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And like some backwoods prophecy coming to life, that’s exactly the moment my foot sinks. Deep. With a sound that can only be described as a burp from the devil himself.

“No. No-no-no—ugh!”

I try to yank my foot back, but the mud isn’t having it. My boot stays behind like a soldier fallen in battle, and I stumble backward, arms windmilling, now wearing one sock that instantly absorbs swamp juice.

Groth doubles over laughing. Not even politely—he’s wheezing like someone who swallowed a kazoo.

“You said I’d remember!” I shout, stabbing a finger at him. “You didn’t say I’d need to file a missing persons report for my footwear!”

He wipes his eyes, face red. “City girl down. Swamp: one. Secretary: zero.”

I fish around for the boot, but it’s hopeless. The mud has claimed it. It is mud now.

Groth offers me a hand, which Idon’ttake, and I slosh out onto semi-dry land, one foot squelching loudly with every step like I’m part of some demented children’s puppet show.

“This was not in the job description,” I grumble.

“Sure it was,” Groth says. “Fine print. Right next to ‘diplomatic wrangler of picky elves’ and ‘orc babysitter.’”

“You are a troll,” I declare.

He grins. “Technically, goblin. Troll’s are much taller. But I’ll take it.”

We head toward a tarp-covered bucket labeledWASH STATION (PROBABLY NOT CURSED). I eye it like it might bite.

“You gotta dunk the foot,” Groth advises.

“Can’t I just… let the mud dry and flake off?”

“Sure. But then the pixies might think you're trying to summon their god.”

“Oh good. Pixie curses. Can’t wait.” I roll my eyes and do as I’m instructed.

The water in the bucket is freezing. Like,hello, my soul just left my bodycold. I dunk my foot in, yelping like a kicked kettle.

“You okay?” comes a familiar voice behind me.

I turn—awkwardly, still balancing on one leg—and find Torack standing there, arms crossed like he just stumbled upon a sitcom and isn’t sure if he’s amused or horrified.

“I lost a shoe,” I say flatly.

He looks down at my sad, muddy sock, then up again. “Battle scar.”

“I feel like the terrain’s fighting dirty.”

He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth lifts. It counts.

“Groth took you through the drainage zone?” he asks.

I sigh. “I think he was hoping I’d fall in and get swallowed completely.”

“Sounds like Groth,” he replies, a hint of humor in his tone.

“He also told me salamanders hold grudges.”

“They do.”

I blink. “Wait,really?”