Once upon a time…

We were four, with packs and a cracked map dyed with beet juice. The fortune teller in the market said, “Follow the Moon-Bog’s breathing, but never breathe with it.” We laughed, yet her cards showed a stag crossing black water, so we went.

The wetland lay wide as sky, reeds clicking like teeth. Here folk honor the Night Sway: each dusk, the bog inhales and exhales, lifting and lowering the ground like a sleeping beast. We stepped when it rose, paused when it fell. Mire tugged at our boots. A crane watched us like a judge.

In the low, a storm ran at us. Wind bent the pine fringe flat. The Sway quickened, sucking at our ankles. Tomas panicked and matched its rhythm; he sank to his knees. We threw him a belt and shouted old oar-songs to break his breath. He found our rhythm instead and climbed out.

Beyond the last pool, a ridge of amber resin waited—fossil light, the lost prize. We split it, left a shard for the crane. When the bog breathed again, we breathed slow and out of time, and the path steadied under our feet.