By the time they reached Limepost, the clouds had scattered into ribbons, and the sunlight lay soft and gold over the reeds. The village smelled of water and woodsmoke—the kind of clean, living scent Toby remembered from childhood. It clung to the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of drying lime from the kilns along the bank.

  Limepost was small but prosperous, its cottages washed a pale cream that gleamed where the sun struck them. Low stone walls, threaded with moss, lined each lane. The two rivers merged within the village, forming a slow, gleaming channel; the bridges lay across it like old bones at its shoulders.

  When the riders entered, people stopped what they were doing. A cooper froze mid-strike with his mallet. A washerwoman straightened, hands dripping, her mouth parting as she saw the white-and-blue falcon crest on Sire Kay’s cloak. Within moments, word rippled through the narrow streets—the new lord has come.

  Farmhands left their carts; children ran to doorways. Men removed their caps, women bowed their heads. It wasn’t the wild, cheering welcome of festivals—it was quieter, deeper. The kind of respect earned by the father and now extended, tentatively, to the son.

  Sire Kay raised a hand in greeting. “You honor me,” he said, voice carrying easily above the clatter of hooves. “I’ve come to see that the troubles here are set right. You have my word—Highmarsh endures.”

  The phrase rippled through the crowd like a gust through the rushes. A few voices echoed it softly. Highmarsh endures. The reeve appeared soon after—a stocky, middle-aged man with a beard grayer than his years and the kind of bow that spoke of both humility and exhaustion.

  “My lord,” he said, straightening. “I’m Reeve Jimmy, by your father’s old appointment. We’re glad beyond words to see the Falcon here again.”

  Sire Kay dismounted and clasped his forearm. “And glad I am to find you still at your post, Reeve Jimmy. I hear you’ve had trouble.”

  Jimmy’s weathered face tightened. “Aye, that we have, my lord. It’s a bad thing. Folk say it’s a beast from the marsh, but I’m not sure. Two nights ago, the Miller family vanished. No blood, no sign but ruin. Whole house torn apart like parchment.”

  Maxwell rode forward, his voice as even as if he were discussing the weather. “Tracks?”

  “Deep,” Jimmy said. “And wide. Broke two walls clean through—went in one and out the other.”

  Reece shivered despite himself. “That sounds like our friend the prince frog.”

  Jimmy frowned. “Prince what?”

  “Never mind,” Zak muttered. “We’ll explain later—after it eats us.”

  Sire Kay ignored the remark. “You’ve seen this yourself, Reeve?”

  “I have, my lord. It’s… not something you forget.” Jimmy swallowed. “I’ll show you the place. It’s on the eastern edge, near the willows. I’ve warned the neighbors to stay clear till your arrival.”

  “Good,” Sire Kay said. “You’ve done right.” He turned to Maxwell. “We’ll ride there at once.”

  “Aye,” Maxwell replied. “Best see the scene before gossip walks faster than truth.”

  As they followed Jimmy through the narrow lanes, Toby looked around at the familiar rhythm of life—the pale houses, the smell of lime, the sound of river water lapping against posts. Children peered out from behind fences, wide-eyed and whispering. An old man crossed himself as the riders passed.

  There was a heaviness beneath the sunlight, the way a pond looks still until you see the current underneath. When they reached the edge of the village, Jimmy stopped beside a sagging fence.

  “Beyond there,” Jimmy said, pointing down a narrow lane. “You’ll see the house easy enough. You can’t miss it.”

  Sire Kay inclined his head. “You’ve done well, Reeve. Make sure no one comes near till we’ve looked it over. We’ll send word when it’s safe.”

  Jimmy nodded, bowing again. “Aye, my lord. May the Light go with you.”

  The reeve stepped back, watching them ride toward the eastern fields. His expression said what none of the villagers dared—they had called for their lord’s help, but even they weren’t sure what kind of help could stand against something that walked through walls.

  The Miller house stood alone at the edge of a meadow, its whitewash smeared with mud, its thatch slumped like a broken crown. Two walls were gone—one caved outward, one punched inward—leaving a hollow shell open to the sky. The air smelled faintly of rot and lime, and something else—the sour tang of river water.

  Toby dismounted first, boots sinking into the damp earth. He took in the damage with slow, methodical eyes. “It wasn’t fire,” he said. “Wasn’t bandits either. No blade work. The boards look… crushed.”

  Maxwell knelt by the nearest wall, brushing mud from the splintered beams. “Something heavy. The grain’s pressed flat—not clawed. As I expected, these signs point toward a prince frog.”

  Zak whistled low. “So not another werewolf.”

  “Not unless it started swimming,” Reece said, trying for humor and failing.

  Sire Kay dismounted, cloak brushing mud, and stepped through what was once a doorway. Furniture lay everywhere—a chair upside down on the hearth, a table in pieces, crockery scattered like bones. A child’s wooden toy, a horse with one wheel, sat near the cold ashes of the fire.

  “This wasn’t random,” Sire Kay murmured. “It tore the walls to get in, but it was looking for something.”

  Toby followed his gaze to a broken chest near the far wall. The wood was thick—oak, bound with iron bands—and split open as if by great force. Deep grooves lined the edges, half bite, half impact.

  He crouched beside it. “Maxwell,” he called. “Over here.”

  The older knight joined him, eyes narrowing as he took in the shape of the damage. “Chest like this would hold grain seed, maybe valuables, maybe something heavier. Whatever was inside, it’s gone.”

  “Could it be food?” Reece asked.

  “Maybe,” Maxwell said. “But a beast this size doesn’t break iron bands for grain. Not unless the grain squealed.”

  Zak grimaced. “Eggs?”

  Maxwell looked thoughtful. “Aye. Could be. If it’s a prince frog, it might’ve smelled its own clutch taken. Folk sometimes think frog eggs are pearls or medicines. Stupid way to die.”

  Sire Kay studied the room. “No bodies.”

  “They didn’t die here,” Maxwell said. “They ran, or were taken whole. Either way, we’re not finding them alive.”

  Toby’s jaw tightened. “Then we should find the thing that did this.”

  Maxwell nodded once. “We will. But not all in a rush. Look sharp—it might still be near. They guard their nests like coin.”

  He rose and turned toward the doorless gap. “We’ll split. Kay, take Toby. Follow the creek behind the house. Reece, Zak, you circle north toward the mill pond. I’ll cut across the meadow and see if it left prints deeper in the soil.”

  Zak hesitated. “And if it’s still hungry?”

  “Then you’ll have company,” Maxwell said, not smiling.

  Toby touched the hilt of the elven blade at his shoulder—the one weapon he trusted above all others. The steel caught a faint shimmer from the sun. He met Sire Kay’s eye and nodded once. “Ready, my lord.”

  Sire Kay drew his own blade—Sire Ray’s blade—and the sunlight caught along its edge. “Then let’s end this quietly, before it grows into another legend.”

  They stepped out into the afternoon light. The air was heavy, still, the kind of quiet that sits before something breaks. Behind them, the broken cottage creaked softly as if remembering what had happened—a whisper of splintered wood and shifting shadow.

  Maxwell’s voice carried from the field. “Keep your eyes down and your ears open. Things that live half in water don’t always come from below.”

  Toby glanced at Sire Kay. “That’s comforting.”

  Sire Kay’s mouth twitched. “It’s Maxwell. If he ever is comforting, worry.”

  They moved into the tall grass, blades drawn, the sunlight glinting off steel as the reeds parted before them. Behind them, the ruined house stood silent—a reminder that whatever they were hunting, it had already learned the shape of human walls.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  And somewhere beyond the line of willows, something croaked once—deep and long—and the sound rolled through the air like distant thunder.

  ***

  The reeds whispered around them, the kind of whisper that felt like it carried meaning. Each time the wind shifted, the stalks hissed a new warning. The ground was slick and uneven, soft enough that Zak’s boots made sucking noises with every step.

  He hated it.

  Every shadow looked like a shape, every ripple like a movement. Reece walked a few paces ahead, trying to keep his eyes on the ground and the horizon at once—a losing battle. The light slanted gold through the canopy of willows, throwing long fingers across the mud. Everything looked too alive.

  Zak’s heart had been pounding since they left the ruins of the cottage, but now it was practically a drum in his throat. He tried to breathe evenly. Tried to remember the rhythm Maxwell always shouted about. Breath is rhythm. Rhythm is control. Yeah, well, rhythm didn’t mean much when everything in the marsh was squelching.

  He froze as something darted across the path—a lizard, no longer than his hand. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “By the saints,” he hissed. “It’s just a lizard. Why does it have to move like that?”

  Reece half turned, his voice tight but calm. “Because it’s alive?”

  “Yeah, and I won’t be if it keeps doing that,” Zak muttered.

  They moved on. Another splash somewhere ahead. Both froze. The reeds swayed, then stilled. Nothing. Zak’s knuckles went white around his sword hilt.

  “Do you think it’s watching us?” Reece asked quietly.

  “Don’t say that,” Zak snapped. “Don’t say things like that.”

  “I’m just asking—”

  “Then stop asking! You’ll summon it or something.”

  Reece frowned, squinting at the ground. “You can’t summon a frog.”

  “You can summon my heart out of my chest if you keep—” Zak stopped mid-sentence, inhaled sharply, and exhaled through his nose. “Alright. I can’t keep doing this.”

  He dropped down onto a mound of mud and dead grass, slumping onto it without caring that it squelched under him. “I can’t keep jumping at every noise. I’ll die from anticipation before anything actually kills me.”

  Reece remained standing, still scanning the tree line. “We have to stay alert.”

  “I am alert,” Zak said, gesturing helplessly. “Too alert! I’m vibrating, Reece. I’m going to start glowing if this keeps up.”

  Reece cracked a small smile despite the tension. “Master Maxwell says fear sharpens you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sharp enough to cut myself in half right now.” Zak dragged a hand down his face, smearing mud along his cheek. “I just want to swing at something solid, you know? Not air. Not shadows. I’m not built for hunting ghosts.”

  Reece hummed softly, eyes flicking between the reeds. “We’re not hunting ghosts. We’re hunting frogs.”

  Zak groaned. “That’s not better.”

  He leaned back, elbows on his knees, and stared up through the reeds toward the faint strip of sky. He was still breathing fast, still wired with nerves. He hated feeling scared—not because fear was wrong, but because he knew it made him look small. Weak.

  “Did you feel that?” he asked suddenly.

  Reece didn’t turn. “What?”

  “The ground,” Zak said, straightening. “It moved.”

  Reece was distracted, peering toward a patch of water where bubbles broke the surface. “Yeah, yeah,” he said absently.

  Zak frowned. “No, really. It moved.”

  Reece waved a hand. “Probably your imagination.”

  Then the mound beneath Zak shifted. At first it was slow—a steady, rising motion, like the earth taking a breath. Then the whole thing lurched upward, heaving him with it into the air. Mud spilled down around him in thick clumps.

  Zak’s brain took a moment to catch up.

  “Oh—oh no.”

  The mound opened its eyes.

  “Reece!” Zak screamed. “It’s not a mound!”

  Reece turned just as the ground beneath him quivered. A long, slick tongue snapped through the air, catching a spray of mud inches from his leg. Reece yelped and dove face-first into the muck, the tongue recoiling with a wet crack that made both of them gag.

  Zak balanced, and kept his footing on top. The mound—no, the frog—was enormous, half its body still submerged in the mud, its skin the color of wet bark. Its throat ballooned once, twice, the croak deep enough to rattle Zak’s ribs. The frog turned, lining itself up with Reece—still facedown in the mud.

  It was going to eat Reece.

  Zak tried to move. Nothing happened.

  The air thickened around him, syrup-slow. Even the reeds stopped whispering. He could see the creature’s throat swell, see every droplet of mud sliding off its skin—each one hanging, spinning, refusing to fall. His own heartbeat thundered loud enough to shake his teeth.

  Move, he thought, panic crawling up his spine. Move, damn you!

  But his body wouldn’t listen. His hands were locked, his chest too tight to breathe. He’d frozen. He was useless. Helpless. Watching his friend die in slow motion.

  Then he finally sucked in air through his teeth. His lungs burned hot with pain, with something raw and electric. Something flowed inside him; a jolt through every limb—an energy forcing him to action.

  He moved. His hand found the sword. The draw felt wrong and perfect at once—like someone else guiding him through the motion. He slid off, half falling from the frog’s slick back, boots catching in the mud—and the fall became a swing: a single, desperate arc that felt like it had been resting in his bones.

  Steel met flesh. The crunch was deep and wet and final. Zak didn’t even realize he’d shouted until the echo came back to him. The frog spasmed once and went still, throat deflating in a long hiss. He stumbled backward, gasping, half sprawled in the mud, sword shaking in his grip.

  What had just happened?

  His mind pounded with the rhythm of his heart. He hadn’t meant to swing like that—but it had felt so right.

  “Reece?” he croaked. “You alive?”

  A shape rose from the swamp, dripping and caked in mud from head to toe. For a horrifying second Zak thought another one had come up behind him.

  He raised his sword—just as the mud monster raised its hands and croaked, “It’s me!”

  Zak blinked—then laughed. “Reece!”

  Reece spat out a mouthful of swamp water. “Don’t even… say… a word.”

  Footsteps crashed through the reeds. Sire Kay appeared first, sword drawn, followed by Toby and Maxwell.

  “Where is it?!” Kay shouted, eyes sweeping the clearing. “Zak, are you— by the Light! A mud monster!”

  Toby lowered his weapon slightly, scanning. “Where’s Reece?”

  A muddy figure pointed to himself. “Here!”

  Toby turned his blade toward him, startled. “What in the—”

  “I said it’s me!” Reece shouted, flinging mud off one arm.

  Sire Kay exhaled, sheathing his sword with a sharp click. “Where’s the beast, then?”

  Zak, still catching his breath, pointed with his blade toward the massive, motionless body—still disguised as a mound, half buried in the muck. “Right… there. I think it’s done.”

  Maxwell stepped closer, studying the creature with a raised brow. “Well struck.”

  Zak gave a weak laugh that came out closer to a wheeze. “Oh, sure. Nearly died of fright, but yes, well struck.”

  Reece squelched closer, glaring. “You sat on it.”

  “Apparently,” Zak said, still dazed. “I was just… testing the terrain.”

  Toby shook his head, a grin creeping onto his face despite the tension. “Testing the terrain. You mean napping on a toad.”

  “Call it what you like,” Zak said. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

  Maxwell inspected Zak’s sword, wiping a bit of slime off the edge with a rag. “Alive, and marginally cleaner than your companion. That’s a start.”

  Sire Kay’s face stayed composed, but his eyes flicked between the carcass and Zak’s mud-slick armor. He sheathed his sword, then said solemnly, “Zak of Highmarsh.”

  Zak looked up, panting. “Uh. Yes, my lord?”

  Sire Kay inclined his head slightly. “Henceforth you shall be known as…” He paused for just long enough that Zak almost smiled—then Sire Kay’s voice dropped into perfect seriousness. “…The Frog Slayer.”

  There was a beat of silence before Reece snorted loudly, then tried to cover it with a cough.

  Zak stared at Sire Kay, incredulous. “That’s not fair. I didn’t want to slay a frog.”

  “Few heroes choose their titles,” Sire Kay replied evenly.

  Maxwell’s mouth twitched. “Wear it proudly, lad. You’ve killed worse things than dinner.”

  Toby put his hands behind his head, grinning now. “He’ll never live this down.”

  Reece wiped mud from his face. “He shouldn’t. He sat on it.”

  Zak sighed, dropping to sit back in the mud with a loud squelch. “If this is knighthood, I’m starting to think about joining the clergy.”

  Sire Kay turned toward the road. “Then you’d miss your chance for another song. Come—Frog Slayer or not, Highmarsh will want proof of its champion.”

  Zak groaned but stood, dragging his sword behind him. “Fine. But someone else is carrying the head this time.”

  Maxwell tossed him a large burlap sack without looking back. “No, lad. That’s why you’re only getting closer.”

  Reece laughed until he choked on mud again. Toby followed suit, grinning as they started back toward Limepost—one dead toad, one muddy squire, and one very patient knight leading them through the reeds.

  Behind them, the swamp went still again. The reeds swayed, whispering secrets to the wind—and somewhere, faint and distant, another croak echoed through the marsh.

  Zak froze mid-step.

  Reece glanced back, eyes wide.

  Zak muttered, “If that’s its wife, I’m retiring.”

  And even Sire Kay cracked a smile.

  Toby, The Monster Hunter!