The train exhales one last breath of steam — a long, fading release that drifts low across the platform like a tired sigh. Metal contracts with faint ticking sounds as heat withdraws from pistons and plates. The doors open with a firm mechanical click. This station is smaller than the ones before it, its canopy narrower, its beams unpainted and already weather-stained at the edges. The platform boards are uneven in places, replaced where rot has begun. There are no polished brass clocks here, no symmetrical flower boxes. Only a simple sign nailed to a post, its lettering functional and slightly crooked. The northeastern edge of Savatier feels undecided — as if the realm has extended rails here out of ambition, but has not yet committed the same care it gives its capital. Civilization pauses at this threshold, hesitating. Beyond it lies something less obedient.
Company 204th steps down in ordered sequence. Boots strike packed earth mixed with loose gravel, the ground softer than stone, less certain. The smell shifts immediately — wet soil layered with the faint sourness of river rot, the dense green scent of vegetation that grows too close together. The air presses heavier against lungs, humid and slow. Ahead stretches the Thimur floodplain. It is not farmland, though grasses grow. Not forest, though trees cluster thick and uneven. It is land that floods when it wishes, dries without apology, reshapes its own boundaries. Reeds sway in the low wind like cautious sentries. Water glints in narrow channels between trunks and brush. Dragonflies slice through the thick air in sudden, sharp arcs. The ground does not promise stability. It merely tolerates footsteps.
Hano squints.
"So this is it…" he mutters. "Edge of the world."
Lei steps forward, eyes scanning the horizon like he is already measuring distances.
"We go upstream…" he says, voice even. "Follow the Gelber River against its flow. Its source feeds directly into Samel Swamp."
Aldo nods once.
His gaze moves from the waterline to the dense greenery beyond.
"Then we need boats !" he says simply.
Onaga is already rubbing his arms.
He looks at the water — not the surface, but what might be under it.
"We also need nets !" he adds quickly. "Mosquito nets. Thick ones. Or else…"
He trails off, clearly imagining welts, fevers, infections.
Aldo nods again, unbothered.
His mind ticks forward.
He turns slightly toward Lei.
"What are the actual threats?"
Lei does not hesitate.
"Three…" he says. "Mosquitoes. Leeches. And hags."
He uses the slur deliberately, then adds flatly:
"I mean the witches."
Hano straightens as if someone has stepped on his foot.
"That's it?" he says incredulously. "What about the giant crocodiles? The ones that ambush boats from below? What about the teeth carp — the huge ones, as big as a grown man, that eat anything organic in the water? And the slimes — the marsh ones that dissolve flesh?"
His voice rises with each example. Some of the soldiers glance nervously toward the water.
Lei closes his eyes for half a second. Then opens them.
He rolls them.
"The crocodiles exist…" he says patiently. "In parts of Samel. Rare. Territorial. AND…Avoidable."
He lifts a finger.
"The teeth carp also exist. BUT…Deep channels only. They do not hunt boats unless provoked."
Another finger.
"Slimes inhabit marshes. Acidic wetlands. Samel is mostly temperate freshwater swamp forest. Slimes do not thrive there."
He looks at Hano.
"Your worry is… excessive."
Hano's mouth tightens.
He folds his arms and looks away.
"I'm just saying…" he mutters. "Better to expect worse."
Aldo does not comment.
He lets the minor friction die on its own.
His attention shifts back to the water.
Onaga stares at it too, pupils slightly dilated.
[Dark,] he thinks. [Deep. Endless. Something grabs your ankle and you're gone.]
A finger pokes his arm.
Then pokes again.
He flinches.
Aldo's hand retracts calmly.
"Swamps are typically shallow…" Aldo says. "Especially temperate freshwater ones."
Onaga blinks.
"They are?"
"Yes."
Another poke, lighter.
"You can usually stand."
Hano whirls back.
"So no ambush from the water then?!" he blurts.
Aldo turns his head slowly.
His expression does not change.
"We can ambush the enclave witches instead," he says evenly. "From the trees. From root clusters. From elevated ground."
The words settle.
The swamp stops being a monster.
It becomes terrain.
Aldo steps forward, turning to face the unit.
They straighten instinctively.
"You know the risks," he says. "We trim exaggerations. We prepare for what matters."
He scans faces.
"Are you ready?"
There is a brief pause.
Then, as if rehearsed by instinct rather than drill:
"YES!"
The shout rolls across the floodplain, scattering birds from nearby reeds.
Aldo inclines his head slightly.
"Good morale," he says. Not loudly. Just enough.
Then, without ceremony, he turns toward the nearest cluster of buildings.
A market outpost stood at the edge of the settlement, half wood and half stone, built more for endurance than beauty. The timber beams were rough-cut and darkened by weather, while the stone foundation still held the damp memory of the surrounding swamp. It was functional. Boring. Necessary. Supply lines ran through places like this; without them, nothing moved for long. The unit followed in disciplined silence, boots thudding dully against the packed earth as they approached the entrance. Inside the shop, the heavy scent of oilcloth, rope, and treated leather replaced the humid rot of swamp air. Lantern light flickered against shelves stacked with tools, bolts of canvas, and iron fittings. Aldo stepped up to the counter without ceremony. The shopkeeper's gaze drifted to the collars carried by the unit, and something guarded flickered across his face. He hesitated, weighing risk against inconvenience. Then his eyes dropped to the coin Aldo set down—thick, bright, unmistakable. The pause stretched only a heartbeat longer. Interest, practical and undeniable, won over prejudice.
Aldo speaks calmly.
"Flat-bottom boats. Two-man and four-man. Oars included."
The shopkeeper nods, scribbling.
"Mosquito nets," Aldo continues. "Woven cotton. Tight weave. Enough for sleeping and boat cover."
Onaga leans in slightly.
"And extra cord…" he adds. "For hanging. And repair."
Aldo does not look at him, but nods.
"Melee weapons: " Aldo says next. "Short spears. Hatchets. Not heavy."
He pauses.
"Medical cloths. Clean. Absorbent."
The shopkeeper writes faster.
"Clothing suited for swamp movemen…," Aldo continues. "Breathable. Quick-dry. Long sleeves."
He exhales softly.
"Especially Notebooks."
The shopkeeper looks up.
"Notebooks?"
"Paper that can survive humidity," Aldo clarifies. "Oiled or treated. I need to record."
Onaga smiles faintly.
[Of course…] he thinks. [He plans to record everything.]
The shopkeeper scratches his head.
"But it will be expensive, sir." he warns.
Aldo slides more coin forward.
"Then charge it."
The shopkeeper does not argue further.
Around them, the unit waits.
Some test the weight of nets.
Others inspect hatchets.
Hano lifts a short spear, gives it a few experimental swings.
"Feels honest," he says. "No tricks."
Lei checks the stitching on the swamp clothing.
"Acceptable." he notes.
Onaga holds a net up to the light.
The weave is tight.
Too tight for mosquitoes.
[Good,] he thinks. [Very good.]
Aldo flips through a small leather-bound notebook, the cover darkened by oil and weather. The pages inside feel faintly waxed beneath his fingers — treated against moisture, against rot, against the slow decay that swallows ordinary paper in lands like this. They resist slightly as he turns them, edges firm, corners uncurled. Ink lines run in tight, disciplined rows: quantities, distances, estimated currents, reed density, supply allocations. Nothing ornamental. Nothing wasted.
He pauses at one page longer than the others, eyes scanning the margins where small corrections have been inserted with careful precision. Then he nods once to himself — a decision made, or perhaps simply confirmed — and closes the notebook with a soft press of palm against cover.
Transactions finish behind him. Coins change hands without argument. Crates are counted twice. Rope bundles tested. Supplies stack neatly in organized rows: dried rations, sealed water skins, oilcloth-wrapped ammunition. Boats — narrow, shallow-drafted — are dragged closer to the riverbank, their hulls scraping against damp earth with dull, fibrous sounds.
Aldo steps outside again.
The floodplain stretches before them.
Dangerous.
Yes.
But mapped now.
Named.
Reduced to measurements, to ink, to plan.
He turns to the unit.
"We proceed calmly." he says. "No rush. No panic."
He gestures to the boats.
"Formation remains discipline-based. Scouts rotate. Nets deployed every rest."
Onaga lifts his net slightly.
"And no sleeping without this." he adds firmly.
A few soldiers chuckle.
The tension eases.
Hano rolls his shoulders.
"Alright," he says. "Leeches I can deal with."
Lei steps into the first boat.
"Then let's stop standing at the edge," he says. "And start moving through it."
One by one, Company 204th boards.
Oars dip into the Gelber River.
The water ripples outward.
The swamp does not roar.
It does not threaten.
It waits.
And the unit moves forward — disciplined, supplied, realistic — having acknowledged fear, trimmed it down to size, boosted morale, and spent their last civilized moments buying mosquito nets and waterproof paper before disappearing into the green.