There was no sound, no sudden movement, just a shift in the air, the faintest rupture of equilibrium. As if the swamp had exhaled. Or held its breath.
The heartbeat stopped abruptly.
A strange, dense silence fell over the trees. Even the insects, unheard until now, seemed to have gone quiet. The black water lay still. The lichen itself appeared frozen, suspended in a damp, sticky anticipation.
Maggie thrust her arm in front of Elisa and Dylan without a word, a silent barrier as she stared into the dark expanse below. Her breath caught.
Every instinct screamed at her not to take another step. As if she sensed advancing was unnecessary—because something was already coming for them.
The water suddenly bulged. As if pressured by breath from below. An enormous bubble formed on the surface, opaque, glistening, viscous. Then burst with a wet plop, releasing a jet of black vapor. The stench was horrific: a mix of damp flesh, rotted blood, and moldering roots.
And the surface tore.
