Saya and the Dragon Chapter 55: The Swamp Thing

The fog was getting thicker now. Heavy. Wet. Clinging to my skin like a drunken lover with abandonnt issues.

Each step sloshed deeper. The mud no longer just sucked at my calves — it embraced them. Whispered sweet, fungal nothings. I was now wading through what was either brackish water or the leftover stew from that one tavern in South Rassel.

Then I heard it.

Low. Gurgling. Rhythmic.

Not quite a splash. Not quite a growl.

Sothing was down there.

I froze.

So did the mule.

Dead stop. Ears up. Eyes wide. That kind of stillness that only animals and people with really good instincts achieve. Neither of which I had.

“Co on,” I hissed, giving the reins a tug. “Move. Don’t be dramatic.”

The mule refused.

“Listen,” I said, “you’ve been through worse. You survived that bandit orgy. Rember that?”

Nope. Mule was officially in statue mode. I yanked harder. Slapped its haunch.

Nothing.

And then—

Blurp.

A bubble the size of my ego broke the surface next to us. The water rippled in an unfriendly way.

“Okay,” I muttered. “This is not good. This is not good. This is exactly how those morality tales start. With the girl ignoring every single warning sign and ending up a cautionary hymn.”

I grabbed the mule’s reins in both hands and pulled with everything I had. “Move, damn you! I’m too pretty to be consud by aquatic taphors!”

That’s when it happened.

Whip-crack — a tentacle the size of a tree limb shot out of the water like a pissed-off eel.

It arced through the air and slamd into the mule’s flank.

The mule scread.

I scread louder.

Another tentacle followed. Then another. Writhing, wet, and offensively pink. They wrapped around the mule like a drunk ex grabbing one last dance.

The mule bucked. Tried to rear. Failed. Was yanked downward with a splash and a horrible sucking noise.

I turned. Bolted.

Didn’t even pretend to save the mule. Sorry, Janet. Your loyalty was admirable. Your fate... wet.

I lunged toward the nearest bit of elevated, root-covered ground. Maybe twenty paces.

Got three.

That’s when sothing slimy wrapped around my ankle.

And yanked.

Hard.

I didn’t even have ti to curse before I went face-first into the swamp. Skirt flying, feet kicking, air gone.

Water rushed over like a rude guest. The cold punched into my lungs. Sothing slithered past my thigh.

I reached for anything — roots, a log, an old god with a sense of humor — but the grip around my ankle tightened.

The last thing I saw before going under completely was the shadow of sothing massive rippling just beneath the surface.

And then: silence.