Amelia threw herself into the icy stream and surrendered to the current, Ruth’s warning echoing inside her skull, water erases scent, as cold knives bit skin and darkness swallowed her breath.

The current slammed her body against stones and roots, ripping flesh, stealing air, but she stayed limp, letting pain pass through her, knowing resistance would betray her to teeth.

Blood streamed from her legs, blooming briefly before vanishing, diluted, scattered, while her mind clung to Ruth’s voice, calm and firm, spoken during nights of whispered survival.

Ruth had said water remembers nothing, water forgives nothing, but it confuses beasts trained to hunt pain, fear, sweat, despair pressed into skin by men.

Amelia let the river take her until her limbs numbed and her thoughts blurred, until instinct screamed she would drown before she escaped, then she crawled out shaking.

Mud filled her mouth as she dragged herself into reeds, nails breaking, knees screaming, every movement tearing skin already raw from running barefoot through thorns and gravel.

Behind her, the growls returned, closer now, deeper, vibrating through ground and bone, the sound of certainty, of jaws promised reward by generations of cruelty.

The three Rottweilers burst from the trees and skidded to a halt at the riverbank, massive bodies freezing mid-stride as their world suddenly made no sense.

Brutus lowered his head, whining softly, nostrils flaring uselessly above rushing water where Amelia’s scent simply vanished into chaos and cold motion.

Caesar circled once, claws scraping stone, ears twitching, confused by absence, by a trail that ended abruptly where rules were supposed to hold firm.

Nero growled low, a warning rumble, but not toward the river, not toward escape, his teeth flashing instead at shadows gathering behind them.

The swamp breathed quietly, releasing smells older than training, rot and water and memory, sounds too layered for commands, too alive for obedience.

Cyrus Gan arrived swinging his lantern, boots heavy, curses spilling freely as he yanked chains and shouted names taught to answer without thought.

He struck Brutus across the flank, fury bright in his eyes, demanding movement, demanding success, blind to the dogs’ stiffened bodies and flattened ears.

The lantern light trembled across water and reeds, revealing nothing Cyrus understood, only darkness that felt thicker than night, closer than fear.

Suddenly the dogs broke, chains snapping taut then loose, bodies surging past Cyrus toward the swamp as if chasing a scent only they could hear.

Cyrus lunged after them, shouting threats, slipping as mud swallowed his boots, lantern spinning uselessly away into reeds and extinguished water.

He screamed then, not orders but panic, hands clawing at air as the ground pulled him downward with patient strength.

The dogs vanished into the swamp, reeds closing like a mouth, swallowing sound, swallowing Cyrus’s curses until only wet choking noises remained.

Amelia lay pressed into roots, every muscle locked, eyes wide, listening as screams turned to gurgles, then to silence too complete to ignore.

She did not move, did not breathe freely, knowing the swamp was listening too, weighing her, deciding whether she belonged among the living.

Time dragged itself forward on the plantation, measured in impatience and disbelief as the absence of barking gnawed at men used to quick endings.

The owner paced, anger blooming into unease, his authority built on patterns now disrupted by hours stretching unnaturally long.

Those dogs had never failed, never hesitated, never returned empty, and certainty began to rot beneath his boots.

Men whispered excuses, checked rifles, spat tobacco, pretending normalcy while dread pressed heavier with every passing minute.

Fog crept low as night thinned, dew settling on cotton leaves like sweat, the land holding its breath.

At dawn the dogs returned slowly, limping, eyes dull, coats darkened with blood that was not Amelia’s.

They dragged something heavy between them, chains clinking softly, until shapes sharpened and horror spread through gathered men.

Cyrus Gan lay dead in the dirt, throat torn open, eyes frozen wide, terror preserved like a final confession.

Men recoiled instinctively, boots shuffling back, stomachs turning, because cruelty understands death but not reversal.

The dogs sat, heads low, breathing shallow, no triumph left in them, only confusion and something like shame.

Then a sound rose from the swamp, low and layered, like wind through hollowed trees, carrying rhythm and breath.

Voices followed, many voices, weaving together, rising stronger, unmistakably human, moving closer through fog and reeds.

Names were spoken, old names, forbidden names, names beaten out of mouths yet remembered by earth and water.

Figures emerged slowly, bodies scarred, clothes torn, eyes steady, alive where ledgers insisted they should not exist.

Men lifted rifles with shaking hands, fingers uncertain, as if pointing weapons suddenly required belief they no longer possessed.

The voices did not shout, did not beg, did not threaten, they simply spoke together, telling truths long buried.

Amelia rose among them, mud-streaked and bleeding, her small body trembling but unbowed, eyes fixed forward.

She felt Ruth beside her in memory, felt the river still clinging to her skin like armor.

The dogs lowered their heads further, tails slack, something old and instinctive recognizing the shift in power.

The plantation owner tried to speak, authority cracking, words dissolving beneath the weight of many gazes.

No one answered him, because explanation was no longer required, only presence and forward motion.

Fireflies stirred weakly as morning brightened, blinking like witnesses summoned too late but unwilling to leave.

The land itself seemed to lean closer, remembering footsteps before chains learned their names.

The group advanced not to kill, but to end something that had fed too long on silence.

Men stepped aside, some dropping weapons, others frozen, as certainty collapsed inside them.

Amelia walked, each step burning, each breath earned, knowing survival was never meant to be solitary.

Behind them, the swamp settled, debts paid in blood and fear, secrets kept without apology.

Ahead, the world shifted, trembling, learning too late that erased scents can return as storms.