THE UNBROKEN

The swamp breathed in the stillness of night.

Moonlight skimmed over black waters, the surface broken only by slow, deliberate ripples. Cypress trees rose like ancient sentinels from the depths, their gnarled roots tangled in stories older than maps, older than empires. Moss hung like offerings to forgotten gods. Cicadas whispered. Frogs croaked low in the reeds.

And somewhere, deeper still, something listened.

Not watching. Not hunting. Simply aware.

The Marisiana wetlands were alive in ways that defied explanation. The air pulsed with latent mana, thick and primordial. The kind the old spirits liked. The kind the Church feared.

The people knew better than to speak too loudly at night.

Niegal moved silently along the weather-worn walkway, torchlight from the main encampment fading behind him. The jungle pressed close on either side, but the path had been blessed, freshly chalked with the Behike's white powder. Every few steps, he passed an old charm or feather tied to a post; tokens to keep wandering spirits appeased.

He had just returned from checking the perimeter.

His mind churned with logistics: maps, rotas, and supply counts, but his heart had already drifted ahead.

Toward the southern edge of the village.

Toward them.

It had been a week since the rebels arrived, weary and half-starved. Elena and the Behike had whispered of the sacred protections laid over this swamp; wards sealed long ago by blood and bone, now awakening again. And in those seven days, the once-abandoned wetlands post had become a breathing stronghold.

Larger clearings were coaxed from the land by respectful hands. The wounded were bathed in herb-laced waters and healed with prayers whispered in Arawak tongues.

The central structure had been reclaimed as a war council chamber, its wooden beams now wrapped in vines and white cloth, sanctified with smoke and stormwater.

And the people, in their quiet reverence, had surprised Elena and Niegal with a bungalow of their own.

Private. Peaceful. Blessed.

The Behike had buried a charm in the threshold; a jaguar tooth and a strand of Elena's hair, to protect the home from nightmares.

A warmth crept into Niegal's chest as he caught sight of the doorway, its familiar curve silhouetted in moonlight. The hanging wind chimes clinked gently, stirred not by wind, but by something deeper. A whisper of spirit passing through.

He exhaled, long and low.

Gods… what a thing it is, to return to something.

He stepped inside.

His boots were off before the door clicked shut.

There they were.

Elena lay curled slightly on her side, her breathing soft and even. One hand stretched above her head, tangled in the linen sheets. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, the faint traces of her spiral scars catching silver like etched sigils.

Beside her, sprawled starfish-like on her back, was Esperanza- mouth parted in sleep, arms and legs thrown wide in chaotic abandon. Her curls clung to her cheeks like wild vines, her belly rising and falling in a rhythm older than breath.

Niegal stopped.

That private, reverent smile pulled at his lips.

The one he only wore when looking at them.

He said nothing. Just stood there for a long while, letting the sight press into him like a balm.

Moonlight spilled across the room, brushing Elena's bare shoulder with luminous tenderness. Her lashes fluttered slightly as she stirred.

Niegal didn't move.

His eyes simply drank her in.

Four years had passed since fate tore them apart and bound them together again. Esperanza was nearly three moons old now, getting stronger by the hour.

And still, her magic sang like ocean tide; quiet, ever-present, undeniable.

Niegal didn't pretend to understand the will of the gods. Or the spirits. Or the wild, electric pulse that wrapped itself around Elena's hands whenever she prayed.

He only knew how to thank them.

For this fierce, lightning-born woman who refused to let the void keep her.

For the child whose laughter summoned the wind.

For this stolen, sacred peace.

A gentle breeze shifted through the slats of the window.

Esperanza twitched her nose in her sleep.

And for a moment, just one, everything in the world was still.

Niegal stepped forward and knelt beside the bed. He pressed a kiss to his daughter's tiny foot, then Elena's temple.

"Gracias," he whispered. Not to her, not even to himself- but to the unseen watchers in the room.

To the ancestors.

To the gods.

To the storm.

Outside, the swamp exhaled in answer.

And the moon kept watch over the sleeping family.