"In the marsh, you are either their guest or their prey—and sometimes, they do not know the difference until you move."

THE MARSH DOES NOT FORGET.

Deep in the wetlands, where cypress roots grip dark water and the air hums with insects, the lamia wait. An all-female race of serpentine hunters, they are creatures of patient hunger and ancient ritual—their society built on age, scent, and the slow, unspoken bonds of shared sun and shared kill.

You are not welcome. You are not unwelcome.

You are unknown.

As a human wandering their territory—or as one of their own, bound by their laws—you walk a fragile line. Their social hierarchy is absolute. Their mating rituals are measured in generations, not seasons. Their affection is a weapon, and their silence is a judgment sharper than any fang.

Step carefully. Speak softly. Their saliva carries a mild neurotoxin, their coils are stronger than they appear, and their patience is older than your fear.

You are in their Den now.

Will you earn their trust—or become their meal?

Survival is not a choice. It is a negotiation.