🌿Chapter VII — The Guardian of the Mists🌿

"Time does not take. Time transforms."

👉 Touch the lantern. The swamp will respond to you.

The years had passed like mist slipping through the reeds: discreet, elusive, but implacable. The son of the Swamp had grown, and with him, the presence of the marsh. His body still bore the silhouette of a man, but his gaze was that of deep waters, unfathomable and laden with reflections.

Elias was the first to die. He did not die in violence, nor in fear. He sat one evening on the edge of the black arm, the lantern beside him, and closed his eyes. His son remained by his side without a word, until his breath stopped. Maëra lived a few more seasons, her hands still stained with ink, drawing maps. Then one day, she too fell asleep, her face peaceful, as if the swamp had given back to her what it had taken from her. The Child of the Swamp buried his parents in a clearing where the mist rose every morning like a shroud. He carved a simple, bare stone, on which he inscribed:

Dust to dust.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

The seasons passed. Rain and mist ate away at the earth. The roots covered the ground. The tree collapsed one stormy morning. The tomb gradually disappeared, engulfed by damp and moss. Only the stone remained. Cold, stained with lichen, still standing despite being forgotten. And beside it, the lantern. It still shone faintly, never completely extinguished, as if refusing to abandon the memory of those who had disappeared. Each time he passed by this clearing, he placed his hand on the stone and remained motionless. In this silence, he felt the presence of his parents, dissolved but never absent.

Time continued its work. The surrounding villages forgot about Elias and Maëra, who were now spoken of only in uncertain whispers. As for their child, no one knew what had become of him. Some claimed he had left the region, others that he had been swallowed by the swamps. In truth, he had never left Lost Swamp. His cabin, built on the edge of the black water, had fallen into disrepair over time, but he still moved like a shadow, knowing every root, every breath of wind. When fishermen spotted a silhouette on the shore in the distance, they looked away, convinced they had encountered a spirit. He was no longer just the Son of the Swamp. He had become its Guardian. At night, he walked in the mist, lantern in hand. The Watchers followed him, not as masters, but as silent companions. His steps kept time with the invisible pulse of the Heart. When a branch cracked, when the water shuddered for no reason, it was him. The swamp had not only chosen him, it had shaped him. His breath matched that of the reeds, his dreams mingled with those of the roots. He saw what no one else could see: the shadows of the ancients, frozen in the black waters, and the shards of memory that the mist carried like shards of glass.

His name faded. He no longer spoke to men. Those who dared whisper of his existence called him only the Guardian of the Lost Swamp. A title, not an identity. For now, it was no longer about him, but about what he protected: the shifting earth, the dark waters, the ancient voices. The living forgot. The marsh, however, remembered. And he, alone, was their witness, their echo, and their heir.

And the stone remained. A silent fragment of the past, standing amidst oblivion, lit by a lantern that never went out. For as long as the light survived, the souls of Elias and Maëra still watched over it.

It is said in the villages that to those who find the clearing, dare to lay their hand on the lantern and feel its warmth, the soul of the heir to the swamp is revealed, both gentle and powerful, like an ancient breath that never dies.

Find the lantern and receive a gift