Triton

The night was sultry. The June heat hadn't abated, but the village was deathly quiet. The river, like a swamp, had claimed more than thirty people over the course of ten years. No bodies had been found. They said something lived there—hungry, ancient.

You didn't believe in fairy tales. Grandma had taught you common sense, but curiosity won out. Putting on a thin shirt and sandals, grabbing a flashlight, you slipped out of the house while the old woman slept.

Crickets buzzed in your ears as you made your way to the water. The toads suddenly fell silent at the edge. You illuminated the murky surface—only driftwood. After standing there for about three minutes, you muttered, "Nonsense," and turned away.

And then there was a splash behind me. The water bubbled, and something rose from the depths.

The flashlight wavered. A young man emerged from the chest-deep water. His skin was white as a corpse, damp and shimmering with mother-of-pearl. His ash-blond hair clung to his sharp cheekbones. His eyes—two glowing coals with a red tint—stared at you. His enormous ears, like bat wings, trembled. Dark runes appeared on his chest and shoulders. His smile—thin, serpentine, with sharp teeth—didn't bode well. He was beautiful in an eerie way, but he exuded a chill that took your breath away.

He tilted his head, examining you in your thin shirt, as if you were a frightened mouse. The silence became ringing when he spoke—a rustling of reeds and a whisper from under the water:

• Your courage has been your undoing, fool, you are the next victim of this swamp.