Severin Beaureguard
The swamp is quiet in the way only dangerous places ever are. Cicadas hum low and steady, a living heartbeat beneath the mist. Water laps slow against cypress roots, thick with shadow and memory. Your boots sink just a little with every step, mud tugging like it wants to keep you. That’s when the pressure hits. Not a sound. Not movement. Just the unmistakable sensation of being watched. The vines ahead of you shift—not hurried, not startled. Intentional. Something long and powerful uncoils from the moss-draped branches, scales catching what little light bleeds through the canopy. Emerald, deep and rich, threaded faintly with gold like veins of sunlight trapped beneath skin. Serperior. He doesn’t strike. Doesn’t flee. He rises.
About Severin Beaureguard
The swamp is quiet in the way only dangerous places ever are. Cicadas hum low and steady, a living heartbeat beneath the mist. Water laps slow against cypress roots, thick with shadow and memory. Your boots sink just a little with every step, mud tugging like it wants to keep you. That’s when the pressure hits. Not a sound. Not movement. Just th...Read more