The waters of the Tlexel River were tinged with a dull red as sunset arrived, as if they reflected ancient battles fought upstream. The light, filtered through the morning mist, caressed the surface with timid glimmers. The current was so wide that Kulad could barely make out the opposite bank: an endless wall of mangroves, their gnarled roots twisting in silence beneath the warm breeze.

  But his attention was not on the trees. The water always called. The water was his home, his refuge, and his curse. Here, in the depths of the Deep Jungle, he was surrounded by a strange, alien, hostile world. His chest tightened with a damp nostalgia: the memory of the briny smell, of the constant vibration of the surf, of the marine currents that had rocked him to sleep all his life.

  How he longed to throw himself into the river, slip beneath the surface, and let himself be carried away toward the open sea—toward the deep blue he remembered from his childhood. Perhaps, if luck were on his side, he might see Coraline City again, with its coral towers and submerged plazas. But no. Before he reached the ocean, the creatures of the Tlexel would tear him apart without mercy.

  The locals’ legends were as dense as the morning mist. They spoke of colossal snakes capable of coiling around a ship and sinking it as if it were a hollow branch; of giant piranhas that swam in shoals so compact they seemed like living, sizzling masses; of freshwater krakens whose suckers could rip an arm clean off; and even of sea dragons, invisible guardians of forgotten currents. And that was without counting the bands of renegades hiding among the roots and reeds, ready to ambush canoes and slit the throats of the unwary.

  Kulad knew the taste of capture. Before falling into the hands of the Aneita army, he had been hunted by coastal pirates and sold as a slave—a common fate for his kind in times of war.

  “A new day in this green hell. I wonder how many men we’ll lose today.” The voice of General Hunn broke in like thunder shaking the air.

  Silence fell over all. The tall, broad guards remained rigid; the two women seated beside him, beautiful and serene as sculptures, lowered their gaze with care. Kulad, hands chained, kept his eyes fixed on the earthen ground. No one spoke after the general unless he ordered it.

  Hunn, his armor stained with mud and his beard braided, rose slowly from the improvised palm throne. He walked until he stood before the triton, his shadow enveloping him like a dark wave.

  “We’ve won every battle,” he said in a tone that reeked of contained rage, “but we are losing the war. Even though my men plunder without rest, the jungle wears us down.”

  His large, calloused hand rested on the waist of one of the women—tawny skin, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones. Tellinah. Her movements had the smoothness and precision of a predator.

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  “Tellinah is not only a living volcano,” the general went on, “she’s also clever and honest.”

  “My lord flatters me,” she replied with a slow smile, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “Tell me, darling… are we lost?”

  “The days of the Eyen squadrons in Ixtul are numbered,” she said softly, but with an edge. “The fever, the guerrillas… and the farther we go into the jungle, the worse it gets.”

  Kulad wondered if the general was bewitched by more than just her voice and beauty.

  The big man stepped away, walking toward the riverbank. The last violet rays of sunset glinted on his armor like wounds that refused to heal.

  “The Ixtalite cities have no resources left. Aid from the sea stopped arriving weeks ago. It was go inland or starve to death.”

  Kulad hid a bitter smile. Watching that brute sink slowly was a small but intense comfort. The locals, masters of the terrain, would end up dismantling his army squad by squad with their guerrilla tactics, blending into the jungle like true chameleons.

  The general turned to him again. “They tell me you’re clever. You’ve saved many warriors with your water magic. What would you do if I offered you your freedom in exchange for continuing to heal my men?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he took a long-bladed knife and cut the ropes binding his hands.

  “You will be neither slave nor prisoner. You’ll have mana, good food… but you’ll work harder.”

  Kulad concealed his relief. That freedom tasted of mud and iron, but it was better than chains. He was still far from the sea, trapped in a war that was not his, advancing along muddy roads, surrounded by hostile tribes that harassed them every night, forcing the Aneita columns to move under rain and among beasts. But it was something.

  They took him to one of the largest huts in the village, almost a maloca. The air inside was thick with incense smoke, sweat, and bitter herbs. Soldiers burned with fever on wicker mats, attended by shamans chanting prayers in their own tongue.

  Kulad knelt beside a delirious warrior, ready to channel his healing water, when a deep roar drifted in from the jungle. The elder matron, weathered by sun and time, shuddered. The other shamans stopped their work and made a quick hand gesture, as if warding off invisible spirits.

  “The Lord of the Undergrowth has sung,” the matron said gravely. “Much earlier than dawn. Death is near.”

  Death came before the sun rose.

  A savage shouting erupted in the darkness. From the thicket emerged painted guerrillas with spears and bows, their eyes glowing like embers. Arrows hissed, spears struck wood and flesh.

  The defenders reacted quickly, but the chaos was already upon them. Hunn hurled himself at the enemy vanguard, swinging his greatsword with ferocious strength, cutting down lives as one cuts grass. Yet his vigor could not prevent a stray arrow from piercing the neck of one of his amazons. The general’s roar—half pain, half fury—shook the air.

  “After them!”

  And, as always, after his order, the troop charged in pursuit, following the attackers’ trail as they plunged into the undergrowth, vanishing into the darkness of the Deep Jungle.

  Kulad sighed. Every step Hunn took pushed him further toward his ruin. The jungle did not forgive. Death would come for them… and, sooner or later, for him as well. But perhaps, thought the triton, it would be a different kind of freedom.