If one day you have to choose between saving one of them or saving yourself… choose yourself. Always."
He squeezed his son's shoulder harder, as if carving the words into flesh.
"I love you, boy. More than anything in this hell. And I'll protect you until my last breath."
Varig rested his head against his father's shoulder.
For a moment, the swamp felt less dark.
Neither of them knew that this would be the last morning they would spend together.