Dear Cousin,

The mill wheel turns sluggish in the Marshlands, forever clogged with reeds that seem to grow faster than the water can carry them. Some say the mana is thick in the marsh, feeding the plants until they choke themselves. I wonder if the land itself drowns in its own abundance.

Explorers stopped by last night, cloaked and tired. They spoke of relics in half-whispers, though in truth they seemed more grateful for bread and a dry hearth than for any treasure. I pitied them; even heroes must eat.

At night, the Marsh hums. Frogs call, insects sing, and the air itself feels alive. It is not unpleasant, but it makes me wonder if the Marsh remembers us as keenly as we remember it. I sometimes think the cycles grind us all down—not only kings or champions, but even millers and frogs alike.

Your cousin,
Brehn