Gnewt slid between the crowd's legs, her tongue flicking at the air. The taste told her everything — anger, fear, and Croaker's sweat-soaked certainty as he stood before the gathering. She had arrived too late to stop his speech. The elders sat in a half-circle behind him, silent as stones, while Croaker spun his lies about Stryker's betrayal. Croaker held up a mud-caked banner, its fabric torn and stained. "Found this at the western dock," he said. "Right where Stryker abandoned the gem after she killed the beast." The crowd pressed closer. Gnewt's muscles coiled tight. She knew that banner had never been near the dock. Croaker had planted it there himself. But the villagers believed him, their scales bristling with rage. Behind the bamboo jail's thick stalks, Stryker sat bound and silent, her eyes scanning the crowd until they found Gnewt's. Gnewt pushed forward through the forest of legs and tails. She had to reach the elders before they gave the order. Before Croaker's lies became Stryker's death sentence. But the crowd shifted, blocking her path, and one of the elders stood. His voice cut through the noise like a blade. "The judgment is made. Stryker will remain here until she tells us where the gem is hidden." Gnewt's pouch tightened against her body. The elders didn't want the truth. They wanted Stryker gone, just like the others who had asked too many questions. Time had just run out.

Gnewt's eyes locked on the bamboo jail. The crowd still murmured about Croaker's evidence, but their voices had become background noise. She had failed to stop the judgment. Now she needed proof that would undo it. The elders wanted Stryker silent, and they had done this before. A voice came from the reinforced wooden cell beside Stryker's. The structure's iron bands gleamed through rotted boards, water pooling beneath where the prisoner sat. "They buried my maps," the voice said. A lizard pressed against the bars, scales dulled by days without sun. "Locked me up when I asked about the bones at Snake Lagoon. Said I was spreading fear." Gnewt slid closer, her tongue tasting truth in the air. The prisoner pushed a folded paper through a gap in the wood. "Found this in my grandfather's chest before they took me. Names of six others who disappeared after asking questions." Gnewt's pouch opened. She took the paper, her mind already moving three steps ahead. The elders had left evidence. Now she had it. But the elder who had pronounced judgment stood and moved toward her, his footsteps heavy on the wet ground. Gnewt slipped the diary under her scales and moved parallel to the cells, keeping the bamboo between them. She needed to reach Stryker with this proof before the elders separated them for good. The elder called out, ordering the guards to clear the area. Gnewt pressed against the back of Stryker's cell and pushed the diary through the narrow gap between stalks. Stryker's fingers closed around it immediately. Their eyes met through the bamboo. Stryker opened the diary to the first page and read the list of names. Her expression didn't change, but her grip tightened on the leather binding. She knew what it meant. The village would too, once Gnewt found the right witness to hear it.

Gnewt moved away from the cells before the guards closed in. The diary was with Stryker now, but names on paper wouldn't convince a village that had already chosen its verdict. She needed voices, not words. Croaker had brought the skeleton from the marsh. Guidry knew the routes the elders wanted hidden. Both had seen what the elders kept buried. She found Croaker first, tucked behind a shelter at the village edge where vines hung thick enough to hide the entrance. He sat with his back against mud-packed walls, cleaning his claws with marsh grass. "You showed them the bones," Gnewt said. "Now show them the truth in front of the elders." Croaker didn't look up. "They'll do to me what they did to Stryker. Worse, maybe. I broke the silence. That's enough." Gnewt pulled a bone-white fang from her pouch, its surface grooved and stained with swamp mud. "This came from Snake Lagoon. From the containment site you found. The elders know what it means, and they know you have more like it." She set it on the ground between them. "Testify, and I'll make sure they can't touch you. Stay quiet, and they'll come for you anyway." Croaker stared at the fang, then shook his head. "Protection from who? You're one snake with a pouch." He stood and moved toward the shelter's entrance. Gnewt didn't follow. She went to the western dock where Guidry kept his boat tied. He was coiling rope when she arrived, his movements quick and deliberate. "The route you showed Stryker," she said. "The elders want it buried. You testify about what you saw at that gate, and they'll bury you too." Guidry kept coiling. "Then why would I talk?" Gnewt's tongue flicked once. "Because staying quiet didn't save the six names in that diary. And it won't save you." Guidry tied off the rope and finally looked at her. "What's your plan?" Gnewt had calculated three moves ahead before she'd even left the cells. But she couldn't force witnesses to trust her with words alone. She needed leverage the elders couldn't counter. And she was running out of time to find it. She returned to the reinforced shelter near the village edge and waited in the shadow of its storm-proof walls. When darkness came, she slipped back to Croaker's hiding place and left a second fang at the entrance, this one larger and cracked down the center. Then she went to Guidry's boat and placed a third beside his coiled rope. No words this time. Just evidence that she knew where the proof was buried and could bring more of it into the light. By morning, both fangs were gone. Croaker found her first, his eyes sharp with calculation. "The elders have a storm shelter on the north edge. Locked and guarded. If you can get us inside there, we talk." Guidry arrived an hour later with the same demand. Gnewt's pouch was empty now, but she had what she needed. They wouldn't testify out of trust. They'd do it because she'd proven she could drag the elders' secrets into the open whether they helped or not. And fear of being left outside that protection was stronger than fear of speaking.

Gnewt slipped through the shadows between the village huts, her body low against the mud. The storm shelter sat on the north edge, its reinforced walls dark against the swamp beyond. Two guards stood at the entrance, rifles resting against their shoulders. She pulled the driftwood torch from her pouch and wedged it between the bamboo bars of the jail's outer fence, then struck it against the rough wood until the oil-soaked cloth caught flame. The fire spread fast, crackling loud enough to pull attention but controlled enough not to threaten the cells inside. Gnewt hissed once, sharp and urgent, then disappeared into the marsh grass as the guards turned toward the light. Their boots splashed through shallow water as they rushed toward the jail, shouting orders to the lizard already stationed there. The shelter entrance stood unguarded. Gnewt circled back and found Croaker and Guidry waiting in the vine shadow where she'd told them to meet. She motioned toward the shelter with her snout, and they moved without hesitation. The heavy door opened with a pull, and all three slipped inside before the guards could finish dousing the torch. Gnewt had bought them the opening they needed, but now they were locked in a room that the elders controlled. The cost of getting inside was that she'd just announced exactly where to find them. The shelter was smaller than she'd expected, its walls lined with barrels and crates that smelled of old fish and marsh rot. But in the corner sat a wooden chest with iron bands, its lock broken and hanging loose. Croaker moved toward it while Guidry kept watch at the door. Inside the chest were scrolls marked with the elders' seal and a leather journal thick with pages. Gnewt's tongue flicked as she recognized the handwriting on the first page. It matched the diary she'd smuggled to Stryker. This wasn't just evidence of one cover-up. It was proof of all of them. The elders had kept records of every person they'd silenced, every question they'd buried, written in their own hand. Croaker tucked the journal under his arm and nodded once. They had what they came for, and now the elders would have to silence all three of them or admit the truth in front of the entire village.

Croaker lifted the journal and flipped it open to the middle pages. His claws traced the ink, and his breath stopped. He turned the book toward Gnewt and Guidry without a word. The entry was dated forty years back, written in the same tight script as the rest of the records. Gnewt read the page twice to be certain. The elders had known about Stryker's grandmother. They'd known about the cloaked figures. They'd known about the deal to trade the gem for lifting the curse, and they'd let it happen. Worse, they'd recorded it like livestock inventory. Gnewt's tongue flicked fast as her mind raced ahead. This wasn't just proof the elders had silenced people—it was proof they'd orchestrated the very curse that had trapped Stryker's family for decades. She looked at Croaker and Guidry, both staring at the page like it might bite them. They'd wanted evidence strong enough to force the elders to confess. Now they had something that would destroy the elders entirely, but only if they survived long enough to show it to the village. Gnewt slid the journal into her pouch and moved toward the door. The cost of this knowledge was already paid. Now they had to decide if they'd use it or die protecting it. But Guidry reached past her and pulled another chest from beneath the first, smaller and sealed with rust. He forced it open with the butt of his knife, and inside lay a tarnished iron ring marked with the number fifty-four. Gnewt recognized it immediately from Stryker's stories about her grandmother—the woman had worn it every day until she disappeared into the marsh. The elders hadn't just known about the deal. They'd kept proof of it, stored like a trophy. Gnewt took the ring and slipped it into her pouch beside the journal. She had what she needed to prove the elders guilty, and more importantly, she had what she needed to prove Stryker innocent. The village would see the truth now, whether the elders wanted them to or not. Gnewt nodded once to Croaker and Guidry, and all three moved toward the door knowing that stepping outside meant they'd be hunted the moment they were spotted.

One of the elders stepped onto the platform and raised a staff. The crowd went quiet. Gnewt felt the weight of the journal in her pouch, felt the cold press of the iron ring against her scales. She'd gotten the evidence and the witnesses into position. Now came the part she couldn't control—whether Croaker and Guidry would actually speak when the moment arrived, or whether fear would silence them the way it had silenced six others before. The elder opened his mouth to pronounce judgment, and Gnewt watched Croaker's claws curl tight around the fang she'd left him. He was still afraid, but he was here. That would have to be enough. The elder's voice carried across the gathering. "Stryker has refused to reveal the gem's location. The judgment stands. She will be removed at dawn." Murmurs rippled through the crowd, some approving, others uncertain. Gnewt's tongue flicked once toward the marked X where her witnesses stood. Croaker opened his mouth, then closed it. Guidry stared at the ground. Neither moved. The crowd began to turn away, the verdict accepted. Gnewt had miscalculated—evidence meant nothing if no one would speak it aloud. She slithered forward through the nets, straight toward the platform. If her witnesses wouldn't act, she would. She reached the torchlight and rose up where the entire village could see her. The crowd pulled back, hissing. Gnewt pulled the rusted ring from her pouch and held it high. The metal circle caught the firelight, the small gray bead at its center unmistakable to anyone who'd known Stryker's grandmother. "This belonged to her," Gnewt said, her voice cutting through the noise. "The elders kept it locked away for forty years. They knew about the curse. They have records of everything they've hidden." She turned toward the platform where the elders stood frozen. The crowd went silent, staring at the ring, then at the elders. One elder reached for his staff, but another caught his arm. They'd been caught, and the village had seen it. Croaker stepped forward from the X, holding the journal above his head. "She's telling the truth," he said, his voice shaking but clear. "I've read their records. They silenced six others before Stryker. They orchestrated the curse her family carried." Guidry moved beside him, nodding once. The crowd turned from Gnewt to the elders, demanding answers. The elders said nothing, but their silence confirmed everything. Gnewt lowered the ring and slipped back into the shadows. She hadn't convinced the village through trust or careful argument—she'd forced the truth into the open where it couldn't be ignored. The elders' verdict on Stryker no longer mattered. The village's verdict on the elders had just begun, and Gnewt had given them enough evidence to demand a reckoning.

The village council cleared the platform, their voices echoing demands for answers the elders couldn't give. Gnewt slipped away from the torchlight, the iron ring back in her pouch alongside the journal. Stryker would be released by morning—that much was certain now. But Gnewt knew the elders wouldn't leave the ring where anyone could examine it closely. She followed the scale trail west toward Snake Lagoon, where the journal had mentioned a containment structure built generations ago. The ruins appeared through the mist—a weathered wooden hatch reinforced with broken chains, built directly around the bleached bone arch she'd seen in the elders' sketches. The ring in her pouch grew warm. Gnewt pulled it out and held it near the arch's center groove. The metal hummed, then clicked into place perfectly. The water below churned. Something massive rose toward the surface, its shape blocking out the moonlight reflected in the lagoon. Gnewt had proven the elders were liars, but she'd also just awakened whatever they'd been containing. The village would believe her about the elders' crimes now—and they'd also know she'd released the creature that came with the gem. A coiled mass broke the surface, covered in leaves and vines that had grown over scales the size of dinner plates. The creature's head emerged slowly, eyes glowing faint green in the darkness. It didn't attack. It simply watched Gnewt, breathing deep as if tasting freedom for the first time in decades. She'd come to save Stryker and expose the elders—and she'd succeeded at both. But the cost was standing in front of her, ancient and patient, waiting to see what she would do next. Gnewt pulled the ring free from the arch and dropped it in the water. The hatch wouldn't contain the beast again, but she could at least choose not to control it. The creature's eyes followed the ring as it sank, then turned back toward the deep marsh. It slipped beneath the surface without a sound, leaving only ripples behind. Gnewt had won Stryker's freedom, but she'd also released a threat the village had spent generations trying to forget. Deep claw marks scarred the mud around the lagoon's edge, radiating outward from where the creature had surfaced. Gnewt studied them in the moonlight. Each gouge was wider than her entire body and carved deep enough to hold water. The beast had been contained here, feeding on the bones the elders had provided for generations. Now it was free, and the village would know she'd let it go. Stryker would walk free, but Gnewt had traded one crisis for another. She'd proven the elders guilty, but she'd also become responsible for whatever the creature did next. The village would demand answers she didn't have. Gnewt coiled around the arch's base and waited for dawn, calculating her next move the way she always did—three steps ahead, revealing nothing until it served the mission.

The village gathered at dawn, torches flickering against the pale sky. Gnewt remained coiled near the lagoon's edge, watching them arrive. They came in clusters—fishermen, merchants, families with children held back from the water. Their voices rose in angry waves, demanding to know what she'd done. Stryker emerged from the crowd carrying a small wooden birdhouse mounted on a pole, its surface covered in moss and vines. She planted it in the mud between Gnewt and the villagers, marking her position. Croaker stood beside her, holding the journal they'd recovered from the shelter. Guidry took the other side, arms crossed. "The creature won't leave," Stryker said loud enough for everyone to hear. "Not without what it came for." She looked at Gnewt. "You know what calms it. I know where it is." The crowd pressed closer, but the three of them held the line. Gnewt had calculated a dozen ways this could fail, but she hadn't expected Stryker to defend her so publicly. The gesture cost Stryker whatever safety the village had offered after her release. Gnewt slithered forward until she reached the birdhouse marker. "The gem," she said, meeting Stryker's eyes. "You hid it after you retrieved it." Stryker nodded. "In the ruins where I found it. Weighted down in the flooded chamber." The creature surfaced again behind them, its massive head breaking the water with barely a ripple. The crowd stumbled back, but Stryker didn't move. "I'll bring it here," she said. "But only if the village agrees—Gnewt stays protected until this ends." Croaker raised the journal. "She exposed the elders. She freed what they imprisoned. Now she's the only one trying to fix it." The village elder at the front—an old turtle with a mossy staff—finally spoke. "Bring the gem. We'll hold to her safety until then." Gnewt had won Stryker's aid and the village's temporary trust, but the cost was clear: if the gem didn't calm the beast, both she and Stryker would answer for everything that followed.

Stryker left at first light, carrying Guidry's boat and a weathered rope she'd borrowed from one of the fishermen. Gnewt watched her disappear into the marsh mist, then turned back to the lagoon where the creature still circled. The village had scattered after the elder's promise, but Gnewt knew they were watching from behind shuttered windows and half-closed doors. She coiled near the birdhouse marker Stryker had planted, calculating how long the journey would take. The ruins lay deep in the marsh—at least three hours by boat if the water stayed calm. Another hour to dive into the flooded chamber and retrieve the gem. Three more to return. Seven hours minimum, and that assumed nothing went wrong. Four hours passed before Gnewt noticed the silence. The creature had stopped circling. She lifted her head and tasted the air, catching something wrong in the wind—smoke from the direction Stryker had gone, and voices that didn't belong to villagers. Gnewt moved fast, following the scent trail through the abandoned eastern neighborhood until she found them: Croaker and Guidry seated on a weathered bench, surrounded by five figures in dark cloaks. One held a scroll marked with Stryker's grandmother's seal. "The debt comes due today," the figure said. "Forty years we waited. The girl has the gem, and we will have it before the beast reaches the village." Croaker started to stand, but a cloaked hand pressed him back down. Gnewt calculated her options—she couldn't fight five of them, and calling the village would take too long. But she could give Stryker what she needed most: time. She slithered forward into the open, drawing every eye toward her. "The gem isn't coming back," Gnewt said clearly. "Stryker dropped it in the chamber. You'll have to take that up with the creature." The lie landed exactly as she'd planned—the cloaked figures turned from the bench toward her, and Croaker met her eyes with understanding. He knew she was buying Stryker hours to finish what she'd started, even if it meant Gnewt would face the consequences alone. The lead figure stepped closer, close enough that Gnewt could see the ancient symbols stitched into the cloak's edge. "You're lying," the figure said. "The contract binds Stryker's bloodline. She cannot drop what she's sworn to deliver." Gnewt held steady, calculating how much truth she could give without betraying Stryker's position. "Then wait for her return and ask her yourself," she said. "But the creature won't wait that long." Behind the cloaked figures, the lagoon water began to churn. The beast had started moving toward the village. The figures turned to look, and in that moment Guidry stood from the bench. "She's stalling you," he said loudly. "Stryker's bringing the gem straight here. She'll arrive from the western dock within the hour." Gnewt's calculations shattered—Guidry had just told them exactly where to intercept Stryker. But then she saw his hand signal, the one he'd used back at the containment gate to mark false trails. He was lying too, sending them to the wrong location. The cloaked figures moved as one, three heading toward the western dock while two remained to watch the bench. Gnewt had wanted to buy Stryker time alone, but Guidry had joined the deception without being asked. Twenty minutes later, Stryker emerged from the eastern marsh carrying a moss-covered leather satchel that glowed faintly through the fabric. She stopped when she saw Gnewt and the two remaining cloaked figures, her hand tightening on the bag. The figures moved to block her path, but Gnewt was faster. She lunged forward and knocked the satchel from Stryker's grip, sending it tumbling toward the lagoon. One figure dove after it while the other grabbed for Gnewt, giving Stryker the opening she needed. She ran past them toward

The gem tumbled through the air, trailing light like a comet. Stryker dove after it, but the creature's massive head broke the surface first, jaws snapping closed around the glowing stone. The beast swallowed it whole, then turned back toward the cove, dragging its bulk through the shallow water. Gnewt watched the creature disappear, then turned toward the village. The crowd had already gathered at the cypress shrine near the lagoon's edge, their voices rising in anger. They weren't looking at the retreating beast anymore—they were looking at the elders standing beneath the peaked roof. Croaker stepped forward first, holding up the leather journal for everyone to see. "Forty years they kept this hidden," he said, his voice carrying across the water. "Forty years they knew about the curse, the creature, everything." The crowd pressed closer, demanding answers. The eldest stepped down from the shrine, face tight with calculation. "We protected this village," he said. "We kept the old dangers contained." But Gnewt saw the shift in the villagers' eyes—they weren't buying the defense anymore. Not after watching cloaked figures hunt through their streets. Not after seeing the creature swallow a gem the elders claimed didn't exist. The questions came fast now, voices overlapping, and the elders had no more room to deflect. Gnewt had wanted to prove the elders were the real threat. She'd succeeded. But as she watched the crowd close in around the shrine, she realized vindication meant the village would now demand she answer for releasing what the elders had buried. Guidry appeared at her side, carrying a weathered stone marker he'd pulled from the marsh. He set it down near the shrine's base without a word, then walked to the memorial site just beyond the crowd. Croaker followed, placing the journal on the flat center stone surrounded by weathered graves. The names carved into those stones matched the names in the journal—the six who'd questioned the elders and disappeared. The crowd went silent as they read the markers, connecting what had been buried with who had been silenced. The eldest elder tried to speak, but a fisherman cut him off. "You didn't protect us," the fisherman said. "You protected yourselves." The elders had no response left. Gnewt watched them stand exposed beneath the shrine's peaked roof, their authority crumbling with each name the crowd read aloud. She'd proven to the village that the elders were the threat, and Stryker was innocent. But proving it meant the village now knew Gnewt had chosen to free the creature rather than trust their judgment. She'd won Stryker's freedom and lost her own standing in one move. The crowd would want answers from her next, and she had none they'd accept. She'd calculated the cost of exposing the elders, but she hadn't prepared for what came after vindication—the moment when the village would turn from demanding the truth to deciding what to do with those who'd revealed it.

The crowd surged forward, closing the circle around the shrine. Gnewt slipped back from the edge, keeping low. She'd exposed the elders and cleared Stryker's name, but the victory felt thin. The villagers weren't celebrating—they were afraid. The eldest stepped down from the shrine, holding a water-stained scroll sealed with red wax. He broke the seal and read aloud. The elders were banished effective immediately. Gnewt would repair the destroyed house on the eastern edge—the one the creature had torn through when it swallowed the gem. And Stryker was ordered to leave Serpent Village by dawn. Gnewt watched the crowd nod approval. They wanted someone to blame, and the elders had given them three targets instead of one. She'd won Stryker's innocence but lost her safety. The village wanted repair, not revolution. Gnewt moved toward the ruined house before anyone could stop her. The building leaned sideways, its walls crumbling where the creature's bulk had crashed through. She pulled a stone from the rubble and set it aside, then another. The work would take weeks. The elders had calculated perfectly—give the village a villain to punish and a task to keep Gnewt visible and contained. She'd proven the elders were the threat, but the village still needed someone to carry the cost of that truth. Gnewt lifted another stone. She'd saved Stryker from execution, but she couldn't save her from exile. That failure sat heavier than any rock she'd move today.

Gnewt coiled tighter in the shade of the collapsed wall, watching the villagers disperse from the shrine. They'd gotten what they wanted—someone to blame, someone to banish, someone to rebuild what broke. She pulled another stone from the rubble and set it in a pile. A shadow fell across the rubble. Gnewt looked up. A frog in worn boots stood at the edge of the ruined house, an eye patch covering one socket. Gnewt froze. The frog held up a necklace—two rings looped on a delicate chain, one smaller than the other. "Found this in my pack," the frog said. "Thought you might want it back before Stryker leaves." Gnewt's throat tightened. She'd hidden that necklace years ago, the night she'd chosen loyalty over love. The frog stepped closer. "She's your daughter, isn't she?" Gnewt didn't answer. She slithered forward and took the necklace, looping it carefully into her pouch. The frog watched her without moving. "I saw you both at the willow tree once," the frog continued. "Back when the initials were fresh. N and S. I knew then, but I kept it quiet." Gnewt's scales prickled. The village had never known. Not Croaker, not Guidry, not even the elders. She'd kept Stryker safe by keeping the truth buried. "Why tell me now?" Gnewt asked. The frog shrugged. "Because she's leaving at dawn. And you're letting her go without saying it out loud." Gnewt turned toward the willow tree at the village edge, its branches swaying in the evening breeze. The carved heart still marked the bark, faded but visible. She'd spent years protecting Stryker from a distance, never claiming what couldn't be claimed without making her a target. But the frog was right—silence had kept Stryker alive, but it had also kept them apart. Gnewt coiled the necklace tighter in her pouch and slithered toward the tree. She had until dawn to decide if loyalty meant letting go or finally holding on.

Gnewt slithered toward the western dock, where Guidry was securing rope to his boat. The moon hung low over the water. Stryker would leave at dawn, and Gnewt needed to know if there was another way. She'd protected her daughter by hiding the truth, but now the village had forced Stryker out anyway. Guidry looked up as Gnewt approached. "Come to see her off?" he asked. Gnewt shook her head. "I came to ask about the blood oath," she said. "The one you sealed with Stryker." Guidry's expression shifted. He pulled a bone tablet from his pack, its surface carved with symbols and sealed with wax and moss. "This oath binds her to the village," he said. "She can't leave Serpent Village while it holds." Gnewt's scales went cold. The banishment made no sense unless someone had forgotten about the oath—or unless they wanted Stryker trapped at the boundary, unable to obey the order to leave. Gnewt moved closer to the tablet. "Can it be broken?" she asked. Guidry traced one of the carved symbols. "Only the one who sealed it can void it," he said. "That's me." He looked toward the old church at the village edge, its stone walls covered in moss and vines. "I kept the knife we used in there. Still has her blood on the blade." Gnewt understood immediately—Guidry held the power to free Stryker or keep her bound. The elders had banished her daughter knowing she couldn't leave, setting her up to be branded a defiant criminal when dawn came and she remained. Gnewt met Guidry's eyes. "Will you void it?" she asked. Guidry was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. "I never wanted her trapped," he said. "I just wanted the route kept secret." He stood and walked toward the church. Gnewt followed, watching as he retrieved the blade from inside and carried it back to the dock. He drew the knife across the tablet's surface, cutting through the wax seal and splitting the bone. The symbols cracked and fell away. "She's free to go," Guidry said quietly. Gnewt coiled the broken pieces into her pouch. Her daughter could leave now—but that meant Gnewt had run out of reasons to keep her here, and out of time to tell her the truth.

Gnewt returned to the cypress shrine at dawn. The elders were gone, their stone seats empty. Villagers gathered near the platform, watching Stryker approach from the eastern edge. Gnewt coiled near the front, the broken oath tablet still in her pouch. She'd freed her daughter from the binding, but now the village wanted answers about what came next. The crowd parted as Stryker stepped onto the platform. She carried no pack, no supplies. She looked directly at Gnewt, and for the first time in years, Gnewt didn't look away. The eldest stepped forward, his voice carrying across the water. "The creature still circles our borders," he said. "The cult members who demanded the gem still search the marsh." He looked between Gnewt and Stryker. "You exposed the elders. You freed the beast. Now you must protect what you've broken." Stryker didn't hesitate. "We'll keep the village safe," she said. "From the creature and anyone who comes looking for the gem." The eldest nodded slowly. "Then you may both stay. But you answer for every life lost if you fail." Gnewt felt the weight of the deal settle over them like iron chains. They'd proven the elders guilty, but the village had simply replaced one set of chains with another. Stryker walked to the abandoned court house at the village edge, its stone columns cracked and covered in vines. Gnewt followed, watching her daughter push open the heavy door. Inside, dust covered everything. Broken furniture filled the corners. Stryker turned to face her. "We're staying together this time," she said. It wasn't a question. Gnewt coiled in the center of the room, looking at the daughter she'd hidden from for so long. "Yes," she said quietly. "We are." Through the shattered windows, she could see the wooden sign marking the village boundary. They were bound here now by choice instead of lies. Gnewt had come to prove the elders guilty and save her daughter. She'd done both. But the real victory was smaller and harder to measure—Stryker knew the truth now, and she'd chosen to stay anyway. Gnewt slithered to the window and looked toward the marsh. Somewhere in the deep water, the creature circled with the gem inside it. Somewhere in the shadows, the cult members searched. She and Stryker would face them both, side by side. The village had given them a chance to earn their place, and Gnewt would make sure they kept it. She'd spent years protecting her daughter from a distance. Now she could protect her up close. The lies were gone. The elders were banished. And for the first time since Stryker was born, Gnewt didn't have to hide who she was. She turned back to see her daughter clearing debris from the old court house floor, already making it home. That was enough.