The land changed as Ludwig pressed farther west. The rolling prairie began to bleed into softer earth, each step sinking just slightly deeper, the crunch of grass giving way to the sticky pull of marsh. A faint mist had begun to creep low over the ground, clinging to reeds and trailing around his boots. The air thickened, too, no longer the sharp, clean wind of open plains, but the damp breath of swamps: rot, stagnant water, and the musk of things long decayed.
The sounds shifted too. The hum of grasshoppers was gone. Instead came the drone of mosquitoes, the occasional croak of unseen toads, the ripple of something vast disturbing water not far off. Each noise echoed strangely in the fog, making distance difficult to judge. Even Ludwig found himself glancing at shadows twice, not from fear but from caution. The swamp had always been the perfect ground for ambush, a place where silence swallowed both friend and foe.
