After a long trek through the cursed woods—and several unwanted conversations with the whispering trees—they finally reached the outskirts of their destination.
Their home.
Their hell.
Moistvile.
A limp breeze carried the familiar scent of mildew, wet regrets, and despair stew. The long wooden bridge creaked beneath them like it wanted to file a complaint.
Finn carried Majestria, of course. Because walking barefoot on swamp rot was beneath her divine sensibilities.
Chestelle, on the other hand, was completely barefoot and totally fine. She didn't even flinch when her toes stepped in a puddle that hissed. Probably because of her scaly skin—or because she had the emotional awareness of a rock.
Lickthorn skipped along the grotesque planks like a cheerful little pervert on a picnic. She looked around. "So… this is Moistvile?"
"Yes," Finn muttered, dread coating his words like swamp slime. He didn't even want to look up.
