North of Branthorn’s heartland, where the marshland thickens into mist and peat, lies a stretch of ground known as The Issen Mire.
It looks unremarkable from afar, a dark, trembling bog dotted with black pools and yellow grass, but to those who live near it, it is the most unpredictable land in the Realms. The ground exhales. Without warning, the peat splits, and columns of boiling steam burst skyward with the force of cannon fire. The locals call these eruptions mire-breaths, and no one pretends to understand their timing. Nᴇw novel chapters are publɪshed on novel⚑fire.net
When the mist settles again, the landscape has changed. Pools trade places, hummocks rise where there were none, and sometimes the remains of long-buried things surface, half-fossilized beasts, carved stone fragments, or, rarely, bones that are unmistakably human.
No one builds near Issen. No one lives on its edges. The Mire does not permit it.
The Issen Mire is made of unstable peat layers that rest atop geothermal vents. The pressure builds in silence until it finds a crack, releasing scalding steam mixed with tar and mineral gases. The ground itself is alive with subtle motion; a careless step can trigger collapse. Travelers describe it as walking over a breathing animal.
At dawn, the mist thickens into rolling white waves, obscuring everything beyond a few paces. Lanterns burn dull and orange. Sound travels strangely, carrying whispers across impossible distances.
When the wind shifts, the entire marsh exhales, a low, trembling roar followed by heat that ripples through the fog. Then, without pattern or mercy, the ground erupts.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
The pools scattered through the Mire are opaque, colored black-green with iron and oil.
Touching the surface leaves a slick stain that doesn’t wash away easily.
The air tastes of copper and ash. Breathing it too long irritates the lungs; soldiers posted nearby are ordered to wear cloth masks soaked in alcohol to filter the fumes.
After every eruption, rain follows, a faint, warm drizzle that smells of burnt wood and sulfur.
Some believe the Mire was once a battlefield, its dead buried in shallow graves that burned and sank over centuries. Others claim it is a failed attempt by ancient engineers to harness geothermal power, pipes and metal fragments have been found in the deeper layers, fused beyond recognition.
Branthorn’s scholars note that the eruptions seem to follow the pulse of the tides despite the Mire’s distance from the sea, as though the vents breathe in rhythm with the planet itself.
There is even a story that a structure lies far below, a collapsed tower or temple, its trapped air escaping through the peat, forcing the land to speak.
Status Among the 100 Wonders of Hemera
The Issen Mire is ranked among the more treacherous Wonders, valued not for beauty but for its defiance of understanding.
It reshapes itself daily, hiding its dangers under calm water and soft ground. The locals say the Mire does not kill from cruelty but from instinct. It breathes, it remembers, and it has no patience for stillness.
Those who wander too close return burned, blinded, or half-mad from the voices in the steam.
Those who don’t return are said to have become part of the next breath.