Chief Fire Horse had killed three war chiefs, and now he could not kill his supper. The old orc crouched on the porch of his tree hut, counting empty snares. Skulls swung from the beams above him, trophies from battles that made his name. His stomach growled louder than any of those foes ever had. For six days something had stolen his catch. He gripped his battle axe and stared at the swamp. A true warrior did not starve. But no enemy worth his name had come to Scumpool in years, and Fire Horse ached for one last worthy fight before his bones gave out. He climbed down and followed the empty traps into the muck. His pale green hands still knew the axe like an old friend. The leather straps had worn smooth against his palm. Near the water he found his answer. A snare hung ripped open. Beside it lay a swamp rabbit, its glowing green fur torn, half eaten. Fresh tracks pressed into the mud. Claws, wide and deep. Fire Horse smiled for the first time in years. This was no rat. This was a hunter. He set the rabbit's mate as bait and waited among the tangled vines. The fleshy plants coiled around his legs like fingers. He did not move. The sun crawled down. Then the vines above him rustled wrong. Fire Horse looked up. The beast dropped from the branches. It had the spotted body of a jaguar and the gray head of a shark, rows of teeth snapping as it fell. Fire Horse rolled. Claws raked the mud where he had crouched. He laughed and swung the axe. The blade bit the beast's shoulder. It shrieked and spun, faster than anything its size should move. Teeth closed on his forearm. Blood ran hot down his wrist. Fire Horse roared and slammed his forehead into the shark snout. The beast staggered. He wrenched his arm free, skin tearing, and brought the axe down two-handed. The chipped blade split its skull. The jaguar-shark shuddered once and went still. Fire Horse knelt in the mud, breathing hard, his arm dripping. He had his meat now. He had his quiet swamp back. But the fight had lasted only moments, and already he wanted more. He rolled the dead beast over and studied its shark head. Nothing born of this poor swamp grew teeth like these. Something had made it. Something upstream, in the deep water where the swamp turned black. He wrapped his torn arm and dragged the carcass home. That night he ate well and slept little. At dawn he sharpened the axe and packed for a longer walk. The nuisance was dead. The question it left behind was bigger. He meant to find whatever bred monsters in his swamp, and see if it could give him the battle he wanted.