Page 68 of On Broken Bonds

That relief lasts approximately three seconds.

"No," Thorian says, crouching a little, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Fenric raises an eyebrow. "No?"

Before us stretches a swamp. Dark water glistens beneath twisted trees draped in moss. The air feels damp and heavy after the dry desert, carrying the scent of stagnant water and decaying vegetation. Insects buzz lazily over murky pools, and a low fog hangs above the surface in places. The place doesn't look particularly different from the sort of swamp I've read about in books, but it seems to have immediately put Thorian on edge.

"What?" I ask.

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he studies the water, the trees, the fog hanging low over the surface. His gaze moves constantly, never settling in one place for long, and I find myself scanning the swamp too, trying to see whatever it is that has him so concerned. Finally, he shakes his head.

"Something's wrong with it."

"Wrong how?" Fenric asks.

"I don't know." The admission seems to irritate him. "I've spent enough time in enchanted places to know the difference between natural magic and something that's been deliberately twisted. This swamp feels... manipulated."

“Manipulated how?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes at the water. "As though the gods are still shaping it. Like it isn't simply a swamp anymore. It's a trap pretending to be one."

A shiver crawls down my spine despite the lingering heat from the desert. I don't see anything unusual. The water doesn't glow. No monsters leap out at us. Yet the note in Thorian's voice leaves me uneasy all the same.

I glance toward the Obsidian Spire, visible through gaps in the trees beyond the swamp.

"The Spire's right there," I say, pointing through the trees. "Crossing the swamp would be the fastest route."

"Which is exactly why we're not going that way," Thorian says.

Fenric and I exchange a look. Neither of us argues. If Thorian's instincts are warning him away from something, I'm inclined to listen. So we turn back into the desert.

Thorian begins marking our path. Every so often, he carves a deep slash into a cactus with his dagger. He doesn’t say a word nor explain himself. He just moves forward.

For another hour we trudge through the heat in a different direction. We’re hot. Tired. Sweaty. And miserable.

Then the desert ends. And we're standing at the edge of a swamp once more. Which is weird as hell. It’s déjà vu in the strangest way. Nobody speaks.

At first, I assume it's a different swamp. The Trials are enormous. Surely there are dozens of them. But then I spot a cactus that Thorian had slashed, and my stomach sinks.

"Thorian..."

"I know." The words come out flat.

Fenric slowly turns in a circle. "We changed direction."

"We did."

"We walked for an hour."

"We did."

Fenric scratches the back of his neck. "Then why are we back here?"

Nobody has an answer.

For several long moments, all three of us simply stare at the swamp. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe someone else slashed the cactus. Maybe we're imagining it.

But the slashed cactus stares back at us.