The swamp was too quiet. Uselyss Eustace felt the hum through his boots before he saw it — a stone arch half-submerged in the marsh, carved with symbols that hurt to look at. The air shimmered inside it, warm and wrong.
He’d heard of gates like this in dying whispers. This one was awake.
From the shadows, R. Bane Churchmyrk watched. He didn’t speak. Not yet.
Far away, a Lo-Fi Waypoint flickered. Pog Mo Thoiin paused mid-tune. Something was calling