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The dwarf ducked into the tent, the air heavy with smoke and moss. Candlelight danced across his weathered face as the hag’s eyes fixed on him. He lowered himself onto the cushion, gripping the haft of his hammer. “My name’s Durik Stonevein,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Sixty-eight years I’ve wandered—miner, soldier, outcast. I’ve left behind halls of silver and battlefields alike, chasing dreams I barely understand. Lately, they lead me to swamps, to whispers, to places like this.” His gaze hardened. “So if you’ve been waiting, speak plain, hag. Why does your swamp call my name?”

Kolgrod ducked into the tent, swamp-mist still clinging to his cloak. Candles floated above, their light trembling against the canvas walls. At the back, the hag’s eyes gleamed pale. “What brings you to this dingy town?” she rasped, then paused. “Ah… it’s you. Sit. Tell me your story.” Kolgrod lowered himself onto the cushion, claws drumming his knee. “My story?” His grin showed jagged teeth. “I was born in mud and blood, pulled from the womb while arrows fell. Grew up scavenging battlefields—boots, blades… bones. And the bones, they whisper.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “They whispered I’d find you. They whispered I’m not just carrion. So, hag—tell me what I am. Or I’ll make the swamp answer instead.”