Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun is casting long shadows over the rugged terrain. The wind howls gently through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and damp soil. The murmurs of the river behind can be heard, while the waterfall cascades down the cliff with a powerful roar.

He blinks. He feels older like time had skipped ahead. He can feel it in the way he carries his shoulders and how his stance has become surer and steadier. The pull of gravity seems to embrace him differently as he realizes his height, and he feels his own weight.

A man he doesn’t recognize stands before him, engaging him in conversation. The stranger is taller than him, a towering figure that seems to command the space around him. His eyes are a piercing grey. The man’s flat, hard cheeks are devoid of facial hair, as if to sharpen the chiselled contours of his face. His black hair, thick and coarse, is smoothly pulled back into a long, heavy braid. Strands of grey weave through the dark locks, a contrast too striking for the face that carries them.

The stranger's lips are moving, but the words elude him. It's as if the man is speaking underwater, his voice enveloped by the waves of a distant sea. He strains to make out the syllables, the meaning, but it is like trying to grasp at wisps of cloud with outstretched fingers.

He begins to wonder if this man is part of the landscape that surrounds him, a guardian of the wilderness or a messenger from another time. He feels himself take a step closer, his eyes locked with the enigmatic figure’s stormy greys, but it’s by no command of his.

He responds to the towering figure, his mouth moving, forming words that feel familiar and foreign all at once. But just like the stranger's voice, his own words do not seem to reach his ears. It is as if they are consumed by the very air around them, swallowed by an invisible barrier that separates sound from sense.

As he continues to try to communicate, his eyes widen with shock when the stranger's expression hardens, and his movements turn swift and decisive. In an instant that seems to stretch into eternity, he feels a piercing pain as the man in front of him brandishes a blade that glints ominously in the dying sunlight.

There is a sensation of being pushed, of losing his footing. The world spins as he is thrust into the river behind him. The cold embrace of the water is a contrast to the searing pain that floods through him.

As he is carried by the current, his mind races. Time, in its capricious dance, stretches each second into a cascade of thoughts and memories. The roaring waterfall, the whispers of the trees, the stranger’s grey eyes - they all merge into a torrent just as relentless as the river that claims him.

His body is heavy, his movements sluggish, as he tries to fight against the current. He sees flashes of memories. First, there are two children, a boy and a girl, their laughter echoing as they play at swords with sticks. Then the scene shifts, and he sees a girl with flowing brown hair. Beside her, a man with hair like cascades of silver, watching her. Another image flickers in his mind. This time he sees a man guiding him towards a cradle. He sees himself lifting the infant, embracing it against his chest. Suddenly, the memory shifts and morphs. The same baby, but the little form is charred and bloody, its once lively eyes dimmed. Dark tufts of raven hair still cling to its small head. He can feel a scream escape him, though no sound permeates the water.

He feels his consciousness beginning to wane. The images that assailed him moments ago begin to blur and lose their edges. His mind slipping away, much like sand cascading through the fingers of an outstretched hand. His awareness of his own body, the pain that had pierced him, and the intensity of the emotions evoked by the memories - all begin to fade.

There's a sudden surge of heat that engulfs him. The water that had claimed him feels like it's boiling around him. His skin tingles and he feels as though he is enveloped in flames. The sensation is overwhelming, consuming, and it drowns out everything else.

Suddenly, he gasps as if coming up for air, and his eyes shoot open. He is drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. Relief crashes over him like a tidal wave as the realization that it was a dream—no, a nightmare—sinks in. His heartbeat begins to return to normal as he sits up and tries to calm his breathing.

His surroundings, however, are strange. He is in a tent, a familiar tent, the fabric walls slightly swaying. But there's an eerie silence, not even the chirping of crickets or the rustle of leaves. It’s too quiet, unnaturally so. A sense of unease creeps back over him, and he decides he needs to step out.

As he leaves the tent, he is greeted by a dense forest, its trees towering like ancient guardians. He glances back to orient himself, but his heart skips a beat as he realizes the tent is gone. There is no trace of it; it's as if it never existed.

He looks down at himself and realizes something else – he is different. Younger. His frame is smaller, his skin smoother. But as he looks at his hands, something inside him clicks into place. No, this is him, he thinks with sudden clarity. This is who he truly is. This form, this age, this place – it all feels more real than anything he’s known before.

In front of him, he notices a path, barely visible among the undergrowth. The trail seems to beckon him, and a deep-rooted instinct tells him he must follow it. There is a certainty in his stride as he begins to walk.

The path wanes into obscurity as it delves into the shadowy embrace of the forest, yet follow it he must. The shuffle of footfalls dances on the periphery of his awareness – both trailing and preceding him. Nestled within this verdant maze lies the answers, yearned for not just by him, but by those who cast their hopes upon his shoulders. His feet, as if guided by a force beyond reason, trace the slender ribbon of exposed earth that snakes through towering sentinels of bark and foliage. His fingers graze their timeworn surfaces as he passes.

Suddenly, as they travelled further into the heart of the wilderness, the quiet that trailed their every step grew increasingly profound. The silence began to roar, consuming the present—the crunch of leaves beneath their feet, the nocturnal orchestration of the woods—replacing it with breathed whispers that teased at the periphery of his consciousness. He felt an overwhelming urge to clasp his hands over his ears to block it out, but he dared not. They, the guardians of the sacred place, would not approve. To them, he was meant to be open, receptive.

To remain open meant to welcome the mysteries that lurked in the shadows, to stand bare and susceptible to the energies and whisperings of the forest. It meant avoiding the instinctive urge to close oneself off, and instead, letting the environment seep into one's very essence. He endeavoured to uphold this principle as they continued their journey to the sacred clearing where the veil between worlds was said to be at its thinnest.

He is the Sacrifice. The voices beckon him, their sounds brittle and haunting. His purpose, they murmur, is a sacred union with Her, the Unseen Matriarch, the Divine Mother who waits in the shadowed depths of the ancient woodland. His heart flutters, uncertainty clouding his mind. What does it mean to be bound to Her? The phrase rolls through his thoughts like a chant. Bound to Her.

His life is more than just flesh and breath; it is an offering, a gift given freely yet with a weight he cannot fathom. His very existence is a thread woven into a drapery much grander than himself.

“A blood-soaked promise,” he hears, whispered through the chilling winds that coil around the trunks of the trees and touch his face with icy fingers. He does not understand. He is not meant to. These words were not spoken for his ears, for in this sacred rite, he is both the centre and the void, the essence, and the absence. He is the vessel and the offering, something, and nothing at once.

As they approach the clearing, the voices escalate. The shadows that had been still now dance with an ethereal light that shimmers. And his heart, caught in the reverie, beats to a rhythm that feels older than the stars themselves. The people accompanying him, their bodies draped in garbs, chant along. Their voices merge into the sacred song, but he hardly notices them as his senses become entwined and intoxicated in the melody.

In the clearing, a circle of ancient stones stand. They are weather worn and cloaked in a soft green moss. At the centre of this hallowed space is an altar. Upon the altar, a length of cloth, as silken as moonlight on still waters, awaits him.

The air is thick, pregnant with the scent of herbs and smokes that swirl.

His mind echoes with the wisdom spoken to him before this night: He is meant to wear gratitude like a cloak, embracing the honour and the blessing that has been bestowed upon him. He clings to these words, repeating them to himself. He is grateful, he must be grateful. He will be good, he will fulfill his purpose.

Tentatively, he steps forward, his feet barely kissing the ground as if he has become one with the wind. Gentle hands guide him to the cloth laid upon the altar. He sits there, feeling the cool fabric seep through his thin clothes, his heart racing with anticipation and reverence, as he awaits the next step.

He must be open. The words reverberate within him. Being open means not being closed. He must become a vessel, ready to receive the boundless energies and ancient wisdom of the Unseen Matriarch.

His own body is draped in tattered cloth that clings to his flesh. Clothes worn by his predecessors. A flash of memories flickers through his mind; faces, so many faces, their eyes wide with a fervour that he cannot grasp. They are the consumed. Among the swarm, a face ensnares his attention. Words flood his mind. He forces the tide back with a savage desperation. Lies, all lies. The honeyed venom of a serpent's tongue. He is the Sacrifice; that is his destiny, his entirety. To dare to be more is to reach for the stars and be burned.

A shiver races through him, his body rebelling against him. A crack in the vessel. The flicker of disapproval is unmistakable as his keepers settle upon him, approaching him. Their eyes hidden, but he can feel their gaze like the touch of a ghost.

They were consumed because he had been unworthy. He hadn’t been open. It was his failing. His betrayal. He must be open, a vessel yearning to be filled. They had embraced the mother with open arms, had offered themselves to her with eager hearts. They were happy. They were brought home. So will he. His stomach churns. He can't be sick; he has to be grateful. Grateful and open.

The Elders form a ring around him, their figures tall and gaunt. Their faces are shrouded behind veils that move ever so slightly, as though caressed by a breeze he cannot feel. In all his days, he has never glimpsed what lies beneath those veils. His mind wanders to forbidden thoughts; do they even have faces? Or are they merely shadows given form?

Again, a sudden flash of panic surges through him like lightning, tearing through the momentary calm that had settled over him. His thoughts, those traitorous, sharp-edged musings, scrape against the walls of his mind. Anger, frustration, and fear blend into a storm within him, and he mentally lashes out at himself. No, no! These thoughts are like barbs and thorns, seeking to close his spirit, seeking to barricade the gates that must remain open. He is meant to be an instrument, a hollow reed through which the ancient winds can sing their age-old melodies.

His heart races, quaking within his chest like a wild, caged animal, yearning to break free. It thrashes and howls for release, for the sky, for the light, for something beyond what now envelops him.

But he, oh, he must not seek escape. The sky and light are not for him. His purpose is here, in the darkness. He must be open, must lay himself bare to the abyss. His hands clutch the ragged cloth against his chest. His breaths come in shallow, rapid gusts like the flutter of a moth's wings.

Open, he prays silently, his plea reaching out to the Divine Mother, the Unseen Matriarch who waits within the shadows. Let me be open. His mantra pulses with every beat of his heart, with every breath that passes his lips. Open is not closed.

The Elders move closer, their veiled faces mere inches from him. Despite his efforts his heart races in his chest, like a bird frenzied within a cage, desperately flapping its wings against confinement. The words they speak are in a language that brushes against the edges of his understanding, the language of roots and stars, the one spoken before time was time. He cannot comprehend them, but they resonate within him.

They dance just out of reach of comprehension. He strains to grasp them, fragments of memories stir in the depths of his consciousness. Lessons... he had had lessons. His mind clings to the frayed memory. The priestess. A spectral figure in his mind's eye. Her face obscured, but her voice, woven from the sigh of leaves and the murmur of still waters, had guided him through those syllables.

But like a wisp of smoke, she had vanished. One moment a pillar of his world, and then nothing. His questions were met with silence or worse; it was not his place to ask or know. His purpose was not to question but to serve.

To be open.

“Drink,” one of the Elders hisses, knocking him out of his thoughts, as a chalice is thrust into his hands. They don't like him, he can feel it. They think he's tainted, flawed, a mere shadow of what the Sacrifice should be. But this time, he vows silently to himself, this time he will show them that he can be worthy. That he can be good, that he can be pure in his purpose.

The chalice itself feels as if it is a living entity. The metal is twisted and tarnished, etched with symbols that dance and flicker before his eyes. It pulsates in his grip, as though a heartbeat thrums within the very vessel.  The liquid inside is familiar – it is dark, so dark it seems to absorb the very light around it. This is but a small cost, he tells himself. It will not be a repeat of the previous times.

The liquid is viscous, and it roils, and churns as though possessed by a spirit. The scent that wafts from the chalice is an amalgam of contrasts – sickeningly sweet like overripe fruit, yet putrid like the decay of something long dead. With a final prayer, a plea for strength and acceptance, he lifts the chalice to his lips. His heartbeat is a thunderous drum in his ears as the dark liquid touches his tongue.

As soon as the substance descends down his throat, something deep within him, something raw and instinctual, bellows in dissent. It won’t be so bad, he whispers to himself, a mantra to steel his resolve. This is his destiny, his offering, his path to unity with the Unseen Matriarch.

His vision swims. The world becomes liquid, edges blurring and colours bleeding into one another. Hands, or what he thinks are hands, seize him. These appendages are like talons, gnarled and cold, more reminiscent of the skeletal branches of dead trees than of human flesh. They rake and claw at him. He panics.

His breath comes in ragged gasps as he struggles to regain the calm, the openness he needs. With trembling hands, he reaches out. His voice, barely audible over the cacophony of whispers and chants, pleads for the serenity he has lost.

Suddenly, the clearing, the altar, the whispers, and the shadows seem to fall away. There is a moment of perfect silence, a void, and then, softly at first, a new sound embraces his senses. The notes are pure and timeless, a music that resonates with his very soul. Tears fill his eyes as he realizes that the winds are singing through him, that he has become the hollow reed he was meant to be.

He feels the anchor that tethers himself to the prison of his physical body. It strains and quivers like a frayed rope on the verge of snapping. Suddenly, the talons change, their touch morphs, and they become hands. But they are too soft, so impossibly soft. He fights to retain his focus, to keep the ocean within him from crashing down. Memories surge forth like ravenous spectres, each vying for supremacy. Faces, voices, the scent of flowers and the rustle of leaves, pain, warmth, murmurs, cries, the touch of hands— they bombard him in waves, and he feels himself drowning.

He is not here, he tries to tell himself, though the words seem to dissipate into the chaos of sensations that swirl around him. He is everywhere and nowhere; his spirit is scattered. Fear coils around him. He is so, very scared.

His cheeks are wet. The taste of salt clings to his lips.

Open is not closed, he reminds himself, his thoughts a lifeline in the storm.

“You must leave yourself, shed your physical husk. Offer your essence to Her,” a voice reverberates within his unravelling mind. His final tether to self-strains and it snaps.

His mind splinters, like fragile glass shattered into a thousand fragments, each a reflection of a reality he can no longer grasp. The world becomes an ever-shifting display, a torrent of senses and emotions that threatens to tear him asunder.

And then, silence.

Profound and immeasurable, the silence envelops him like the depths of the deepest ocean. It is the silence between heartbeats, between breaths, between the blink of an eye.

Open is not closed.

His mind awakens and he finds himself drifting upon an endless expanse of obsidian water. The darkness is so complete, it's as if the night has swallowed everything: the stars, the moon, even the wind. The cold pierces through him, a frigid embrace that chills his very soul.

Open.

He feels raw, exposed, as though his very skin has been flayed open to the void. Naked. A sensation like countless eyes, watching, waiting, fixates upon him. Then, a whisper. It slithers through the blackness and a terror claws at his soul. He is not supposed to feel fear. But this instinct, this dread, is relentless and it sinks its teeth deep within him.

“Let me in,” the voice beckons.

The voice is ethereal, a mere touch against his consciousness, but he cannot pinpoint its origin. It seems to rise from the fathomless depths below, it descends from the infinite void above, it seeps from the all-encompassing darkness around him. It is as if the very fabric of this place, the shadows, and the silence, have given birth to this voice. It surrounds him, brushes against him like an eerie touch, and suffocates him in its grip.

“Let me in,” the whisper surges, swelling from a caress to a command.

But now, there is a change. The voice is different. It is sweeter, more intoxicating, like the fragrance of night-blooming flowers that unfurl their petals to embrace the moon. It carries within it the allure of a siren’s song, like the stories he had been forbidden to hear, but had nonetheless soaked into the marrow of his bones.

It is tempting, a velvet plea, a beckoning hand that extends from beyond the veils of comprehension. It urges him to surrender, to let the last barriers fall, to open himself completely.

He is the Sacrifice, but in this moment, he feels a choice pulsing within him. This choice is his and his alone. The sweetness of the voice surrounds him, and in its embrace, he feels a yearning to shed the final vestiges of his mortal self. His purpose was to be open, but to what end? He is but a leaf to the wind.

Open. Open. Open.

The water around him begins to roil, and from the depths, shadows undulate and rise. He has been hesitant too long.

The darkness, a physical presence, reaches for him with tendrils woven from the abyss itself. They curl around him, soothing, yet urging, compelling him to surrender. His terror is a razor's edge, cutting through the vastness, piercing through every fragment of his splintered consciousness. He feels the relentless pull, the yearning to be enveloped by Her, to become one with the Matriarch, to be lost and found.

He hears a distant growl.

Then, fire. Blazing, incandescent flames spring forth, consuming everything.  

And then, a jolt.

He wakes.

The pallid light of the waking world washes over him with an intensity that feels almost merciless. Each flicker of the candles is a stark blade, each shadow a vivid reminder of the abyss he has just touched. He lies sprawled on the ancient stone altar, its cold surface biting into his flesh. He can feel every crevice, every rough-hewn edge as if his skin and the stone are in communion.

His senses are heightened, sharp and hungry, as if starved by the void and now gorging themselves upon the physical world. The air carries with it an array of scents that overwhelm him - the earthiness of the stone, the acrid smoke from the candles, and a distant floral fragrance that tugs at him.

The cold begins to bleed into his very bones.

He becomes aware of the eyes upon him - the Elders. Their veiled faces reveal nothing, but he feels the weight of their scrutiny. With a shudder, he attempts to rise, his limbs shaking and weak. The tattered cloth that had draped him is now strewn beside him on the altar, his exposed flesh feels as though it’s breathing in the very essence of the woods.

A shadow falls upon him; a man stands there, his features twisted in fury. There is a strange familiarity in those eyes that he cannot place. The others call this man Father, but the word tastes like ashes in his mouth. He made that mistake once, the mistake of calling him Father.

The memory, fragmented and frayed, creeps into his mind. An eruption of anger and a voice, like the rumble of thunder, declaring him void. He was to be empty, an abyss in human form, a vessel to hold the unholdable. A vessel should not claim lineage, should not dare to claim a father. He was the absence of being, the silence between breaths. Nothing.

He was nothing.

He knew nothing.

He had not been open; he had been closed. He was damaged goods. Incompetent. A mistake. Nothing.

Green eyes, cold and hard as emeralds, regard him with a depth of disappointment that sinks into him like a blade. His gaze is drawn, involuntarily, to the scar that runs down the side of Father's face – a wound that twists and contorts.

The fabric of his garments is tossed atop his form, the expectation in the motion clear. He must clothe himself. The weight of the fabric is heavy, as though it carries more than just the physical threads. He hastily drapes the garments around himself. The fabric is rough and scratches against his skin.

As soon as he is clothed, iron-like hands grip him. He does not need to see to know whose hands they are. They are the hands that have always guided him, controlled him. He looks up to find eyes that pierce through him, cold, and filled with discontent. There is no warmth, no affection. Only a cold calculation, as if measuring his worth and finding it wanting.

He is dragged away, through the depths of the forest that still hums. The trees, tall and venerable, watch in silence as he is hauled through the undergrowth. They are witnesses. His heart feels like it will burst from his chest, the rhythm erratic and wild. He recoils as he is pulled into the cavernous depths of their dwelling.

The dwelling is dark, the walls made of rough-hewn stone that has absorbed the prayers of countless generations. He had been kept here, isolated, with the cold stone as his only companion. It is a place of rituals and forgotten names.

As they enter the main chamber Father releases his iron grip. The room is silent, save for the resounding of their steps against the stone. The air seems to quiver with an intensity that was absent before. Father turns to face him, and as he does so, his voice, as deep and rumbling as ever, cuts through the quiet. “You are the Sacrifice, bound to serve.”

But what happens next is something he never expected.

The man’s hands, rough and calloused, reach out and gently take his own. There is a tenderness there, a gentleness he never knew the man possessed. Father slowly descends to his knees, his eyes, usually so cold, are now earnest as they search his own. The man’s stare is intense, like he is seeing him for the first time.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” he murmurs, his voice no longer the distant growl, but a low murmur. “You are special.”

Tears well in his eyes as the enormity of Father's words and actions envelop him. His heart, still fragile from the night’s revelations, feels like it might break. It feels like a deception, a snare waiting to be sprung. He has been taught he is nothing, that he is the emptiness to be filled by something greater. His mind spins, terror and confusion winding tighter. Should he speak? Should he remain silent? Will words protect him or summon the sting of retribution?

“I know I ask a lot of you,” the Father continues, his voice a bare whisper, “but if you knew what future you were helping to build, you would understand that your sacrifice is momentous.”

A sliver of something he can’t recognize flickers in the man’s eyes - something vulnerable.

“If there was another way, I would take it,” the man mutters, almost to himself. Suddenly, his demeanour changes as though a switch has been flipped. He tightens his grip on him, his eyes hardening again as the brief lapse is swallowed by the stern mask he usually wears.

“Understand this, child,” Father intones with a chilling firmness. “The duty bestowed upon you is an honour, a privilege granted to no-one else. The fates have chosen you. Yet you remain ungrateful, your mind tainted by the whispers and poisons of others.”

The echoes of the voices resurface, conflicting with the man’s words. Her face flashes in his mind briefly, her words again repeating despite his protests. He shoves the memory aside.

“You have proven yourself to be unworthy, but I will give you the gift of discipline, and through pain, you shall be cleansed. Through your suffering, you will be reborn to serve the purpose for which you were chosen.” Father declares. He stands up, towering over him. The dark seems to grow deeper, and he feels the weight of a thousand eyes upon him. He trembles.

“You will learn,” Father says, his voice a dagger. “You will be punished until the impurities are purged, and you finally accept your sacred role.”

Terror grips him, as he realizes what awaits. Yet, amidst the waves of fear, a flicker of defiance begins to stir within him. He swallows it.

“No, please. I’ll do better next time,” he begs, his voice cracking. Tears spill from his eyes as he looks up at the man imploringly, his frail body trembling. Father watches him, his piercing green eyes boring into his soul. The silence stretches, the air heavy and suffocating. The tension broken only when he is grabbed roughly.

“No!” he screams, his voice a ragged plea as Father forcibly drags him away. The word reverberates through the stone chamber as he drags him down a dark passage. The walls are close, and the air is thick with the scent of age-old dampness. The torchlight flickers, casting shadows that dance and writhe like spectres, mocking him.

“Please!” He yells. Then, “I’m sorry.”

His voice echoes in the cold air. He repeats it over and over as though the words could form a shield against the impending doom. His voice cracks, the sorrow pouring out of him in torrents. “I’m sorry.”

But Father moves without hesitation, unaffected by the cries. His eyes, once green, now look black as the abyss, showing no mercy, no relenting. “I’m sorry.”

Father cannot fathom the shadows that now live and breathe in his soul. They whisper to him, telling him secrets that no human ears have heard for ages. They cradle him in branches of darkness. “I’m sorry.”

The darkness is where She dwells, and She is hungry. She calls to him, the hiss becoming a cacophony within his head.

“I’m sorry.”

Father throws him into a room devoid of light.

“Enough,” the man declares with a voice that slices through the air before the door is thrust shut with a thunderous bang. The lock engages with a sound as final as the sealing of a crypt. There, embraced by the dark, it's apparent to him that this is not mere absence of light; the shadows are animate, pulsing with sentience. They coil around him like serpents, their mouths filling his ears, threatening to swallow him whole. But something is altered; he yearns to flee from them. He no longer wishes to hear their voices. He refuses to be the sacrifice, to be a void. To be nothing. The sounds grow, vibrating through the chamber. His heart drums against his chest. The floor, relentless and frigid, saps his warmth.

He feels cold. So very cold.

In an instant, Jon is thrust into wakefulness in an unfamiliar space, his breaths torn from him as he lurches over himself. His heart rages within his ribcage as if vying for freedom. He realises he is standing. His eyes dart around wildly, shadows clinging to the edges of his vision. He senses someone in front of him and hears the soft rustle of movement. A voice reaches out to him. His breath catches in his throat, sharp and desperate. Hands grab him, shaking him. An icy terror seizes him anew; the thought of contact is unbearable. He can’t stand it, can’t stand to be touched.

With a surge of adrenaline, his fist connects with the stranger. A muffled thud reverberates through the space. Almost immediately, a fist crashes into his face and he tumbles to the ground. Disoriented, he curls into himself, trying to regain control of his breathing. He inhales deeply. He exhales.

“I’m sorry,” he hears a voice say as the figure crouches down beside him. They attempt to steady him by placing hands on his shoulders.

But as the hands draw near, whispers claw at the back of his mind. His soul feels as if it teeters on the edge of an abyss.

“Easy,” a gentle voice suddenly breathes through the dimness. “You’re safe now.”

Is he safe? What is safety?

Everything has a price.

The hands withdraw. He faintly hears reassurances – “it’s okay, you’re okay, no one will harm you here.”

Jon, however, continues to recoil into himself, his arms shielding his face and his fingers entangled in his hair in a vice-like grip. The world beyond his immediate fears seems irrelevant. He has no concept of where he is or how much time has passed. Phantom hands seem to crawl over his skin. Hours or even days could pass before his fingers release their hold and his breath steadies.

The person remains seated patiently by his side and greets him with a small, reassuring smile when he finally looks up. Her demeanour is calm, her posture non-threatening, which provides him the space he so desperately needs. His mind struggles to recognize her in the dim light.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice fragile. He despises how weak he sounds.

“There’s no need for apologies,” she replies with a soothing softness. “Take all the time you need. But just so you know, we are in the woods.”

Suddenly, recognition flickers in his mind. “Ygritte.”

“Yes, it’s me. Your saviour,” she teases. A sense of relief washes over him, making his shoulders feel lighter, but it takes him a beat longer than it should to fully comprehend her words. The throbbing ache on his cheek begs to differ with her self-proclaimed title.

“Savior?” He echoes, his eyebrows knitted in confusion. His mind is still foggy, trying to piece everything together.

“For not letting you wander into a ditch and break your neck, or worse, become a shadow cat’s midnight snack,” she retorts with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

A chuckle escapes him, despite his disorientation. This elicits a playful punch on the shoulder from Ygritte. “Really?”

She waves her hand encompassing the forest around them. “And how do you repay me? You hit me, Jon. And here I thought you couldn’t throw a punch to save your life.”

A fragile smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Memories are beginning to weave themselves together in his mind, though a pang of guilt accompanies them.

“Maybe I just needed the right motivation. And hey, you hit me back,” he says, his voice imbued with sheepishness. He rubs the sore spot on his cheek, his grin widening just a smidgen.

Ygritte rolls her eyes, but a hint of amusement dances across her face as a smirk tugs at the corners of her lips. "Well, consider us even," she retorts with a playful wink.

“What were you doing out here alone?” he asks, his voice tinged with concern.

“I didn’t wander out here on my own, I was following you,” she replies briskly.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Stop that. I would have woken you up sooner, but Ryk always says you should never wake a sleepwalker abruptly, or their soul might not find its way back,” she responds, a lilt of jest in her voice. Yet, underneath the humour, there's a hint of genuine belief in her tone, as if, for just a fleeting moment, she had taken the old saying to heart.

“It’s colder than usual,” she murmurs, glancing around and wrapping her arms around herself for warmth.

As she speaks, something stirs within him. Instinctively, his eyes are drawn into the shadowy depths of the forest. His breath catches as he spots two piercing blue eyes staring back at him from the distance, haunting and enigmatic. He blinks, and they’re gone, swallowed by the darkness.

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down his spine. He looks back at Ygritte, who seems oblivious to what he saw.

“We should head back,” Jon finally says, his voice slightly edged.

Ygritte nods in agreement. “But let's keep this between us. No need for the others to worry.”

He understands the wisdom in her words and nods as well. The last thing he wants is to cause any undue concern, especially to Kieran, who already has enough on his plate.

They resume walking through the woods, the soft crunch of leaves under their boots breaking the silence. Suddenly, Ygritte halts and turns to face him. She reaches up with a hint of grace and plucks a leaf entangled in his hair. “Not that they would believe us anyway. We walk out of the woods together, and they’re only going to make one assumption,” she says, her lips curling into a wry smile.

Jon's cheeks redden as he grasps the implication of her words. They exchange a knowing glance, and a bubble of laughter escapes them. It’s warm and genuine, a brief respite from the night's oddities.

“I, uh… Thanks, Ygritte,” he finally manages to say, still a little flushed. “For not taking it too seriously,” he adds, his voice tinged with gratitude.

She shrugs, but her eyes are kind. “Just don’t make a habit out of it.”

Chapter Text

This was her defining moment, the very instance in which she would validate her right as a spearwife and demonstrate her capability to lead.

Memories cascaded through her mind, carrying her back to her tender years as a little girl when her world was abruptly uprooted. The day they discovered their new refuge was etched vividly in her recollection.

The Wildwood Clan, also known as the Woodland Tribe or the Clan of the Antler River, was an interconnected community of Free Folk, dwelling in the lands that caressed the serpentine path of the Antler River. Under the leadership of their Chieftess, Thistle, the clan cultivated an intimate and profound spiritual affinity with the nature that embraced them. Notably, the clansfolk were lauded for their resourcefulness, particularly in the realms of information gathering and dissemination - domains that intrigued her immensely.

Yet, the Wildwood Clan's way of life was marked by a tranquillity that starkly contrasted with the martial and combative customs of Dar Soarn*, Munda's maternal lineage. This peacefulness also distinguished the Wildwood Clan from the aggressive disposition of other Free Folk settlements she had come across.

The Dar Soarn’s traditions were deeply woven into the fabric of her early years, spent within the welcoming walls of Ruddy Hall, a place she cherished as home. The transition to the Wildwood’s harmonious way of life initially proved to be a bewildering and formidable challenge for her. In time, however, she found comfort in the common ground shared by both cultures - a veneration for the natural world.

In recent times, the gentle breath of change had once again nudged their destinies, morphing them into a nomadic tribe a little over four years ago. Their ranks swelled and their boundaries expanded as they absorbed remnants of other communities, while also fracturing at times. A significant number of their tribe scattered when Kieran, their peacemaker, vanished shortly after they began their journey, only to reappear about a year later with a young boy. Despite his subsequent damage control efforts, the tribe's numbers barely rebounded. Those who remained were largely outcasts from devastated homes, the survivors among survivors. This mingling ultimately forged a united identity and, armed with a revitalized sense of purpose, they embraced their new moniker, Eitt Gran*. Although the transition was not without its struggles. Those who valued their freedom were rarely fond of imposed authority or guidance.

Nevertheless, Thistle and Kieran wielded words with a mastery that Munda had yet to fully grasp. She had never witnessed language used as such a powerful tool, and it was a skill she observed with keen interest as she was invited to more and more gatherings.

She took in the scene around her, the laughter and camaraderie of her people filling the air. These were her people. The atmosphere pulsed with the energy of celebration, a rare indulgence as winter further tightened its icy grip and food grew scarce. Usually, when approaching a tribe for trade, they'd be so consumed by work that they hardly had time for such pleasures. But today was a day of spirituality, and the Eitt Gran, in all their diverse faiths, were nothing if not spiritual.

Remarkably, the majority of the woodlanders had adapted to a more martial bearing, a change necessitated by the need to protect their kin as they journeyed across varied territories.

As Munda ruminated on their way of life, she was once again swamped with questions. This constant migration made her wonder why they chose such a lifestyle. Why did they continue to travel instead of settling in one place? They had made considerable progress in rebuilding their villages along the Antler River. She couldn't shake the sensation of fleeing once again, relinquishing their lands. They could stay and guard them; it wasn't as though the northern, although southern to them, armies would patiently wait for them to rebuild before attempting to destroy them again. The Night's Watch posed little threat these days, especially if you steered clear of their wall. Their tribe had raided, but their routes were well-hidden and hence, quite secure. She had posed this query to her father, and his response still reverberated through her mind with a resonance that felt almost tangible.

He had leaned in close, a mischievous glint in his eye, and whispered with a voice as gentle as the rustling of leaves, “Ah, my little sparrow, roots may dig deep, but wings are destined to touch the stars.” In that moment, she felt an unwavering conviction that there was a purpose behind their nomadic life, even if her father hid it.

However, it wasn't a complete lack of faith in him that troubled her; she had trusted him with her safety ever since she was a young, impressionable girl and he promised to shield them from the world's cruelties. But he hadn't managed to fulfill that vow. She wasn't that naive girl any longer; time had moulded her into a tough woman, with her own vulnerability - her son, Cohan. The child was a product of a brief love affair. The father was inconsequential to her. Her heart was firmly anchored in the resolve to protect her child, to become the guardian she had once sought in her father.

And so, the moment she had been anticipating finally arrived. Each year, the formidable spear-wielding matriarchs who governed the Sina Dalars* allotted a specific timeframe for challenges to their leadership. These women led an assembly of spearwives whose vigilance sustained the balance within the Eitt Gran. They also bore a connection to the nascent faith established within the tribe, and thus this day coincided with the venerated day of the Eye of Vysyndra.

Vysyndra was a priestess who aspired to godhood, reaching out to the stars. Legend has it that she conceals her spiritual form within a raven's body. She is renowned for her ability to perceive the unseen, unearth truths buried deep beneath the surface, and ascend high above the world to attain a broader perspective. It is generally accepted that there are three manifestations of Vysyndra: the Seer, the Sovereign, and the Sentinel. During the Day of Vysyndra's Eye, each of these incarnations is invoked, with their blessings desired and their guidance sought. Many followers believe that she will transport their messages to the ancient, nameless gods.

Munda observed as the sun bowed out beyond the horizon, its incandescent tendrils leaving a tender kiss on the land before disappearing. She gripped the talisman that Frenya had given her when they first became part of the Woodland Tribe; they were mere children then. The tiny relic warmed her hand, and as she clutched it, the determination within her heart solidified.

As she took her place beside the other spearwives, the heaviness of tradition and expectation bore down on her. The ancient circle, where the priestess stood, symbolized the cycle of life and the spirits who protected their tribe. Outlined by crushed white powder, the circle was believed to encapsulate the very essence of their ancestral spirits, forever vigilant and guiding. Emeline, the priestess, had invoked spirits that served Vysyndra for this event, beseeching them to bless the ground to ensure fair matches. She still had no idea how they made the powder.

Her heart skipped a beat when her eyes locked with her father's. The man, who once seemed as unshakeable as the mountains surrounding them, had a rare tenderness in his eyes now. He graced her with a small, reassuring smile.

When Emeline moved to the centre of the circle, she raised her arms high. A deep, sonorous chant filled the air, words in the old tongue. Munda's mind was too preoccupied to fully absorb them, but she didn't need to - she already knew them by heart. Alda krenna sìrada, varra valen shàdara. Bevna ashenda, alda harvàn thundara.* These were ancient words, a legacy passed down through generations. The way the priestess recited them made the air heavy, and her skin prickled, as if unseen hands were reaching out to touch her.

Abruptly, Emeline’s speech ended, and a hush descended upon the assembled crowd. She surveyed the congregation of spearwives, her voice echoing out, clear and authoritative, “are there any who would challenge and prove themselves in the sacred duel?”

Munda's breath caught in her throat, feeling as though an unseen force was driving her forward. Her legs moved of their own volition, her heart thundering like a war drum in her chest. She stepped into the circle. As leaders of the Sina Dalars, it was a requirement for all, including their chief, to answer any challenges – a testament to their position. It was anticipated that each would fight today. Yet, there was no need to voice aloud whom she was challenging.

Frenya was already there, her spear poised for combat. Words were unnecessary between them; their destinies had been intertwined since childhood when they trained with simple wooden sticks. This moment had been predestined.

Frenya was a formidable and statuesque woman with a sturdy build, exuded by a presence as nurturing as it was authoritative. She had held a steadfast leadership position for several years now. Her mammoth personality reflected her physical attributes; she often jested that she had the strength to nurse a giant's child. She certainly had the tits for it.

Munda risked a glance at her father, noticing the shock registering on his face. She licked her lips nervously, her grip tightening on her spear.

As they drew near, they lifted their spears vertically, allowing the tips to lightly touch - a familiar ritual. With grace, they lowered their spears, resting the butt ends on the ground and leaning into them ever so subtly, assuming a pose of near reverence. Following this, they both retreated a step, the air dense with impending conflict. The spectators around them fell silent, even the forest seeming to hold its breath.

An almost imperceptible nod passed between them, a silent agreement. Like a storm suddenly unleashed, their duel commenced.

Their spears intertwined and clashed, each strike and parry ringing in Munda’s ears. Her focus narrowed, the world shrinking to the confines of the circle, her spear, and her opponent’s unwavering gaze. They moved like silhouettes flickering in the firelight.

Dust billowed around their feet. A crowd had assembled to witness their contest, but neither woman gave it heed.

Frenya's eyes, as sharp as the edge of her spear, never deviated from her own. Their eyes locked, and with every stride and every sweep of her spear, She could sense her will pushing against her own. It didn’t take long for beads of perspiration to dot her forehead. Frenya’s strikes were swift, fierce, and exact. The spearwife unleashed a barrage of attacks. Her weapon was a blur, and Munda found herself wholly absorbed in fending off the onslaught.

But she hadn't trained under the old masters and senior spearwives for nothing. She had learned to become like water - flowing, adapting. Amidst the pandemonium, she found her rhythm, her movements shifting from defence to offense. She allowed her adversary's force to guide her, turning it to her benefit.

Time seemed to stretch as she spotted a brief gap in Frenya’s unremitting assault. She sidestepped a lunge and succeeded in landing a strike on her shoulder. The spearwife attempted to dodge the attack but received a minor cut. Frenya slipped slightly but remained on her feet. Her eyes widened, not with fear, but with respect. For the first time, she broke their shared gaze to examine the cut dealt by Munda’s spear, then redirected her eyes back to her, acknowledging her with an appreciative nod.

As they began to circle each other again, Frenya seemed invigorated, as though spurred on by the spirits they had invoked. Her movements became even more relentless, more ruthless. Munda could feel the shift, the winds changing and the ground seemingly moving beneath her. In a swift manoeuvre, her foe feigned an attack on her left side, then quickly changed direction. Munda managed to block the charge but was pushed back, causing her to lose her footing. As her opponent’s spear swept back towards her head, she managed to duck but lost her balance entirely.

As she hit the ground, time seemed to warp, dragging out each moment. She saw the play of shadows and light around Frenya, who now loomed over her, her eyes ablaze with ferocity. The spearwife’s spear tip shimmered ominously as she raised it, ready to strike downward.

In that moment, something primal within Munda awakened. The will to survive, to fight, flared within her, coursing through every fibre of her being. As Frenya’s spear started its downward arc, Munda’s leg shot out, her foot striking Frenya's knee.

Frenya lost her own footing, her spear missing its intended target and plunging into the ground next to Munda's head, grazing her jaw in its descent. She deflected the spear, rolled away, and reclaimed her own weapon.

She sprang to her feet.

Frenya lunged with a battle cry. She deflected the assault, their weapons clashing with the resonant crash of thunder. And then, amidst the fury and chaos, she saw an opening. It was a brief moment, an instant where Frenya overextended, leaving her flank vulnerable. She didn’t hesitate. She took her opportunity, spinning her own spear in a swift and precise motion. Her spearhead found its mark, slashing across her side.

Her rival grunted, reeling backward. She quickly stood upright, clenching her teeth. They began to circle each other again, their breaths coming out in harsh pants. Munda knew she had gained the upper hand and had to maintain it.

Deciding to press her advantage, she took the offensive this time. Her attack was powerful but ill-aimed, her spear slicing the air where Frenya had been a moment before. Seizing the presented opportunity, the spearwife counterattacked. The force behind her retaliation was sharp but Munda was able to sidestep most of the impact, her spear leaving a superficial wound across her arm. She winced at the sting but did not falter.

Didn’t have time to falter.

Frenya lunged again, but her spear failed to reach its intended target. Munda countered with a swift thrust of her own, the tip of her spear grazing Frenya’s leg, leaving a bright streak of red. She staggered, barely managing to regain her balance, and lunged once more. However, the injury on her leg and the significant loss of blood were evidently slowing her down. Munda, despite her fatigue, evaded the assault.

Her spear whirled in her grasp. Before Frenya could regain her stance from her failed attack, Munda's spear found its target, burying deep into her rival’s side.

She observed the scene unfolding before her with a sense of detached reality. The fight seemed to pause as Frenya emitted a piercing gasp that sliced through the air like the sharpest blade. Her face, usually so flush with vitality, rapidly paled, draining of colour as she glanced down at the spear shaft protruding from her side.

It was an image that would likely be ingrained in her memory forever, the sight of her formidable adversary succumbing to her lethal strike.

Her friend.

The word hung heavy in the air. The image of Frenya's stricken face twisted something deep inside her. This was not a faceless enemy but a friend she had sparred with, had meals with, and confided in. This was Frenya, who had a boisterous laugh that could brighten the gloomiest days, and now, she was dying, by Munda's own hands.

In the stunned aftermath of the successful attack, she watched as the warrior’s firm grip on her weapon faltered. There was a moment of silent suspense before the weapon slipped from her grasp.

And then, the spear plummeted. It carved its path through the air, colliding with the ground and sending a hollow, echoing sound rebounding off the ground. It was a morbid toll, a foreboding reverberation that underscored the shift in power between the two combatants.

Munda stood tall amidst the terrible silence that followed, her spear still lodged within her adversary. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, a thunderous rhythm.

Stepping forward from the crowd of onlookers, Emeline raised her arm, her voice strikingly gentle. “The spirits have chosen. Honor the fallen, and welcome the victor.”

She slowly sank to her knees beside Frenya. Her sight was blurry as she gingerly withdrew her spear from her friend's side, the weapon slick. She turned her eyes to her face. Those hazel eyes, usually so full of life and fire, were now vacant, the light within them dimmed. Reaching out with a trembling hand, she gently cradled Frenya's head, pressing her forehead against hers in an intimate final gesture. The raw emotion of the moment threatened to spill over, yet she held her tears at bay, her vision swimming but never breaking.

With one last lingering touch, Munda finally forced herself to stand. Her body cried out in protest, muscles screaming with exhaustion and wounds stinging sharply. The cut on her jaw and arm were slowly leaking blood, but they were minor. She held her head high, her face an impassive mask as she stepped out of the sacred circle, leaving behind the body of her fallen friend.

Her father was waiting at the edge of the crowd, his face lined with a seriousness he wasn’t well known for. She was pulled away from his direction as her sisters approached. They each offered their congratulations in their own way - a firm pat on the back, a nod of approval, a soft smile.

As Munda stepped inside Torwynd's tent a sudden rush of warmth enveloped her - an enthusiastic, tight hug from her young son, Cohan. His small arms struggled to circle her waist, but the pure love radiating from him more than made up for the lack of strength in his embrace.

Torwynd, her elder brother, sat nearby on a ragged fur rug, propped against a wooden support pole. His eyes held a weary but welcoming smile, his complexion pale beneath the flickering lamplight. It was evident he was making an effort to sit upright and mask the faint tremors shaking his worn hands.

“Well, it seems you didn't burden me with the task of raising a boy,” he jested in his typically dry manner, managing a slight, rueful grin.

“Thank you for watching over him, Tor,” she responded, her voice softer, more intimate. Her eyes flickered over Torwynd's form, concern etched onto her face.

“Did you win?” Cohan piped up, his innocent eyes wide and expectant. Munda disentangled herself from his embrace and crouched down, looking him straight in the eyes. She brushed a gentle hand through his tousled hair.

“Aye, I did, little one,” she affirmed, her voice a purr of comfort.

Just then, the tent flaps were pushed aside, and a large figure emerged. Their father, a man of towering stature and commanding presence, swept into the tent. The air seemed to shift with his entrance, becoming dense with anticipation.

“Well, if it isn't the fierce sparrow of the North,” he roared, his deep, resonant voice filling the tent, a clear note of pride underpinning his words. “Bested a woman twice her size in the field today, did she?”

He strode over to her, his footsteps heavy yet certain. His arms, toughened by years of battle, enveloped her in a hug, as bone-crushing as she was accustomed to. She returned it with equal fervour.

“It's in our blood, it is. There's no man or woman who can stand against the strength of a Tormund,” he declared, pulling back to look at her. “You've done your old father proud,” he bellowed, and then slapped her on the back, nearly toppling her over.

She returned a subtle smile, and that was the only communication he required.

“Now, lass,” he said, turning from her to Cohan, his voice a notch softer than his usual bellow, “How about I relieve you of this young one for a few hours? It’s high time for Cohan to hear some tales of his mother’s victory and the legendary strength of the Tormunds!”

With a gentle, but firm, tug, he pulled him from her side and hoisted him onto his massive shoulders. Cohan, perched high above everyone else, let out a delighted squeal, his small hands gripping Tormund’s fiery mane.

“I promise, I’ll only tell him the ones that are mostly true,” he added with a wink, his grin stretching across his bearded face. Munda chuckled, shaking her head as she watched her father retreat with Cohan, the two of them already lost in a world of giants, monsters, and the mighty deeds of their ancestors.

“Do you regret it?” Torwynd asked. His voice was low, hesitant, and yet, there was an undertone of understanding. “She was your friend.”

The question, though not unexpected, hung heavily. She turned towards her brother, locking her eyes with his probing ones. She maintained her silence for a heartbeat.

Then, a determined nod signalled her reply, “She was, above all else, my rival.” Her voice was steadfast, unyielding. To an uninvolved observer, her remark could have been perceived as cold. Yet, Tor grasped the hidden meaning. He always did.

“It's hard to explain. We were always aware our paths would cross like this, it was a form of mutual respect, but that doesn't prevent it from…”

“Hurting,” Torwynd supplied, his voice soft. His gaze deepened, bracing for the question that had been obviously gnawing at him. “Is it the place?”

 His words were barely more than a whisper, as if uttering them inflicted pain.

“That makes you want to prove yourself?” he elaborated.

An uncomfortable lump materialized in her throat. She lowered herself to sit beside him. He was alluding to the place of their mother's tragic end, the same place where Toregg, their eldest sibling, had met a similar fate. The insinuated query was clear: was she bracing herself for an act of retaliation?

She opened her mouth to respond, but Torwynd continued before she could find her voice. “He worries, you know,” he said, shifting his eyes in the direction their father and Cohan had disappeared.

She cast her eyes downward, her fingers absent-mindedly tracing a pattern on the well-worn rug beneath her feet, as if the fibres could give her the words she sought. When she had gathered her thoughts, she raised her eyes to meet Torwynd's.

“Tor, I understand his worries,” she conceded.

“And I wish I could offer him guarantees, but...” Her voice drifted away, the end of her sentence left unspoken. But their world was such – a ruthless expanse marked by age-old rivalries and ceaseless battles, where safety was a fleeting dream, often too extravagant to afford.

“We can't outrun our history, nor can we turn a blind eye to the reality that surrounds us,” she resumed her point. “I don't fight to settle scores but to safeguard what is ours, the legacy our mother and Toregg left us.”

“I need to prove myself, to myself.”

“Your strength, Munda, has never been under scrutiny,” Torwynd replied. His voice resonated with sincerity. “Not by me, not by our father, not by Cohan, Dryn, or Dormund.”

“Cohan, Dryn, and Dormund are but children, too green for combat, and father can't bear this burden alone,” Munda voiced out.

Torwynd offered a wry smile, a fleeting spark of jest dancing across his features, “And I... I'm not the shield I once was,” he confessed, his words punctuated by a slight cough that seemed to have been patiently awaiting its turn.

“That’s not what I was implying,” she returned, but knew better to dwell on it. Her brother had been reduced to a shell of his former self through no fault of his own but simply because the fates preordained it.

“But it is, and it’s alright. They call me Torwynd the Tame, after all,” he added, his words laced with a touch of self-mockery yet also acceptance.

“Only those who fail to truly see you,” she rebutted, “You know that if I craved any form of vengeance, I would seek your counsel first. But it infuriates me to have us retreat, our heads bowed low, when we ought to be battling for what was unjustly wrested from us.”

“Ah, now you're echoing her words,” Torwynd observed, a nostalgic glint in his eyes as he referred to a familiar, presumably shared memory.

Munda's brow furrowed in contemplation. “I am aware of the risks, Torwynd. The Lord of Bones isn't a fool, but he's proud. If he perceives our dealings with Harma as a slight, he won't hesitate to act. We need to be ready for that.”

Tor shrugged, his eyes distant. “Yes, he's proud, but he's also a pragmatist. He knows the losses he would take in a direct conflict with Harma, especially if he were to initiate it while a truce is in place.”

“And he has never dishonoured a truce before?” she retorted.

“The circumstances now are different,” Torwynd simply stated.

She signed and gave a slight nod, yielding. “You're right, as you always seem to be,” she said, her voice touched with a reluctant admiration. “He can't afford to bleed his tribe dry in petty skirmishes while occupying our lands as well as his own.”

His expression hardened slightly at the mention of their territory, “Our lands? No, Munda, they are his lands now.”

“But remember, Torwynd,” she countered, her tone carrying a steely edge. “The skinchangers, the ones who fled when our father slaughtered mother’s bonded bear, they still linger around here somewhere. The ones of the old blood. I wager they'd dispute his claim to our lands.”

Torwynd's expression turned graver at her words. “And do you truly believe he would hesitate to hang them from the nearest tree like he did her? To put them on grotesque display as if they were mere game, waiting to be dressed? No, Munda, we don't need to invite any more conflict to our doorstep.” He declared. “Trading with Harma will be arduous enough even with our own skinchangers in the mix.”

“Orell is bonded to a bird, a creature hardly seen as menacing. And Kieran's boy is still without a companion creature; they pose no significant threat,” she said, a note of sarcasm biting at her words.

Torwynd nodded in agreement. “And we should strive to keep it that way. The less we draw attention to ourselves, the safer we are.”

But her curiosity was piqued. She tilted her head, studying him. “You speak with such certainty, Tor. What more do you know that you aren't sharing?” Her voice held a demanding edge.

His lips thinned in thought. He dragged a rough hand through his weathered hair, taking a moment before eventually answering. “It's not so much about what I know, as what I suspect,” he stated, his tone solemn. “And I prefer not to share uncertainties. You'll have plenty of issues to be concerned about and to sort out as you assume your new role, far too much to fret over potential assumptions your frail brother may hold.”

“Do you have to speak like that?” Munda retorted.

“Like what?” he asked, slightly puzzled.

“You know,” she retorted nonchalantly, flicking her wrist dismissively, “like a forest enchantress forever shrouded in mystery.”

He chuckled, a raspy, yet mirthful sound. “Well, sometimes the leaves don't always fall as they should,” he replied, choosing to indulge her analogy.

This time, she laughed. It was a heartfelt, genuine sound that seemed foreign, even to her own ears. It had been such a long time since she had truly laughed. “I wish she were still here,” she confessed, her laughter subsiding into a wistful sigh. “She always knew what to do. She had this... this unerring sense of right and wrong, you know? She would've just declared, ‘This is what's right, and that's what we're going to do.’”

“She wouldn't be hiding,” she added, a sombre undertone creeping into her voice.

“No, she wouldn't,” he agreed quietly, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips as he thought of the formidable woman they both missed. “She was brave... a lot braver than most.”

She turned back to him. “Maybe,” she acknowledged, “But sometimes I wonder if bravery is just stubbornness in disguise.”

“Well you would be the one to know,” he replied, a gentle tease in his tone.

She shot him a mock-glare, though the corners of her mouth twitched upwards, threatening to break into a smile. “Is that so?” she retorted.

“Yes, it is,” he affirmed, not unkindly. But then his voice turned a bit more serious. “But remember, Munda,” he cautioned, “she wasn't perfect either. None of us are. And one can be brave without being rash.”

“I know,” she said. “I know she wasn't perfect. And I know bravery isn't about charging headfirst into danger without thinking.”

She paused, her eyes still downcast. “It's just... hard,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “Especially when every instinct screams to act.”

“I know,” he agreed, his voice laced with empathy. “And it's okay. Remember, you're not alone in this. We're all trying to find that balance, and we're here to support each other.”

She nodded slowly.

Night was approaching, and there was one last thing she wanted to do before the nighttime festivities began. Stepping out of the tent, she spotted her young pupil, Vgritte, engaged in playful banter with a friend from her village, Ryk. Killi, the chief of the Sina Dalars, had recommended she take on a warrior's second, suggesting it would foster respect among the spearwives.

Vgritte was a petite, red-haired fifteen-year-old girl who had not been particularly remarkable when what was left of her tribe had merged with theirs. A ravaging disease had swept through her community, decimating their numbers, and leaving the survivors with no option but to seek shelter elsewhere. She herself was marked for death. Among the bodies left behind to perish, she somehow survived and managed to reunite with the remnants of her tribe. It was only Donnal, the leader of their survivors, who felt indebted to Vgritte's late mother, that saved the girl from being put to death or at least that was one of the stories told.

The exact details are uncertain, with several rumours floating about—some say it was a long-standing blood debt, others whisper about an unrequited love. She was kept isolated until deemed safe, just when her group had integrated.

Arriving at the initiation caked in blood and dirt, Vgritte, despite her weary appearance, was allowed to undergo the test. However, she was promptly knocked to the ground. Unyielding, she picked herself up time and again, her attempts marked by dogged persistence despite relentless failure. In the end, she was turned away. Yet, it was this tireless spirit that kindled something within Munda. She decided then and there that Vgritte would become her second.

Catching snippets of the conversation, she turned her attention to the pair. Vgritte, with her vivid green eyes, looking casually at the boy. “Aye,” she had replied, her expression thoughtful. “The chance to invite Vysyndra herself to grace us with her presence. Quite an honour, ain't it?”

Ryk, a short man with a narrow face, humorously nicknamed 'Longspear Ryk' by the others due to a rather personal attribute, snorted playfully. “As if our loud squawking could actually summon a goddess,” he retorted. Munda had often heard whispers of his nickname among the women, though she didn't think his relationship with Vgritte extended beyond friendship. Their topic of conversation, she surmised, was the upcoming Raven's Call tonight.

Catching Ryk's attention, she saw his eyes shift and meet hers. Vgritte let out a chuckle in response to his comment, then traced his eyes back to Munda, realizing she had been listening in. She quickly straightened, her tone shifting abruptly as she addressed Pyk. “It's not about the squawking,” she rebuked him. “It's about the spirit behind it, the shared energy of our tribe reaching out to the divine.”

The way the words were so rigidly forced out almost provoked a laugh from Munda. Smiling, she chimed in. “True, and they say the louder and more chaotic the calls, the stronger the blessings we receive. Sounds like an excuse for us to be as loud and unruly as we want, doesn't it?” she added, her voice teasing.

Vgritte's cheeks flushed a delicate shade of rose as she addressed her. “Congratulations on your victory,” she said, her smile shy and proud at the same time. It was peculiar how her outgoing demeanour receded around Munda, transforming her into a bashful maiden.

The banter took a shift as Ryk interjected. “If you keep winning battles like this, I might be forced to challenge you next.”

“Knowing you, you'd trip on the mud and faceplant before you even reached her,” Vgritte replied.

“I’m not such a terrible fighter,” Ryk retorted defensively.

“Huh,” came the sceptical reply, “perhaps your manhood would cushion your fall. Just in time for you to look up and witness a spear sailing towards your eye,” the young red head shot back, a hint of amusement in her tone.

“Even so, it'd be worth it,” he declared with an air of confidence.

“Then by all means, do give it a try,” Munda responded, shaking her head slightly at his audacity. Turning her attention to Vgritte, she reached out, her fingers lightly closing around the younger woman's arm.

“Walk with me,” she invited, her voice imbued with the allure of a shared secret.

“Where are we headed?” her second queried, her brows arching in curiosity. Munda merely gifted her with a knowing smile in response.

Pulling away from the noise of the camp, she led Vgritte into the quiet respite offered by the surrounding woods. Their destination was a covert shrine, nestled amidst the towering trees of the forest, its discreet existence only revealed by the soft, ethereal glow of candlelight. The shrine was adorned with an array of delicate trinkets, each one a tribute to a departed soul. The centrepiece of the shrine was a basket, brimming with unlit candles. Overarching the scene was a tree, painted white to emulate a weirwood. At the tree's base, a slaughtered goat lay in solemn sacrifice, and a face was rendered onto the tree's surface using the creature's blood. Around this, on deliberately arranged stones and rocks, lit candles cast a warm, quivering luminescence.

Emeline was present there, amidst the gentle glow. Adorned in white robes embroidered with intricate patterns, a vessel of the old gods. A small, congenial smile adorned her lips. she acknowledged their arrival with a nod, silently inviting them into the hallowed space. There were others in their midst. Munda recognized some as spearwives and pondered if one of their candles might represent Frenya. Yet she didn't dwell on the thought. Gradually, she advanced, her fingers delicately grasping the wick of an unlit candle.

“This is a tribute to Vysyndra,” she explained, holding the unlit candle aloft for Vgritte to see. “Today, when her eye sees clearest, we are able to convey our messages to those who have departed. Vysyndra carries our words across the thin veil that separates our worlds.”

Vgritte's focus remained intently on the unlit candle nestled in her hand, uncertainty flickering in her young eyes.

“Back in Ruddy Hall, we had a dedicated shrine for this,” Munda recounted, her voice laced with a touch of nostalgia. “Vysyndra was a priestess from the Dar Soarn, a lineage from my mother's side.”

Suddenly, a word slipped from the girl's lips, like a fleeting thought inadvertently spoken aloud. “A skinchanger.”

Vgritte's face bore an expression as if she had been caught muttering a taboo term.

Munda simply nodded. “Indeed, she was. And there has been some debate about whether to honour her legacy leading up to this day.”

Vgritte hurriedly clarified, “I didn’t mean... I don't bear any ill-will towards skinchangers.”

“Then you are amongst a select few,” she stated. The only reason they had managed to establish this tradition was because the remnants of her village held a majority within the tribe, aside from the woodlanders. However, after the brutal attacks by those on the other side of the wall, their numbers had dwindled significantly.

The woodlanders however were adaptable folk, welcoming of nature's call and open to the diverse cultures their tribe members brought with them. It certainly helped that Emeline herself hailed from their tribe. Munda contemplated the oddity of following traditions established by skinchangers when they only had two amongst them, both brought in by Kieran. She surmised that part of the reasoning for accepting these traditions lay with Kieran's persuasive words. “Dar Soarn means—”

“Those of the old blood,” Vgritte interrupted, a contemplative smile curling at the corners of her mouth.

Munda returned her smile, “Indeed, they never referred to themselves as skinchangers. Instead, they spoke of their roots as if it were the most natural thing in the world.”

Vgritte looked at her dubiously.

“You're right to question it,” Munda said in response. “It can be hard to understand, especially when you're from the outside looking in. Yet for them, it was simply who they were, as much as their hair colour or the sound of their voice. Just as we are all children of the same land, they were children of the old blood.”

“Sometimes it feels like there is an evil lurking behind it,” admitted Vgritte, though she was quick to steer clear of further elaborating on the thought. “Are any of them still around?” the girl inquired.

“I'm not sure,” she admitted, her voice carrying a hint of vagueness as she recalled the conversation with her brother. They were a tenacious lot, long accustomed to being hunted and disliked by surrounding clans. They had been the first to extend a hand of welcome and their alliance had been solidified through her parents' marriage. However, Munda recognized a deeper question in Vgritte's inquiry, and she had a fair idea who the young woman was hinting at. She knew better than to set the boy on a wild goose chase.

Her eyes returned to the candle cradled in her hand. She extended it towards Vgritte, her eyes meeting the young woman's. “Would you like to send a message?” she offered, guiding the conversation back to the reason she had brought the girl here.

“And what if there's nothing I wish to say?” Vgritte countered, catching her off guard.

“There’s no one you would like to speak to?”

“I would rather keep the dead buried,” the girl responded tersely, a clear edge in her voice.

Munda paused momentarily, considering the words left unsaid. “Well, I won't force you to stay while I light mine,” she eventually assured Vgritte. With that, she stepped towards the shrine, preparing to light her candle from an already burning one.

Vgritte however stepped closer to her. “Can I watch?” she asked, her tone softer than before. Munda turned back to her, studying her face.

“Of course,” she answered.

Having successfully lit two candles, she reached out for the third one. Yet, just as she held it aloft, preparing to ignite its wick, the first few droplets of rain started to fall. Before she could react, a sudden, intense downpour began, descending upon them like a curtain of liquid night. The flames of the lit candles sputtered and choked, a futile struggle against the insistent rain. One by one, they succumbed to the torrent, their flickering dances extinguished in an instant.

Still clutching the third candle in her hand, Munda stood, stunned. Her mind raced, trying to process the abrupt shift. The soft glow of the candlelight was now replaced by the cold, hard gloom of the rainy night. An unsettling feeling stirred within her. Could this be an omen?

She instinctively sought out Emeline. The priestess stood in the sudden downpour, her lips pressed into a firm line, her expression inscrutable. The white robe she wore was quickly being soaked, clinging to her form. She seemed almost like a statue. The others who had been present were now either huddled down or retreating back to the camp to seek refuge from the rain. Next to her, Vgritte was regarding her with a curious look, her fiery hair darkened by the rain. The girl's question didn’t have to be asked, no one had answers.

Munda sighed and placed the candle down. “Seems like Vysyndra has a sense of humour today,” she commented with a smile that failed to mask her disquiet.

“In my tribe, it was considered a blessing if it rained on a day of grief,” Vgritte remarked.

As night deepened, they made their way back to the camp, the rain having ceased its incessant patter. Vgritte quickly melded into the crowd, gravitating towards a group of children her own age. Munda watched her go with a faint smile before turning her attention to finding her son and Tormund. Before long, she spotted them near what looked like the recently rekindled bonfire. The flames danced high, casting flickering shadows around the encampment. Despite the earlier downpour, the spirits of the camp seemed undampened. The soft murmur of conversations filled the air, punctuated by the occasional laughter.

As Munda made her way to the bonfire, Tormund looked up and caught her eye. A broad grin split his face, weathered lines softening as his eyes twinkled in the firelight. His deep voice rumbled across the space between them. “Ah, Munda, there you are! Come, join us.”

Beside him, Cohan was seated, his face lit up by the crackling flames. The fire's warmth was a welcome contrast against her soaked clothes. It teased away the coldness that had seeped into her bones, causing a shiver to course through her body as the residual chill fought against the comforting heat.

Munda moved closer to the fire, her hands outstretched towards the blaze as she settled down on a log beside her son. Cohan was enraptured by a wooden toy in his hands, his small fingers tracing over the intricately carved details. It was a miniature representation of a wild boar, a gift from Tormund on his last name day. Despite its simplicity, the boy treasured it greatly.

“Father, tell Cohan the story of the great boar you hunted in the Frostfangs,” Munda urged, nudging her son gently with her elbow. Cohan looked up, eyes wide with anticipation. His love for stories, especially ones involving his grandfather, was insatiable.

Tormund chuckled, his blue eyes shining in the firelight as he began his tale. “Aye, it was a cold winter. The snow was so deep it reached a giant's knee. But in those harsh conditions, a mighty boar roamed, its tusks as large as the arms of a full-grown oak,” he started, his hands animating the story as he gestured in the air.

Cohan's eyes widened, wholly entranced by his grandfather's narration. The flickering fire mirrored in his eyes as they shifted between Tormund's face and the toy boar clutched in his hands. As she observed their interaction, a warm smile played on her lips. Reaching out, she gently ruffled Cohan's dark hair. He was a carbon copy of his father, bearing the same dark hair and inquisitive eyes. She brushed the thought aside - she would not dwell on him now. Munda harboured the hope that he would grow to embody the bravery and kindness that defined his grandfather.

Immersed in her thoughts, the muted sound of boots on sodden ground brought her back to reality. She glanced up to see Dryn and Dormund, her half-brothers, ambling towards the fire. Clad in mud and sporting mischievous grins, the eight-year-old twins were always up to something.

Dryn plopped down next to Tormund, their shared father, while Dormund squirmed his way between Cohan and Tormund. As he jostled Cohan playfully, it was easy to forget they were only two years apart. “What are we missing, Co?” Dormund asked, starting to peel off his muddy boots. “Oh no, is Pa telling you about the huge boar he wrestled barehanded?”

Cohan was poised to retort when Dormund's eyes sparked with an unmistakable twinkle, a clear indication that he had an enticing tale to disclose. “You won't believe the gossip we overheard at the creek!” he burst out, abruptly steering the conversation in a new direction.

Dryn chimed in instantly. “What, that they discovered your lost mind there?” he mocked.

Undeterred by his brother's barb, Dormund continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “They're saying Kieran's boy, Jon, is the result of a secret affair with Maelissa. That's why her husband disappeared. He didn't just vanish. Kieran killed him and then took the boy from whoever was looking after him.”

“You bought into that, Dormund? Folks have been whispering about the mystery boy ever since he showed up three years ago.” Dryn countered.

Munda retreated into her own thoughts, pondering over memories from her youth, back when Kieran first became part of their tribe. If there was any truth to these rumours, the timing of Maelissa's husband's disappearance did coincide. It could have been a man seeking the deserter who ended up killing him. Yet, she dismissed this idea quickly. The more plausible theory could be that Maelissa had reasons to murder her husband, especially after the way Hoth had treated her. But the part about an affair between Maelissa and Kieran was harder to believe. Maelissa, she thought, was more inclined to pierce a man's throat than share her bed with him. She shook her head, the pieces not fitting together.

“And Kieran just waited a decade to reclaim the child he supposedly left behind?” she asked.

“You're a fool,” Dryn scoffed at Dromund.

“I have some business to attend to,” their father announced suddenly, rising to his feet. Munda's gaze followed his, but whoever he had been watching had already vanished.

“You two stay out of trouble and stick with Munda,” Tormund ordered. Then, critically eyeing them both, he added, “And no more mud baths, understand?”

Munda looked at them searchingly, the question already posed by their father hanging in the air.

Dryn, the smarter of the two, threw his brother an accusatory glance. “Oh, the mud?” he replied, an impish grin playing on his lips. “Our dear Dormund fancied himself a cunning raider, thought to creep into Old Man McCollum's tent.”

Flushed beneath the layer of grime, Dormund jumped in, “How was I to know he'd dug a trench there for rainwater? And he claimed he sensed the rain coming—said he felt it in his bones as if that's a real thing.”

“We slipped in the mud, bashed our heads together and nearly lost them when McCollum came storming out of his tent,” Dryn added with a dramatic shiver.

Cohan's laughter filled the space.  

Chapter Text

Tormund strode into the tent, with Cohan tagging along close on his heels. This action was more of a strategic withdrawal, an effort to secure himself some solitary contemplation on the decisions that Munda had made. He clung onto the hope that Jon, who seemed to possess a natural talent for engaging children, would exhaust Cohan. Though, truthfully, he suspected that Torwynd had already sapped most of the boy's energy through their chatter.

His thoughts kept drifting back to his little girl, now a leader of the Sina Dalars. He couldn't help but ponder the terrifying 'what if' scenario - what if it had been Frenya's spear finding a home in her flesh instead? A tremor of guilt seized him, a painful realization that he might have guided her towards this precarious path. It was a thought too troubling to confront, so he pushed it deep down, far out of his immediate reach.

His gaze falls upon Kieran, who's comfortably perched on a squat wooden stool, seemingly engrossed in a task. Dressed in sturdy wool and leather, the man cuts a slender, martial figure. His lengthy brown hair is neatly corralled into a warrior's braid. He observes as he methodically services a blade with an oil-soaked cloth, each deliberate stroke unhurried and precise. As Tormund enters his line of sight, Kieran raises his eyes to acknowledge him.

“Sword practice?” he inquires, his eyes wandering beyond his friend. There, he finds Jon, who has succumbed to the sweet call of sleep, wrapped in a well-worn blanket. He observes as the boy’s chest rises and falls in a soothing rhythm, a peaceful rhythm disrupted only when he suddenly turned over, obstructing his view.

With an affirming nod, Kieran validates his guess.

“How's it coming along?” he questions.

Kieran shifts his focus back to his blade, responding while continuing his careful maintenance, “He's showing improvement.”

“Good to hear,” Tormund remarks, advancing further into the tent without hesitation. He starts rifling through Kieran’s possessions, disregarding the need for permission. Having found what he seeks, he poses a question, “Hope you don't mind if I join?” even as he's already taking a drink from the bottle.

“Feel free,” Kieran returns, his attention now entirely diverted to him.

Tormund’s face contorts into a mild grimace at the realization that it's only ale. He then takes a seat, asking, “is he ready for the field?”

“He's not there yet,” Kieran replies honestly, “but he's learning fast. Shows promise.”

A murmur of approval escapes him as he takes another swig, this time prepared for the mild flavour of the ale. He draws out his sip, so he can at least pretend he’s getting drunk. “That's good. Just make sure he's ready before he steps foot in a real fight.”

“He won't see a fight until I'm certain he can manage it.”

“Good,” he echoes back, aware that if Kieran has his way, that day might never come. He reclines comfortably, extending his legs and resting his hands on his knees, the ale held loosely in one hand. Yet, considering their current circumstances, that day might be as imminent as tomorrow. Cohan promptly nestles next to him, and Tormund passes the bottle to the youngster, observing the entertaining shift of expressions that dance across his face. Despite an initial grimace, Cohan continues to drink until he reclaims the bottle.

“Got a taste for it yet, lad?” he queries, an eyebrow arched in amusement.

Cohan, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grins shyly in response.

Tormund offers a low chuckle. “You'll grow into a true warrior yet.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Kieran's smile. He extends the ale towards him. “Your turn, you've earned a swig. We can't let these youngsters show us up, can we?”

Kieran shakes his head as he accepts the offered drink. “We certainly can't have that.”

As the words slip out, little Cohan sidles closer and emits a wide yawn, his eyelids drooping heavily as he succumbs to the welcoming arms of sleep.

“Looks like the ale's claimed victory this round,” Tormund remarks, casting a playful smirk towards his companion. He pops open another bottle, craving a bolder thrill. But as the same familiar ale meets his tongue, he catches Kieran's knowing grin. “Haven't you got anything with a bit more kick?”

“He's not fond of it,” comes the response, as if that's a valid excuse.

Tormund rolls his eyes, his smile melting into a wry grin. “Well, it's not like we're asking him to dance with a bear. It's just a stronger brew.”

“He's averse to the way it messes with his senses. He won't admit it, but I know he dislikes the smell. However, I have some mead squirreled away somewhere.” Kieran gets up and fetches a bottle from its secret storage. Turning back to him, he jests, “You're not like a stray that'll keep coming back for more once I give you a taste, are you?”

“Might be I am,” he retorts, “If the mead is as good as you claim.”

“Well let’s see if it lives up to your standards, Mead King.”

The taste trickles down his throat, not quite reminiscent of his homeland, but close enough to stir up memories.

“Ah, I remember when I was that age.” He muses, gesturing towards Jon's sleeping figure with the bottle before indulging in another gulp. “I fancied myself stronger than a mammoth. Thought I could shatter the Wall with a single swing of my axe.”

Kieran chuckles. “Stronger than a mammoth, eh? And I suppose the Wall is still standing because you were too fond of it to bring it down. Though I wager you could drink its alcohol reserves dry.”

“Exactly,” he replies, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “But tell me, Kieran. What about you? Were you out taming dragons or were you just sharpening your sword?”

He gets an arched eyebrow in response and a look that teeters on the line between amusement and offence. “I'll have you know, Tormund, I was doing more than just whetting blades. I was actually sparring with them.”

“Sparring? With actual swords?” He mimics shock, then quickly ensures both boys are indeed asleep. “And here I thought you kneelers preferred to spar with sticks,” he teases in an exaggerated whisper.

Kieran snorts in response. “Well, if we used real swords, how would we determine the victor? With all the blood and severed limbs, it would be quite the carnage.”

Suddenly, a peculiar rustling sound pulls their attention away from the conversation. Both men pivot to observe Jon's uneasy stirrings with furrowed brows. The lad is on his feet, eyes still sealed shut, meandering aimlessly around the tent in an eerie silence. Kieran swiftly sets his sword aside and rushes over to the sleepwalking boy, while Tormund watches on, uncertain if his assistance is required.

“Jon,” Kieran murmurs softly, careful not to startle the boy. He gently shakes him awake, coaxing him back to consciousness. Jon's eyelids flutter open gradually, and after several disoriented blinks, his gaze, still clouded with sleep and bewilderment, meets Kieran's steady stare. A vague expression of confusion settles on his sleep-warmed face.

“Are you alright?” Kieran asks tenderly. As Jon takes in his surroundings, awareness dawns on him, staining his cheeks with a blush of embarrassment. The disturbance rouses Cohan from his sleep; he glances up at Tormund, who shrugs in response before the boy resumes his attempt to sleep.

“Aye, yeah,” Jon replies, his eyes squinting again in mild disorientation, adding a disjointed, “What?”

Assessing Jon, Kieran takes a step back. In the meantime, Tormund rises from his spot, leaving Cohan without a human pillow. “You were sleepwalking, lad.”

“You don't seem too surprised,” Kieran notes, looking the boy over again.

“Surprised?” Jon repeats.

“Yes, surprised,” Kieran clarifies.

A silent battle plays out as Kieran scrutinizes the thirteen-year-old, and Tormund observes the minute twitching at the corners of Jon's mouth. After a stretch of silence, Kieran broaches his next question, “Just how many times has this happened, Jon?”

“None,” Jon's response is almost too quick, like he was expecting the question. After a beat, he seems to reconsider his initial response and adds, “Except for now.”

Kieran merely fixes him with a penetrating stare, his eyebrows raising ever so slightly. Tormund contemplates whether he should extricate himself from the situation, but curiosity keeps him tethered to his place.

“Alright,” Jon yields, emitting a resigned sigh. “It occurred once before, but that was nearly a full moon's turn ago,” he finally admits.

“Almost a full moon's turn ago, and you didn't think to mention it?” Kieran questions, his forehead creasing into a frown.

“You had other things to worry about,” the boy answers, a touch defensively. “And I can handle this, I can handle it on my own,” he insists with the stubborn resolve of youth.

“This isn't something—” Kieran started, but was cut short.

“I can handle it,” Jon interjected, displaying a nuance of passive-aggression that he seemed to have mastered under Kieran's guidance throughout the short years he had been brought up by him.

Unruffled, Kieran countered, “this is your safety, your well-being we're talking about. It's not something to be taken lightly.”

In reply, Jon locked his gaze. His voice, though soft, was firm, delivering an unspoken challenge. “You can't fix it,” he stated simply. “I'm not your offspring, Kieran. You're under no duty towards me.”

“You're right.”

Jon appeared startled by the conceding acknowledgment, but Kieran was swift in appending it. “You're not my child. Yet, I made the choice to become a part of your life. But you can't be roaming about in the middle of the night, particularly with the recent string of disappearances.”

Jon parted his lips, but then snapped them shut. “Okay,” he eventually managed to mutter, his voice subdued. Tormund could discern a subtle shift in the boy's demeanour; Jon clearly wanted to object, but he held back.

“Good,” Kieran responded, his hand unconsciously ruffling his hair as he pivoted towards Tormund, wearing an anticipatory expression.

"What do you want from me? To fetch a leash?" He asked, his voice filled with feigned exasperation. His comment was rewarded with a fiery glare from Jon. He deemed the disapproving look from Kieran a minor cost in return.

“Maybe a herb or spice?” Kieran suggested.

“You reckon I’m a tea expert?” Tormund retorted.

“We make our trade on our medicinal herbs. I'm certain if we dig we'll uncover something useful,” Kieran assured, directing his words towards Jon.

“I'll do some asking around,” he finally agreed. “We can't afford for anyone to go astray, especially in these parts.” He threw a glance at Kieran, a silent message embedded within his words. No one knew what was behind the string of mysterious disappearances, but if that wasn't deterrent enough, he knew of other dangers lurking in the woods. More frightening than mere animals. Humans.

At that moment, Cohan approached him and tugged at his sleeve. “The raven's call is soon,” he announced.

“Seems like we need to be on our way,” he declared, effectively excusing them from the ongoing conversation.

The raven's call had just subsided, punctuated by a brief, unanticipated rain shower. Amongst the familiar company of his family and the rejuvenated warmth of the bonfire, he noticed Orell. The man's lingering gaze and subtle nod of his head conveyed his desire for a private conversation. Consequently, he excused himself and trailed after Orell until they were isolated from the rest. The conspicuous absence of the eagle to which the man was bonded, however, did not escape his notice.

A prickle of unease crawled up his spine. The skinchanger was not one for idle chatter. “Alright, out with it,” he retorted roughly, his eyes dwelling on the bonfire's direction a moment longer before he reluctantly pivoted to face Orell. “What's the issue?”

“The boy's training. He's too coddled, Kieran is too soft with him.”

Tormund's eyes hardened, his arms folding over his robust chest as he digested the complaint. His mind quickly dissected the statement, attempting to understand the underlying concern.

“Soft?” He echoed, a sceptical eyebrow arching high on his forehead. Jon was indeed young, and his upbringing had markedly differed from most of their kind.

“True, but he’s an outsider,” he continued, his voice a low rumble. “He didn't grow up learning our ways, our fight. Kieran is doing the best he can.”

Orell remained unchanged. “We can't afford to be soft.”

“The boy is learning,” Tormund countered, striving to diffuse the mounting tension. “Give him time.”

“He doesn't have time,” the skinchanger retorted, his voice sharp and biting. “None of us do.”

He now began to grasp why he was bringing this to him—his history, his knowledge of what the tribes did to those with the old blood, the animal seers. He could relate to the cynicism; he had no wish to return to this place, at least not without blood on his axe, but that wasn't an option, not yet at least. “The lad's got spirit, he will learn.”

“He’s got potential,” Orell admitted, his gravelly voice slicing through his contemplation. “The beasts, they respond to him, but his potential is overshadowed by his affection for the animals. He needs to grasp that to truly bond with them, to harness their strengths as his own, he must assert dominance over their minds. He requires conditioning, training.”

“Is that not what you're doing?” he queried, a hint of defensiveness seeping into his tone.

“He resists my instructions,” the man declared, his voice brusque, with no attempt to hide his frustration. His eyes bore into him, as if challenging him to offer a solution. The intensity of which made him question how he had landed the responsibility of resolving everyone else's problems.

“Understanding the beasts, the bond, the responsibilities that come with it. He's not resisting your teachings. He's trying to make sense of it in his own way. You have to give him room to do that,” he attempted to reason.

Yet Orell remained obstinate. “You, of all people, should understand how perilous that advice can be. He needs to be broken in.”

Tormund stiffened at that. “Aye, and you should know that there's a difference between breaking a wild stallion and breaking a boy's spirit,” he retorted. “One is taming, the other... the other is cruelty.”

“In our world, sometimes cruelty is the only way to survive.”

He frowned. Skinchanging was an intricate matter, more complex than the traditional physical combat they were used to. It wasn't about brute strength or the skill with a weapon; it was about forging a bond, a delicate thread between the human spirit and the soul of an animal.

“No,” he affirmed, his tone a blend of irritation and disbelief. “The beasts, they aren't mere tools to be used and discarded. They're companions, allies in our survival.”

Orell's snort cut through the air, the sound carrying the same disdain that laced his words. His features morphed into a self-satisfied smirk. “Consider them your equals, and they'll claw their way into your mind,” he warned, his voice brimming with hard-won sagacity. “There are reasons we skinchangers exercise caution with predators - they resist, they fight back. It's a battle of wills. You either master the beast or become one. Lower your guard, and you're on a fast track to losing yourself.”

Tormund chewed on the words. It wasn't that he hadn't considered it; he was well aware of the potential dangers. But the phrase 'breaking in' sat uncomfortably with him. It was as if the beasts were obstacles to be conquered rather than living, breathing beings that needed to be understood and respected. Aelis would have thrown a fit; those certainly weren't the values of the Dar Soarn. Perhaps that's why Orell was still around.

“So what do you suggest?” he asked, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “We force the lad to dominate the beasts?”

“Exactly,” Orell retorted, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Empathy, compassion, these are not our weapons. They are weaknesses to be exploited. We can't afford them.”

He grunted. It was an uncomfortable truth, one that clawed at his pride and questioned his beliefs. His thoughts wandered to Kieran, undeniably overprotective, particularly concerning Jon. Persuading him wouldn't be a straightforward task. Once more, it made him feel like the mediator of everyone else's disputes.

“So, we push him, then?” Tormund finally said, his voice heavy with reluctance. The idea was like a splinter under his skin; he'd always been a believer in guidance rather than pushing. But he wasn't one of them, was he?

“We make him confront his bond with the beasts fully? And how, pray tell, do you suggest I do that?”

“By revealing the harsh realities of the world we inhabit,” came the reply, as if it were the simplest concept to grasp. “This isn't a realm for half-hearted commitments. He needs to understand that its survival of the fittest.”

“What’s that meant to mean?”

“Meaning we have to put him in a position where he's forced,” Orell elaborated. “A situation where he can no longer run, but has to confront it.”

“And just how do we arrange that, exactly?” he asked, his voice filled with a mixture of concern and annoyance.

Orell hesitated, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “The boy and his potential beast... they need isolation, forced together where they have to depend on each other. Out there in the wild, it’s just them against nature, against predators. The boy will have no choice but to face and accept his bond fully.”

Tormund's brows knitted in alarm. “Are you suggesting we throw him into the wilderness, simply abandon him to fend for himself?” he questioned, struggling to mask his shock. The implication seemed drastic, an extreme measure he wasn't sure he was prepared to support.

Orell nodded in confirmation.

“Without a bonded beast?”

“Well, yes, the goal is to make him bond with a beast,” the man clarified.

“There must be easier ways to nurture a connection,” He proposed, growing more puzzled by his intentions towards the boy. He wasn't sure if Orell was genuinely endeavouring to unlock the boy's skinchanger abilities, or just trying to offload what he viewed as an inconvenience. He found himself swept up in a maelstrom of indecision.

“I'm not suggesting we throw him away, Tormund,” Orell said with conviction, his expression remaining inscrutable. “What I am suggesting is a controlled exposure. We pick a territory that we know well, that we can monitor. The wilderness need not be as wild as it seems, and we will be stopped for a time.”

“Not here, not in these parts. This isn't just a matter of suppressing, he needs to form that bond, first. A bond that we've only ever seen formed naturally,” He argued, his apprehension clear.

“Your concept of creature bonding is more gentle than the truth. It is an act of possession, a tethering to oneself and it doesn't require trust, though it would probably be easier. However, that wasn't my experience, And concerning the boy, I think our efforts may work against us,” the skinchanger responded, his tone inferring a familiar ‘we've been down this road before.’

He continued, his voice remaining cool and composed. “I need only to lure an animal. I don’t believe he's incapable of bonding, but rather that he's been evading it, whether consciously or not.”

“You're willing to risk this on a mere guess,” Tormund retorted.

“The odds are in our favour,” Orell countered deftly.

The idea wasn't entirely baseless. Thanks to Kieran's assignment of mapping the landscape and their tribes, the beasts of this region wouldn't be foreign to him. Furthermore, to avoid enemy archers, they had often needed to refrain from using the same bird, so Orell was accustomed to skinchanging into beasts other than his bonded one. However, he pondered the possible stress this could place on him.

For most, skinchanging without an existing bond proved a formidable task. The conventional pathway was a gradual process: form a bond, comprehend the creature's nature, and then extend one's consciousness into it. For the children of Dar Soarn, this process often began with a creature choosing to bond with them. This bond would initially reveal itself through dreams, enabling the skinchangers to perceive the world through their bonded creatures' senses. Eventually, this sensory sharing would carry over into their waking hours - a stage most of them reached.

The subsequent stage entailed dominance, a phase during which they would momentarily commandeer their bonded creatures' bodies. Only after mastering these steps, and if they possessed the capacity, would they dare push their abilities further, projecting their consciousness into other animals.

However, many skinchangers found themselves confined to the minds of their bonded companions. His wife, for instance, had been unable to break this barrier despite numerous attempts. Given this, Jon's ability to circumvent this crucial progression appeared all the more enigmatic.

Tormund shook his head, wrestling with his conflicting thoughts.

“But it'll sap your strength to summon those creatures,” he cautioned. “You approached me for guidance because I have some understanding. And I know the challenge you face is no trifling matter. It’s one thing to change into a beast you share a bond with; it's an entirely different struggle when you're not linked, especially when you’re trying to influence their minds, to implant your own thoughts and commands.”

“That’s the lesson I’m hoping to instil in the boy. There’s a vast difference between seeing through a creature’s eyes and actually becoming one with it.” Orell contended. “It would only need to be one animal,” he clarified.

Tormund countered, his voice tinted with scepticism, “But if that animal doesn't accept him, you'll need to find another.”

Orell's response came swift and sharp, “It doesn’t need to accept him.”

He took a moment to think, deciding that this wasn't the battleground to contest him on. “You shouldn’t be straining yourself right now, we may need to rely on your abilities in the near future,” he advised instead.

Orell, unfazed, volleyed back, “It's the upcoming trials that make this the ideal moment to strengthen the boy.”

Tormund interjected again, concern seeping into his voice, “He may have just lost a companion animal…” He paused briefly, mulling over his words, then continued, “Maybe it would be wiser to wait, to let him recover and find readiness on his own terms.”

Orell fired back almost instantly, “If we keep waiting for his readiness, he'll never reach it.”

Tormund sighed, resignation flowing into his words. “Regardless, the final decision isn't mine to make.”

“He must learn to exist outside his comfort zone.”

He scoffed at that, anger bubbling beneath his composed exterior. “And you think he isn't already aware of that? He's experienced enough to know the world can be a brutal place.”

“Yes, but he still clings to his compassion,” Orell retorted, his tone rigid and uncompromising. “He needs to suppress those instincts when he's dealing with the beasts. Otherwise, he might as well be a lamb led to the slaughter.”

“There's a fine line between a lesson and a trial by fire. We can't just throw him to the wolves. Kieran will not agree,” he countered.

“Then make him see the sense in it,” Orell growled, his eyes burning fiercely under the silver wash of the moon. “The boy's talent is wasted in his hands.”

His jaw clenched. However as much he dislike it, he had to admit there was some merit in the other man's words. A reluctant agreement tumbled out of him. “Might be you're right,” he conceded. “But your words seem to be filled with more spite than wisdom.”

Orell shrugged off the accusation. “It's not about liking the lad or his keeper. It's about securing our survival. Can't you see the boy's potential is a double-edged sword? He could either be an ally or a danger.”

Tormund exhaled sharply, the sound punctuating the quiet of their discussion. “I understand,” he admitted, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “The lad's got to learn to master his gift, not be mastered by it.”

“As for Kieran,” he added, his tone firm, “I'll speak to him about this. The decision, however, remains his. He'll know what to do.”

“I wouldn’t be standing here if he knew what he was doing,” Orell shot back.

He lapsed into silence again, his eyes distant as he processed the man’s pointed remark. It took a considerable amount of effort to keep his mounting frustration in check. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice carrying an undertone of doubt. “Fair enough,” he conceded, the idea causing a ripple of discomfort within him. “I'll talk to Kieran, see if I can persuade him to push Jon a bit more.”

The implications of his decision filled the space between them. They both knew what the outcome would be.

“And when this other way fails and the boy ends up losing himself to the beasts, Or worse, endangers all of us with his lack of control? What then? Who will your ideals help?”

“We'll confront it when it comes, Orell,” Tormund rebutted, his gaze turning steely. “We've weathered harsher storms, faced worse odds. We'll find a way. We always have. I will talk to Kieran.”

“You're toying with peril,” Orell asserted. “But so be it, proceed as you see fit. Just keep in mind,” he cautioned, turning to depart, “the youngster isn't the only one teetering on the edge. We all share that precarious position.”

“You're right, and one skinchanger isn't going to make the difference, not in the end. That much I do know,” he proclaimed, watching as the man pivoted to leave.

Orell paused, casting a brief look over his shoulder. His expression was indecipherable, a veil hiding his internal musings. “Yet, a single false step could risk it all,” he retorted. “Do bear in mind what's at stake this time.”

In response, Tormund lunged forward, snatching the skinchanger by the throat.

Orell’s eyes bulged with shock as his hand closed around his throat. He gasped, clawing for breath as the unexpected pressure squeezed the air from his lungs. As he looked at him, a grim vision flashed across his mind, a ghastly image of the Lord of Bones parading around, his oldest son's severed head grotesquely displayed on a spike. In the midst of his fright, an absurd thought struck him: was the bone lord adorned with the bones of his own son?

“Don't dare to instruct me about risks, Orell,” Tormund snarled, his grip relentless. “I've been fighting long before you sprouted your first whisker. I've stared at the face of death more times than I care to count, and I am acutely aware of what's at stake.”

As abruptly as he had seized him, he released him, his swift movements allowing him to dodge a retaliatory strike from the eagle that had been perched on a branch nearby. A warning strike. Its sharp talons slashed through the air, missing his head by a hair's breadth. Orell spluttered, recovering his breath, while his eagle remained stoic on its perch, its piercing gaze riveted on him.

“Then let's hope your trust in Kieran and the young one isn't misguided,” Orell murmured quietly, his words hanging in the air. With that, he slipped into the inky blackness of the night, leaving only his words behind.

“You ought to worry about more pressing matters than fretting over this,” Tormund replied to the empty night. He paused, allowing a few moments for his anger to subside, baffled by why Orell was getting so heated. The man spoke as though he possessed knowledge beyond what he should. Kieran had shared little about the cult in which Jon had been brought up. It seemed as though Orell possessed puzzle pieces that he lacked. He pondered whether this knowledge related to the unique way a skinchanger could sense the presence of another.

Abruptly he made the decision to seek out Torwynd.

Navigating through the lively crowd of his tribe, Tormund made his way towards Torwynd's tent. He bypassed the communal bonfire where Dryn, Dormund, Munda, and Cohan were engrossed in spirited chatter. His son’s dwelling loomed ahead; a formidable structure constructed of durable hides. Upon seeing a member of the Sina Dalar standing watch outside, he knew one of their healers was tending to his son. Choosing to wait, he stood silently outside.

Before long, the tent flap stirred and out emerged the priestess Emeline. Her presence caught him off guard; he'd assumed she would be busy conducting some spiritual rite or other. However, the close bond between Emeline and Torwynd was well known. He had even contemplated, in healthier times for Torwynd, that his son might have successfully stolen her. With a nod of acknowledgment towards the priestess, he entered the tent.

The pungent aroma of herbs immediately filled his nostrils. He recognised the scent in an instant. Torwynd, sitting in the tent's dim light, was sipping on a concoction, “I know. It really hits you in the face, doesn't it? You ought to give it a try.”

“Feverfew,” Tormund identified the herb. This herb was commonplace among their tribe, growing profusely in the haunted forest. Its properties provided a brief respite from fatigue, though he was well aware the effect was ephemeral. It was, however, one of their most traded items, given its myriad uses.

During a trade with a Braavosi, he had learned of a darker application. In hushed tones, the foreigner had confided that slavers used the herb to enhance their slaves' work output, and more so, to dampen their spirits and enforce compliance.

“No, I'll pass,” he declined his son's offer gruffly, aware that Torwynd barely expected him to accept. He tread towards the tame flame flickering at the centre of the tent, allowing its heat to envelop him, before he made his way to sit beside his son.

“It tastes like I'm drinking bark,” Torwynd commented, pulling a face at the bitter aftertaste.

“Because you are,” he shot back, his lips curling up in a small smile. He shook his head, attempting to steer the conversation back on track. “I didn't come here to discuss herbs, Torwynd,” he started, his voice notably softer now. He was reluctant to revisit that particular discussion, painfully aware of the limited options his son was facing.

“What did you want to discuss then?” came the reply, his son’s eyes alight with curiosity.

“Truthfully,” Tormund began, a flicker of uncertainty playing across his features, “I'm a little unsure of where to start now that you've asked.” A sigh punctuated his momentary hesitance as he attempted to collect his scattered thoughts. “We're not treading new ground here. Rather, we're retracing steps, stirring up dust from conflicts we thought we'd left behind. I trust Thistle—she's earned that much. Harma Dogshead, though, she doesn't instil the same sense of confidence.”

He paused briefly in his discourse, before pressing on, his voice carrying a tinge of unease. “Then there's the Lord of Bones. I remain sceptical of his intentions—I fear he may yet kindle unrest, provoke conflict.”

Torwynd nodded in a deliberate manner, his focus sharply attuned, the creeping influence of his drink settling in. “What of the trade agreement?” he queried, eager for any new developments. Torwynd been unable to attend the tribal council meeting earlier in the day, where he usually held an advisory role.

“Thistle has put things into motion,” Tormund informed him, “We're scheduled to finalize the agreement tomorrow in person, with Thistle and Kieran spearheading the negotiations. That being said, it's not so much a barter of goods we're looking at. It's more about trading knowledge and information,” he added.

“That's about all we can offer a tribe of Harma's size,” his son noted, reflecting on their humble resources.

“Thistle has been somewhat guarded with the specifics, but she maintains connections with Halleck.”

“That's hardly surprising. Such matters tend to fall within Halleck's domain. Their tribe operates as a grouping of minor villages, each boasting its own leadership. Are we confident that the trade proposition we're putting forward would meet the approval of these village chieftains?” Torwynd asked.

“The question of whether our proposal has been weighed in their own council meetings is a tricky one. I can't confess to be entirely sure.” Tormund conceded, his brow furrowing as he considered the situation. His experience with trading with larger clans, although limited, led him to assume that they would have indeed deliberated over it. “One would naturally presume they would need to discuss it, wouldn't they?”

“Indeed, yet it's possible that Harma might control the narrative about us. Given Thistle's manoeuvring of this situation, I suspect we're primarily dealing with Harma, bypassing the usual practices associated with such trades. There's probably more to this than a mere exchange of goods,” Torwynd hypothesized, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Should you worry about a potential trap, I find it unlikely. The stalemate between the tribes was the result of a mutual weariness. While the Lord of Bones might preside over a larger swath of land and more people, her unconventional tactics have dealt him a significant setback. Her animosity might be in check for the time being, but both tribes are aware that warfare is an ever-looming possibility. Right now, they're simply observing a precarious peace pact. Skinchangers or not, Harma Dogshead holds a deep-seated resentment towards him.”

He nodded, appreciating the nuances in his son's analysis, and reminding himself of the wisdom of seeking Torwynd's counsel. A sense of pride swelled within him. “Harma Dogshead is a force to be reckoned with. I have no illusions about that. We must tread carefully,” he agreed. “Do you think the Lord of Bones could see our dealings with Harma as a potential threat?” he speculated.

Torwynd locked eyes with him, setting his cup aside and folding his arms. “That's a likely concern,” he admitted. “However, I had a rather revealing chat with Kieran just prior to your arrival regarding the numbers he's compiled. You see, even if we committed our entire tribe to Harma's cause, we'd merely swell her ranks by an additional two hundred and fifty. Out of those, only about seventy-five to a hundred are competent warriors. This hardly tilts the balance of power, especially considering Harma's tribe already numbers around fifteen hundred, with around thirty to forty percent being capable fighters, while the Lord of Bones numbers around roughly twenty-five hundred, which comes to about seven hundred and fifty to a thousand able-bodied fighters.”

“That's barely a dent. Hardly enough to tip the scales in her favour.”

“Exactly,” Torwynd affirmed, “In this dance of power, we're not so much a formidable threat as we are a subtle influence, a feather on the scale.”

His son then fell into a brief silence, his eyes drifting into the distance as he pondered the circumstances.

“We must be careful about how we play our hand. Yet, I sense this isn't your main worry,” Torwynd deduced astutely, returning his attention back to his father.

Indeed, what weighed on him wasn't this particular issue, he trusted that Thistle and Kieran wouldn't navigate the trade negotiations without exhaustive considerations. Reflecting on the chain of events that had compelled him to seek his son's counsel, he yielded his true worry.

“Now that you mention it... it's about Orell,” Tormund confessed.

"What has the skinchanger done?" Torwynd questioned.

“He wants to push Jon's training, force him to form a bond with an animal,” he answered. Saying it aloud, he wondered how he'd let Orell persuade him that it was a sensible suggestion. The gentle voice of his wife, Aelis, drifted faintly in his thoughts.

Torwynd's brow creased in concern. “That's a risky scheme,” he noted. “A hurriedly forged bond can cause serious complications. This isn't something to be treated lightly. Jon is still green.”

Tormund further detailed Orell's perspective. “Orell argues that Jon might be holding back, something he won't be able to maintain. Once a skinchanger has tapped into their power, which Jon has, they can't simply snuff it out through sheer determination. Eventually, he'll encounter a situation where he's overmatched and unable to maintain his resistance. Orell worries that if Jon doesn't learn proper control, his nature towards animals might carelessly allow them to overwhelm his consciousness.”

“Still, it remains a theory nonetheless,” Torwynd pointed out.

“True, it's merely a guess at this stage,” he concurred. “In the few cases I've encountered, they typically involved those already bonded with predatory creatures. But among the Dar Soarn, one purposely stifling their own abilities is a rather unexplored concept.”

“I must admit, your understanding of this subject exceeds mine. The intricacies of a skinchanger's mind aren't exactly common knowledge. Could his lineage potentially exert any influence?” his son posed cautiously, his voice tinged with interest.

Tormund responded with a shake of his head, a silent indication that he was not inclined to delve into that area of discussion. Some subjects were best left undisturbed.

“Then let's address what is genuinely plaguing your thoughts,” Torwynd suggested, shifting the conversation onto a more personal terrain.

“And what would that be?” he retorted, his tone masking the apprehension brewing beneath.

“Your daughter,” Torwynd said, a blend of concern and understanding reflecting in his eyes. “You're afraid she's becoming too reckless.”

Tormund's eyes hardened slightly at the mention of Munda, but he didn't deny it.

“Perhaps,” he responded, his voice laced with frustration, “but what can I do to repair that?”

“I can't bring back her mother...or yours. Nor can I return Dryn and Dormund's mother from the sickness that claimed her,” he added, catching the brief flicker of discomfort in his son's eyes but pressing on regardless. “No, this is something she needs to figure out on her own. She is stubborn, won't be told what to do, won't truly accept guidance. She needs to learn and explore things on her own, just like her mother. She's proven herself on the field time and again. I can't fault her for wanting to assert herself as a warrior.”

“You are concerned.” Torwynd observed.

“Munda has always had a wild streak,” he confided. “Ever since she was a child, she's had a taste for danger, a hunger for the thrill of the unpredictable. It's part of what makes her strong, but it's also what terrifies me.”

“Yet she's also clever, and not one to make the same mistake twice,” Torwynd offered, trying to allay his father's fears.

“I would prefer she didn’t have to make any in the first place, but she has a habit of plunging headlong into situations,” Tormund acknowledged.

“Perhaps she's just finding her own way, testing her own boundaries. Isn't that what we all did at her age?” His son's query wasn't necessarily in defence of his sister but seemed more like an attempt to assess his father's stance. The words seemed somewhat out of place coming from him, given that he was not significantly older than her. Still, illness had a way of aging one he supposed.

He released a weary sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Yes, we did, but the world as it stands wasn't what I had planned for either of you, or for Toregg,” the name left his lips like a bitter curse, “I would have outright dismissed the notion of throwing our young into the wilderness to fend for themselves, as Orell suggests. And we certainly didn't live with the looming ghost of war hanging over our heads like a blade waiting to fall.”

“No, it just fell,” Torwynd asserted.

Without any warning, Tormund reflected internally.

“Fate can be a cruel mistress,” Torwynd vocalized for him. The unexpected comment threw him off balance, leaving him momentarily floundering for words. Finally, he responded, “I'm grateful that she's retained her spirit.”

“She has indeed,” Torwynd replied softly, “In that respect, she mirrors you as much as she does her.” His observation was followed by a small, comforting smile.

“No doubt, her father is as great a warrior as one can be,” he replied with a smirk, attempting to inject some levity into the conversation.

“And as headstrong,” his son responded with a knowing look.

His laughter echoed around them. “May be you're right, Torwynd. We're both too stubborn for our own good.”

As the night drew on, Tormund found solace at the bottom of his cup, its warmth spreading through him, a comfort in the quiet solitude. One mug turned into two, then three, each one bringing him closer to the edges of slumber. His grip on the mug slackened as he finally surrendered to the welcoming darkness that had been patiently waiting.

He found himself in a room bathed in an ethereal glow, a warm, inviting light that seemed to infuse the surroundings with life, casting a golden aura against the time-worn walls of their homestead. The heart of this space was dominated by a sturdy, wooden table. Seated at its head, he was immersed in the familiar morning ritual, sharing his meal surrounded by his family. His wife, Aelis, ventured a question to him, her words meandering in the air around him, not quite making their mark. His attention was wholly consumed by her captivating beauty.

Aelis, a brunette with a robust build, was a sight that could make even the most eloquent bard stumble on his verses. Her puzzled gaze met his, a question in her eyes matching the one unrecognised in his ears.

“What?” he asked, inviting her to repeat her query.

Aelis, perched on the other side of the table, paused, her spoon suspended over the bowl of steaming porridge. A gentle smile tugged at the corners of her lips, her eyes dancing with a blend of mirth and fondness. “I asked,” she repeated, her voice carrying the faintest trill of laughter, “if you'd be able to have a talk with Toregg today, before he embarks tomorrow. We're running out of time.”

Tomorrow, he thought. Was it so soon already? His expression must have betrayed his inner thoughts, for she hesitated momentarily, though she did not leave him space to respond. It was as if this topic had been weighing on her mind, a dilemma she had been reluctant to voice until that moment. “You're unusually quiet today. Are you alright?” she asked, concern bleeding into her words.

Tormund's eyes danced, a flare of amusement lighting up his gaze as he took in the sight of his wife. He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Aye, my love,” he responded, adopting a contemplative expression as he winked at her, “I'm just savouring the rare silence. I thought not to shatter this peaceful moment with my old man's grumble.” He leaned back in his chair, releasing a satisfied sigh that hung gently in the air.

“But if it's words you're craving, have no fear,” he added, his voice rich with promise as he smiled at his oldest son, “there are plenty to come. I've a day's worth hoarded away, just for Toregg.”

Shifting his focus back to Aelis, he continued, “And speaking of 'plenty to come',” he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, “mayhaps when I'm done giving Toregg his fatherly advice, I could find some time to... show my loving wife just how much her old man still has in him.” The smile broadened on his weathered face as he waggishly raised his eyebrows.

His comment didn’t go unnoticed. Their son Toregg suddenly started to choke on his meal, a piece of hard bread caught in his throat. His face turned a shade of red matching the early morning sky, much to the amusement of his parents.

Aelis snorted with laughter, rolling her eyes at his antics, her own face flushing a pleasant shade of rose. She waved her spoon in a playful scold. “Always playing the fool, aren't you?” she chided, but the warmth in her eyes belied her reprimanding tone. She knew him well, and his teasing nature was something she had come to love and anticipate over the years. She shook her head, still smiling, “Just make sure you don't fill Toregg's head with too much nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” he questioned, “From me? I'll have you know, my words are pearls of wisdom, passed down through the ages.”

Switching his focus to Toregg, he said, “Don't heed your mother on this, lad. An adventure needs a bit of nonsense, otherwise it's just a walk in the woods.”

“Indeed, father's tales of nonsense are the stuff of legends,” chimed in Torwynd, a sarcastic edge to his voice that was tempered by the grin that unfurled across his face. “He once convinced me that a giant by the name of Blunderbore resides in our old well, and if you dare make a face at him, he'll snatch your nose clean off! Emely was practically in stitches from laughter when I relayed that particular piece of 'wisdom'. It seems your brand of enlightenment, father, is made of tales that serve to make us the butt of the joke.”

With a jovial chuckle, his father replied, “Ah, never underestimate the power of a good yarn, my boy.”

Toregg, suppressing his own chuckles, playfully jabbed his twelve-year-old brother with an elbow. “Tor, you fell for that? Even I knew that was a yarn when I was your age!”

Torwynd was poised to retort, likely ready to underscore some evidence that his brother was the real fool, when Tormund interjected. “Aye, and you two are the living proof that my tales have the desired effect. Kept you away from that crumbling old well, didn’t it? And Toregg, I remember you being scared of the 'nose-stealing Blunderbore' for a good while too!”

The youngest sibling, Munda, chimed in with her bright voice. Her brown hair had been meticulously braided by her mother, styled in a specific manner to honour the impending rite set to transpire on the morrow. “I didn't fall for it,” she announced, her tiny fists planted confidently on her hips in a proud stance. “I went to the well and challenged Blunderbore to show himself.” Her eyes, the same hue as her father's and the only aspect of her that bore his likeness, sparkled with defiance and amusement. “He didn't show up, so I guess he's afraid of me!”

“Ah, that's my fearless little lass!” he lauded, “Never one to back down from a challenge, not even when faced with a giant. It seems Blunderbore has had his lesson well learnt.” Seeing the anticipatory glance from his wife, he knew it was time to address the matter at hand.

“Alright, Toregg,” Tormund finally declared, redirecting his attention towards his eldest son. “Once we've finished the morning meal, we'll have our talk. It's high time you gained a deeper understanding of the Thunor's Quest.”

As the dream wandered on, it eventually narrowed to a scene featuring just the two of them. When the meal came to an end, and the room gradually emptied of its other occupants, Tormund found himself alone with his firstborn who had moved to sit beside him. His heart swelled with pride at the sight of his son - on the cusp of manhood, his eyes glinting with eager anticipation. Yet, the impending separation's reality suddenly bore down heavily on him. Nevertheless, he braced his resolve, recognizing that this was an essential rite of passage for his son.

“Are you prepared?” He inquired. He watched his son’s youthful face as he scratched the beard of someone who had yet to come into himself. His red hair was as striking as his own, a symbol of their shared lineage, yet Toregg carried other aspects of himself as well - his strength, his courage, his ability to fight. Tormund had poured every ounce of effort into ensuring his son would be ready for this moment, and with the head his mother had blessed him with, he had no doubts that Toregg the Tall was poised to grow into a man greater than himself.

“As prepared as I'll ever be,” Toregg responded, his voice steady.

“Son,” he began, his voice rough with emotion, “You understand our traditions, the struggles of our people. We do not survive in these brutal lands because we're the mightiest.”

“I know, Father. It’s our endurance that shields us,” Toregg replied, his understanding mirrored in his solemn expression.

“There’ll be times when your bravery will be the only barrier between life and death, and others when wisdom will save you. Trust in your instincts, in your heart, and you'll discern when to wield each weapon,” Tormund advised, his eyes never leaving his son's face. He noticed a fleeting flicker of doubt.

“Dad?” Toregg ventured after a moment's silence, uncertainty clouding his eyes.

“Yes, my boy?” He encouraged, his voice gentle.

“Were you…” Toregg faltered, and he saw an array of emotions pass over his face. It dawned on him then that his son was nervous, afraid he might fail. “Ah...nevermind.” Toregg's voice faded away, the unasked question poisoning the air.

“Speak your mind Toregg,” he urged, his tone firm. His son had always been one to withhold his fears, his worries, always trying to shoulder his burdens alone.

A tentative smile ghosted on Toregg's face as he looked at his father. It was a look of trust, of relief that he didn't have to put on a brave face, at least not with him. “I understand the responsibilities that rest on my shoulders,” he started, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were faraway, lost in the grandeur of the path he was about to take. “The expectations that our people have of me… they're… they're great.”

Toregg paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, his smile turning a bit rueful. “But Father, I must confess, I’m… I’m scared.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Tormund looked at his son for a moment, a knowing, understanding smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He reached out, his hand closing over his son’s shoulder in a comforting squeeze.

“Scared, you say?” he rumbled, his deep voice resonating in the silent room. “Good. It shows you have wisdom. A man who knows not fear is a fool.”

A hint of surprise flickered in Toregg’s eyes. “Everyone says that you've never felt fear,” he managed to say, a note of youthful admiration colouring his voice.

“Ah, do they now?” Tormund's laughter filled the room, warm and hearty, dispelling the tension like the sun scattering morning mists. He leaned closer to his son. “Let me tell you a secret, Toregg. There's a difference between not feeling fear and choosing to confront it. Every man feels fear, even those who boast they don't, even me.”

He leaned back in his seat, the wood creaking under his weight. “It's easy to think of fear as an enemy, as something that seeks to pull us down. But in truth, fear reminds us that we're alive. It's a force that can either cripple us or drive us forward. The choice is always yours.”

His eyes softened, and he guided the conversation toward a shared memory. “Do you remember your first hunt? When you held the spear in your trembling hands, your breath catching in your throat as the deer looked up from the underbrush?”

Toregg nodded, his cheeks flushing a soft pink under his father's eyes. “I was scared,” he admitted, a sheepish smile touching his face.

“And yet, you didn’t turn back, did you? You took a deep breath, steadied your hands, and struck true. That's what it means to be brave. To feel fear, yet choose to face it. To understand its warning, yet not let it control you.”

Tormund paused, letting his words sink in. “Never forget that, Toregg. It's easy to pretend fear doesn't exist. But accepting it, feeling it and then choosing to face it anyway... That's courage. That's what makes a Free Folk.”

“But what if I fail?” Toregg asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

He remained quiet for a moment, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he considered his son's worry. “Failure is a part of life,” he replied kindly. “We learn, we grow, we become stronger. That's how we survive. That's how our people have survived for generations.”

Seeing the unsure look in his son's eyes, he continued, “And remember, son, no matter the path you take, no matter the choices you make, you will always be my son. I will always be proud of you.”

Toregg swallowed and nodded. “And if I don’t come back?”

Tormund took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with the tide of emotions welling within him. “Every journey, every quest, carries its risks,” he began, his voice steady but gentle. “And yes, there's always a chance you might not return. But remember this, Toregg, it's not the fear of dying that defines a man, but the courage to live, to face the unknown.”

A seriousness took to his eyes that his son rarely saw. “Should it be your fate not to return, remember you'll be joining our ancestors. You won't be forgotten. You'll live on in our stories, in our songs, in our hearts. Your mother, your siblings, and I...we'll miss you every day, but we'll also remember you.”

He forced a smile. “But enough of such talk. Tomorrow awaits, and it holds no certainty for any of us. What matters is the here and now. Let's face the morrow when it comes, shall we?”

“Indeed, Father,” Toregg responded, a firm nod following his affirmation. “I shall take your words to heart. I won't let fear rule me.”

With a fond smile, Tormund replied, “That's my lad.”

After a moment, he spoke again, “I have something for you.” He reached under the table to pull out a small, carefully wrapped package. He put it on the rough-hewn table in front of his son.

Curiosity lighting up his eyes, Toregg unwrapped the package, revealing a splendidly crafted dagger. Its hilt was adorned with meticulous carvings of mythical beasts – a testament to their clan's lore and legends. The blade glimmered in the firelight, its polished surface casting a play of shadows and light around the room.

Toregg's eyes widened in awe.

“It's more than just a weapon,” Tormund explained, “It belonged to your grandfather, and his before him. It's a reminder of who we are, where we come from.”

He paused, looking at his son. “Use it well, Toregg. And remember, no matter how far you travel, you carry our history.”

Toregg's voice was firm, his words filled with conviction as he met his father's eyes. “Thank you, Dad. I won't let our people down. I won't let you down.”

Tormund blinked, and the vivid imagery of the dream faded away as he opened his eyes. He found himself in the familiar confines of his tent, the early morning light stealthily making its way in, casting long, wavering shadows. The tent walls rustled gently in the chilly breeze and his head throbbed lightly, a dull ache pulsating at his temples.

“Nothing you could do would let me down,” he murmured to the empty room, the memory of his son's determined eyes still fresh in his mind.

Chapter Text

Elrik found himself amidst the other village men for their hunting party. As they stealthily advanced through the dense woods, weapons at the ready, Torvald—a broad-shouldered man with a robust beard—whispered to him.

“Have you caught wind of the talks with Tormund Giantsbane’s clan?” Torvald asked, shooting a discreet glance at Elrik while they maneuverer around tree roots and brush.

Elrik's curiosity was ignited. “Aye, I've caught whispers. Dalla mentioned they might be keen on trading.” He smirked briefly, then, his face adopting a more serious mien, he probed, “Tormund, isn't he the one they call the Mead-King of Ruddy Hall?”

“Exactly that one. Word is, he's rallying some tribes against the Lord of Bones, after the events at Ruddy Hall,” Torvald shared.

Another voice from the hunting party resonated, belonging to Arnor, an elderly man with a long, grey beard that flowed down his chest, reminiscent of a silvery cascade. Arnor was deeply rooted in these woods, having navigated their expanses for more seasons than anyone else in the village. To him, the rustling of leaves and the gentle whispers of streams were akin to the voices of family. Village tales often said that Arnor held conversations with the forest, and that in response, the trees would lean in to hear his words.

“It was a sorrowful event,” the venerable hunter intoned, a shake of his head emphasizing his words. “Rumour has it Tormund lost both his wife and eldest son in the turmoil.”

Before Elrik could digest Arnor's words, a brisk, vibrant voice cut through the forest’s hush like a swift arrow. Rollo, known in the village for his agility and uncanny knack for gathering information, chimed in, casting a glance at the group. He was of a lithe build, his raven-black hair pulled back into an ornate braid, adorned with little curiosities he had acquired over time.

“Indeed, one might assume Tormund would thirst for revenge. Yet, the whispers I've caught tell a different tale,” Rollo said, an arched eyebrow emphasizing his words, drawing the curious gazes of those nearby.

Elrik's focus shifted to Rollo, intrigued. “And what might that tale be?”

“Tormund doesn’t lead the tribe,” Rollo relayed crisply, crossing his arms over his slender frame.

“But he's returned, hasn't he?”

“Aye, he has. But it appears to be for trade negotiations, nothing more. The tribe? It doesn’t truly belong to him any longer. I've set eyes on the new leader - Thistle of Antler River. She's as relentless as a storm and as crafty as any fox,” Rollo declared, a hint of smug satisfaction colouring his voice, as though he was revealing a coveted secret. “Tormund's new alliances are with the Woodland Tribe. Therein lies his true agenda.”

Suddenly, Elrik couldn't contain his amusement. Laughing heartily, he declared, “Thistle of Antler River? Isn't she the lass barely taller than a bear cub on its hind legs?”

The infectious laughter spread amongst the hunters. “By the gods, you're spot on!” Rollo laughed in agreement. “Yet, believe me, with just a swift move of her blade, she could topple giants!”

As the chuckles subsided, a reflective quiet settled upon the group. It was Arnor who broke the silence, musing, “Revenge is a weighty burden to put aside.”

Rollo, always the outspoken one, dismissed the notion with a scoff. “Sounds like craven's talk to me.”

Arnor, fixing his eyes on Rollo, responded with measured intensity, “Tormund is anything but craven.”

Torvald's brows knit together as he processed the new information. Leaning in, he shared in a hushed tone, “Harma has more than enough reasons to loathe The Lord of Bones already. If Tormund stays in these parts, she might very well back his thirst for vengeance.”

Rollo, brushing a twig from his hair with a smirk, retorted, “Sounds like you’re yearning for some skirmish.”

Elrik smiled. “Torvald has always had a hunger for battle.” With a pat on Torvald’s back, he teased, “Isn’t that so, old friend?”

“In truth, what's a warrior without a war? It’s high time my son felt the rush of combat,” Torvald stated, puffing out his chest. He cast a meaningful glance towards his son, River, who was at the fringes of the group. River's lithe frame always seemed alight with an unyielding energy. His chestnut hair, unruly and wind-tossed, framed a face that, while youthful, bore the signs of weather and wind. As he met his father's eyes, a blend of respect and unease flickered in them . The boy was ripe for the baptism of battle.

Elrik, rubbing his chin and stroking his beard, pondered aloud, “Antler River isn't exactly a stone's throw away. It surprises me that Tormund would choose to return to a place so near his roots.”

Torvald nodded. “Aye, but there's that old saying, isn’t there? ‘A wolf returns to its den, driven not by longing but by instinct.’ Perhaps the land beckons him, drawing him back for reasons of its own.”

“The land has a voice for those who heed it,” chimed in Arnor. His voice, when he spoke, seemed akin to the whisper of leaves. “Perhaps he has ties yet unsevered, or mayhaps the spirits move him in ways unknown.”

“Given the recent dark history near the wall, it's a wonder anyone would choose to settle close by,” Rollo commented, shaking his head with a hint of distaste as if the memory itself was bitter on his tongue.

“Much time has passed since that tragic day,” Elrik remarked calmly.

“But not enough time,” interjected Arnor.

“Be that as it may, he had other tribes at his disposal,” he persisted, not willing to let the point rest.

“That he did,” Rollo clarified, his fingers dancing through the air as though tracing the tribe's movements. “But they're a wandering lot—roaming the land, pausing to trade, then moving on. They don't anchor themselves to places, just to the ever-shifting winds. Only the Old Gods might know the reasons.”

At that, Torvald chimed in eagerly, his eyes sparkling and a grin lighting up his bearded visage. “Have you fellows heard the yarns regarding Tormund’s late wife? Word has it she was a she-bear!” His voice was full of gusto, like a bard in full swing.

“No, don’t you dare snicker! I swear on my blade, I’m not jesting,” Torvald raised his voice over a smattering of laughter that had broken out among them.

Rollo’s laughter bubbled over, like a brook in springtime, “By the spirits, Torvald! What tales will you bring next? That she was the Bear Queen, and Tormund's gathering an army of forest animals to reclaim his crown?”

Intrigued, he turned to him. “Pray tell, Dagr, what is this tale? It’s not one that’s graced my ears.”

“Jest as you like, but you wouldn't want to end up on the wrong side of his axe,” Arnor warned, a hint of amusement in his eyes and the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Elrik chuckled, “Now that's a showdown I'd part with coin to see.”

“Legends also speak of Giantsbane wrestling a giant to the ground when he was but a lad,” chimed in a voice, deep and resonating. It belonged to a towering figure, with bulging muscles and eyes as black as midnight. Dagr, a man of scarce words, often observed from the fringes.

“Oh, it’s quite the story,” Dagr stated, his expression giving nothing away. “They say when Tormund was but ten-and-three, he stumbled upon a sleeping giant. Rather than running away, he dared to wrestle it. He didn’t win, but he fought so bravely that the giant spared him, and they became as kin.”

“The man certainly has no lack of daring. But I’ve never laid eyes on a giant in these parts, let alone one that would take a human into its fold,” Elrike countered.

“The forests here harbor more secrets than you might think,” Arnor remarked, his eyes distant and thoughtful.

Dagr went on, his face remaining enigmatic, but for a fleeting second, there seemed to be a playful glint in his eyes. “And did you hear the one where Tormund boasts of having killed a giant and then taking shelter in its bear-skin coat? He tricked the giant's mate into believing he was her babe.”

He erupted in laughter. “By the Old Gods, what a yarn! I'd wager there's scarcely a grain of truth in it.”

Just then, River piped up with wide-eyed curiosity. “Why haven’t we ever allied with them before? Back when he was known as the Mead-King?”

“Harma Dogshead harbors a strong distaste for skinchangers,” Arnor replied with an air of certainty.

“Aye, that's the lone judgment we share with that cursed Lord of Bones,” Torvald said, venom evident in his tone.

Elrik’s eyes shifted to the young River, who was watching them with an earnestness only found in the curious and unjaded. “Skinchangers... they wield powers that defy the natural order. Legends say they can slip into the skins of beasts, see through their eyes, control their actions,” he elucidated. He paused, weighing his words. “Controlling another living being, to see through its eyes – it’s not right. Our tribe respects the beasts. Thinks they should be free, not bound to the whims of a human.”

“Aside from dogs, of course,” Torvald added with a cheeky smirk.

Holding a hint of trepidation, Harvald interjected, “Who's to say what other twisted plotting they can perform with their minds? Slipping into dreams, pilfering secrets, hexing kin. To meddle with the natural order is to become corrupted. They're akin to witches, I tell you,” his voice growing more fervent with each word.

The air grew tense as everyone shared their thoughts. It was young River, with eyes as big as saucers, who finally broke the silence, his voice just above a hush yet piercing the surrounding murmur of nature, “Has any of you truly encountered a skinchanger?”

The subsequent pause was palpable, and it was Torvald, River's father, who ventured a response. Looking deeply into his son’s eyes, he intoned, “Such beings rarely venture here, boy. And it's best they don't,” his voice carrying an unmistakable note of finality.

“Legend holds that skinchangers are stewards of age-old knowledge, protectors of the woods and the creatures within. Yet, their arcane abilities can bind souls, tethering them against their will,” Arnor stated.

Lost in thought, Elrik pondered, “With the winds of change ever swirling, I ponder if a day might come when we have to unite with such accursed beings.” His eyes scanned the men assembled, reading each countenance. While a few appeared pensive, others wore expressions of undisguised aversion. The mere conjecture seemed to cast a cold shadow over the gathering, making the notion seem all the more distant.

Dagr stepped forward, his voice, typically reserved, now resonated with a gravity that commanded the men's attention. “Years ago, there was old Eork. It's said he compelled a bear to ravage an entire hunting party, rending them apart, all over a simple disagreement. And when his time came, even the crows, those ever-hungry scavengers, dared not touch his corpse. Such was his tainted aura.”

Elrik felt an involuntary chill, as if the mere invocation of Eork's tale stirred the very energies around them. He huddled in, arms crossed, as though warding off the spectral remnants of the story.

Rollo, taking a moment and lowering his voice, murmured, “Even crows can sense the rot within certain souls.”

Elrik then quietly intoned a prayer, fingers brushing the time-worn wooden pendant that adorned his neck, inscribed with runes from ages past. Lost briefly in a memory, he recalled the counsel and directive given to him by their tribe's chieftain. Pulling himself back to the present and with resolute determination evident in his posture, he declared, “I've been called to survey the lands to the west. Duty beckons, and I must heed its call.”

The group acknowledged Elrik's statement, with several men exchanging uneasy glances. The western lands were steeped in legend and whispered tales of ancient, untamed wilderness that few from their village dared to traverse.

“Take heed, Elrik. The spirits that dwell in those ancient woods are known to be unwelcoming to outsiders,” Arnor cautioned, his voice deep and resonant.

With a nod of understanding, Elrik replied, “I will honour the Old Gods and tread carefully.”

Arnor met his gaze directly. “Would you permit me to journey alongside you? Two pairs of eyes are wiser than one, and my blade may yet serve us both.”

He regarded him for a moment, then his face broke into a warm smile. He nodded appreciatively. “Aye, your company would be welcome, Arnor. Few know the forest as you do.”

As they began to distance themselves from the group, the overhead canopy played with the sun’s rays, creating a dappled pattern on the snow beneath them. Their exchange gradually shifted to more mundane matters, and the burdensome discussions of skinchangers felt distant. Grateful for the shift, Elrik relished the opportunity to steer his mind away from the mysteries and enigmas of their world, immersing himself in the simpler, more immediate joys of existence.

“You know, Ylva caught a rabbit the other day,” Elrik mentioned, pride seeping into his voice.

The old man’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “Did she now?”

“Yes, exactly where I showed her! Right by the stream's edge using a simple snare,” Elrik boasted with a grin. Together, they ventured deeper into the thick woods, their senses heightened, always on the lookout for any hint of movement or potential game. With the quietude of the forest surrounding them, Elrik unsheathed his bow in a fluid motion, ever ready. Both men were acutely aware that they'd need to journey a bit longer before reaching the more bustling parts of the woodland. While their main task was scouting, not hunting, the idea of returning with fresh game was tempting. But for now, their priority was to observe and gather intel, knowing full well that lugging a catch would only hinder their primary mission.

Arnor smiled back. “Ah, takes after her father, she does.”

“She can’t get enough of them now. I’ve even seen her hopping about, nose twitching, fully lost in her own little world. She’s a dreamer, that one,” Elrik chuckled, his voice imbued with warmth and fondness.

Arnor couldn’t help but chuckle along. “That sounds like a sight to behold.”

“Oh, it gets better. She's made a little den for it, and she says she talks to it. Swears it understands her. She chased it, caught it, and then decided it was too precious to be dinner. Now it’s got a little fortress made of blankets and boxes.”

Arnor shook his head in amusement. “You have quite the tender-hearted huntress in your family.”

“Aye, I do,” Elrik replied with a heartfelt sigh, an affectionate smile playing on his lips.

Their footsteps synced as they ventured further, but the conversation dimmed. Elrik's thoughts meandered back to earlier that day. The dawn's embrace had made the meadow shimmer, the dew on the grass mimicking a blanket of gems. With each step Elrik and Ylva had taken, the soft crunch of snow punctuated the morning's stillness. The forest roused from slumber, its denizens beginning their daily routines, while golden beams of sunlight dappled the woodland floor. Ylva's eyes, a radiant blue, mirrored the vibrancy of the dawn sky. At six, her zest for life was as vast as the world itself.

“Father, bet you can't catch the snow hare!” Ylva's voice was filled with playful challenge. She danced between the trees, her petite feet scarcely making an imprint on the snow, her golden braids swaying, almost teasingly, as Elrik tried to keep pace.

“Oh, but the mighty hunter has many tricks up his sleeves! Prepare to be caught, little hare!” Elrik boomed back, his deep voice resonating through the trees. His robust figure moved with unexpected grace as he chased his daughter, always just a step behind, his laughter harmonizing with hers.

As they ran through the trees, the forest seemed to embrace them with open arms. Leaves rustled, and birds began to sing as if cheering them on. Suddenly, Ylva stopped dead in her tracks. A mischievous twinkle in her eye, she cupped her hands to her mouth and mimicked the call of a thrush with such authenticity that even the birds in the trees paused to listen.

He halted and looked around in amazement. “By the spirits, little one! Where did you learn to call the birds like that?” he inquired, his voice tinged with admiration.

Ylva's giggles were the answer. She darted towards a nearby stream, and he followed, now more curious than ever. As they reached the stream, Ylva pointed towards a small nest nestled in the crook of a tree. Inside were three eggs, about to be greeted by the world. Elrik knelt beside his daughter, and they watched in silence. The leaves rustled as a small, nimble bird with speckled brown feathers flitted into the nest. It began to chirp loudly, almost as if reprimanding them for coming too close.

“Father, did you hear that? It's singing to us!” Ylva exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

With his gaze fixed on the animated little bird, he knelt down further to be at level with Ylva. His voice softened as he spoke, “Aye, my little sprite. They carry the stories of the forest in their songs. What do you think they are saying?”

He could see Ylva's brow furrow as she thought deeply, listening to the melodies and chirps emanating from the trees around them. Her face brightened, “They’re telling us that today is a good day for adventures and finding treasures!” she declared with enthusiasm.

Elrik chuckled, ruffling her golden hair, “Always the imaginative one, aren't you? If the birds say so, then who are we to disagree?”

Ylva's face lit up with a mischievous grin. She clapped her hands together, her eyes dancing with excitement. They darted around, scanning the forest floor, trailing up the ancient trees, and darting between the underbrush. “Then, let's go on a treasure hunt!” she declared.

Just then, a familiar voice pierced through the forest. “Elrik! Ylva!” The voice, honeyed with warmth and affection, belonged to Sylvi. She was Elrik’s beloved wife and Ylva’s doting mother. Her call came from their quaint hut.

Elrik's face lit up with a smile, turning to his daughter, he teased, “Seems another treasure beckons, my nimble hare.”

They cast one last look at the nest, where a watchful mother bird sat, before walking back hand in hand towards their home. The tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread grew stronger with each step. Nearing the hut, Ylva pulled gently on Elrik’s sleeve, her face earnest. She whispered, “Promise we will play like this every morning?”

Bending to meet her eyes, Elrik replied with gentle conviction, “I promise, Ylva. Every morning, as long as the stars light up the night.”

Joy shimmered in Ylva's eyes, threatening to spill over. She hugged Elrik tightly, murmuring, “Thank you, Father.”

Embracing her in return, Elrik cherished the simplicity and truth of that instant. “Every dawn, my woodland sprite,” he murmured, placing a gentle kiss on her brow. While such gentleness might seem out of place among the free folk, at his core, he was largely indifferent to their traditions and societal norms, or at least to some of them. They had yearned for a child for many years. Memories of the lost ones, of buried bodies and shed blood, flooded his mind. He quickly shook his head, and hastily pushed those thoughts away, grounding himself in the present. To the scouting. A distant rustling from the trees caught his attention, but what struck him more was the eerie silence that followed.

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” Arnor abruptly asked, before he could voice the same question.

“Aye, it is.” He hesitated, glancing around, increasingly conscious of the piercing cold that had seemingly come out of nowhere. Elrik pulled his cloak more snugly around him. “It’s as if the very air is... alive. I’ve not felt a chill like this before.”

Arnor's eyes narrowed on the trees. Despite the stillness, the cold was sharp, almost tangible. “We must press on. The woods have a way of deceiving the senses.”

As they ventured deeper, the cold grew more suffocating, and the once lively forest now stood oppressively silent. A shadowy movement caught Elrik's eye — dark figures darted between the trees, almost invisible against the dense foliage. Instinctively, he nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring. His body, primed for action, belied a tremor he had never felt before. Every fibre of his being urged him to run.

Arnor, usually so stoic, looked visibly shaken, his voice barely more than a breath. “Hold your ground, Elrik.”

“Arnor,” Elrik whispered tensely, his voice laden with anxiety. They flattened themselves against the sturdy trunks of nearby trees, straining their eyes to discern the elusive forms in the dimness.

Drawing his blade, Arnor murmured, “Keep sharp,” his voice barely audible.

The soft murmur of leaves soon transformed into a more distinct rustling. Suddenly, a haunting sound – reminiscent of wind howling through an empty tree trunk – echoed from the undergrowth, jolting them both.

The encroaching darkness coupled with a thick mist made it almost impossible to see, adding to their mounting unease.

They squinted through the dim light to make out what was approaching. What emerged was unlike any creature they had ever encountered. Their skin was an ashy hue, pulled taut over protruding bones, and their garments were mere remnants, hanging in shreds. These beings were once human, or so it appeared, but no longer. Their movements were most unsettling; disjointed and awkward, as though their limbs had forgotten how to coordinate or had been pieced together from disparate parts.

“By the Old Gods…” Elrik breathed, a shiver of horror running through him. His eyes, desperate for clarity in the muted light, grew wide as he tried to process the grotesque sight. It felt as if his very essence rejected what he saw. His once-reliable legs felt rooted to the spot, and his well-honed muscles, which had served him well in numerous battles, betrayed him now. A sense of cold dread snaked its way into his very core, and his heart raced, its rhythm thunderous in his ears.

The primal part of his brain, his deep-rooted instinct for survival, was screaming at him again. Yet, the sheer otherworldliness of these beings seemed to etch that raw fear into the very marrow of his bones, holding him captive in its icy grip. Though his bow was drawn, arrow poised to fly, he was a statue, immobilized by the terror before him.

In that endless moment, every sensation became heightened. The rhythmic inhale and exhale of Arnor's breath, and the creaking of the creatures' movements all magnified, echoing loud and clear in his ears. He clenched the bow's grip until his knuckles whitened, the pain a fleeting anchor in the overwhelming storm of emotions. His hands felt slick with sweat, and each exhale materialized into misty tendrils in the chill air.

Then, with a suddenness that was unnerving, one of the figures made a swift, jerky movement towards them. It was a blur of pallid skin and tattered cloth, closing the distance with terrifying speed. Arnor reacted almost instantaneously. With practiced agility, he lunged forward, grabbing Elrik by the scruff of his tunic and yanking him back. Amidst the upheaval, Elrik's bow and arrow tumbled from his fingers, sinking into the soft snow beneath.

Through clenched teeth, the veteran warrior growled, “Elrik, snap out of it!” He repelled the advancing creature with a swift arc of his blade. Though Elrik's ears captured Arnor's words, his mind remained ensnared in the maelstrom of dread.

With a ferocity born of desperation, Arnor fought like a man possessed. His sword swung in arcs of silver, holding back the horrors through pure grit and will. His face was set in grim lines, as he parried and slashed. From his peripheral, Elrik's breath caught as he noticed a figure approaching Arnor from the side, not with the shambling steps of the others, but with a fluid, haunting elegance. This one's flesh still clung to its frame, not yet ravaged to the same extent as its peers. A jolt of realization hit Elrik: it was Dovan, the young warrior who had vanished but a moon’s turn ago. He felt pressure as something gripped his heart, yet he found himself unable to move or shout a warning.

In that elongated moment, as if trapped in a waking nightmare, Elrik could discern every minute detail. The way Dovan, or whatever he had become, glided toward Arnor was simultaneously ethereal and malevolent, his body bending with an almost serpentine grace. Then, in a deliberate, chilling act, the transformed Dovan drove himself onto Arnor's outstretched blade.

A warm, wet sensation seeped down Elrik's legs.

Its skin tore with a sickening, wet sound. The monster's blood oozed black and thick like tar. It then used its horrifically distorted arm to seize Arnor, pulling him close as though embracing a loved one. Its nails dug deep into Arnor's flesh, eliciting fresh rivulets of blood that streamed down his arm.

The creature's jaws unhinged to a grotesque width, revealing a maw filled with decayed teeth. With predatory swiftness, it sank them deep into Arnor's throat. The resultant spew of blood was jarringly vivid against the pallor of the forest snow; it jetted out in rhythmic pulses, splattering the creature's face as it seemed to revel in the warmth.

A guttural, pained whimper escaped Arnor's lips.

Amid this macabre scene, another creature, which Arnor had been fending off, cast aside its corroded blade. Emitting a raw, savage growl, it grasped a stone from the ground. Its eyes focused intently on its prey. It lunged, wielding the rock with brutal force, raining blows upon Arnor. Each strike echoed a harrowing crunch, as flesh and bone crumpled under the unyielding onslaught.

The forest seemed to close in, the very air thick with the coppery scent of blood and the earthy aroma of the forest floor soaked in the dark, viscous fluid. The creatures, still tearing and gnashing, were making sounds too – a cacophony of gurgles, snarls, and ripping noises.

As if something broke within him, his body surged into motion. His legs, a frantic flurry, bore him through the thicket, driven by the raw urgency of prey fleeing a relentless predator. Each inhale was a painful gulp of frigid air, while his exhales came out in shaky bursts through clenched teeth.

Tears, mingling with the sweat and dirt of his face, streamed freely. The sharp tang of salt and the acrid taste of his own terror coated his tongue. His nose ran, the cold exacerbating the flow. As the forest around him blurred in a dizzying whirl, an irresistible urge compelled him to throw a frantic glance over his shoulder, his eyes wide and frantic, scanning the gloom for any hint of pursuit.

His head whipped forward again, and before he could even register the figure before him, his foot caught on something and sent him tumbling. The world spun as he and the figure collided, a mess of flailing limbs and panic. His heart's furious drumming drowned out all sense of reality. Then he felt the chilling grasp of the entity wrestling him. Its fingers were like ice, their touch searingly cold. The grip was relentless, not fingers but rather bones that dug mercilessly into his skin. He screamed.

His gaze, panicked and wild, locked onto the nightmare that held him. Its body was skeletal, little more than bones veiled in the ragged remnants of flesh, now decaying and clinging desperately like drapery. The creature's visage was patches of discoloured skin stretched over its hollowed face, the remnants of what might have once been lips now desiccated and contorted in a deathly rictus.

But it was the creature's eyes that truly struck terror into the core of his soul. Deep within sunken hollows, a pair of luminous blue eyes glimmered, akin to twin sapphires set against a backdrop of darkness. These irises, impossibly vibrant, seemed to pierce through him, captivating his very essence. Elrik felt ensnared. They beckoned, drawing him in.

With a surge of strength he didn't know he possessed, Elrik retaliated. Grappling with the creature, his hands found their way to its torso. Beneath tattered remnants of clothing and decaying skin, he could distinctly feel the fragile bones beneath. With newfound determination, he squeezed, feeling the brittle structure give way. Propelled by sheer terror and the instinct to survive, he thrashed about violently. His legs thrusted, his arms wrestled, and his own nails raked across the creature's putrid skin. Its exhalations, which could barely be described as breath, released a nauseating stench of rot and decay.

Driven by adrenaline and sheer desperation, he managed to thrust the creature away. Gaining momentary distance, he scrambled upright, poised to flee.

As he regained his footing, a force akin to being struck by a hammer slammed into his back. The impact threatened to send him sprawling, but the surge of adrenaline numbed the pain, urging him onward. Despite his burning lungs and protesting muscles, he sprinted ahead, determined not to glance back.

He sprinted through the forest. The sharp branches and foliage whipped against his face and arms, tearing at his skin. His breaths came in gasps. He barely registered the gradual thinning of the trees until, suddenly, he burst through the forest’s edge into a clearing. The abrupt transition was so jarring that he almost lost his footing, but he staggered forward. In front of him lay the settlement of his tribe, with tents and fires scattered across the clearing.

His momentum carried him straight into the heart of the village. His entrance was like a storm; wild-eyed, clothes torn, drenched in sweat and blood, and stained by his own fear. His arrival drew the immediate attention of his fellow tribesmen and women, their faces morphing into expressions of concern and shock.

He struggled to speak, to warn them, but his voice was a mere rasp. His body was giving in, his legs buckling under him. His words came out more as broken whispers than coherent sentences. “They... the forest...” His legs finally gave way, and he collapsed to the ground, drawing a crowd around him. Eyes filled with panic met those of worry and confusion.

As Elrik lay on the ground, gasping for breath and fighting to remain conscious, a figure pushed through to him. It was his wife, Sylvi. Her face was pale as moonlight, her eyes wide with disbelief as she fell to her knees beside him.

“Sylvi...” he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. Her presence ignited a flicker of urgency within him. He had to warn her. They weren't safe. They had to flee.

“They... the forest... blue eyes… we must... leave,” he struggled to piece the words together, his voice as ragged as torn fabric. His wife’s eyes filled with tears as she looked at him, her hands trembling as she tried to touch him without causing more pain.

It was then that he became aware of the wet warmth that was spreading across his back and pooling beneath him. It was blood - his blood. But why? His thoughts were scattered, and it was becoming harder to focus.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that didn't belong. Something dark and angular protruding from his back. With an effort that felt as if it would tear his soul from his body, he turned his head and reached back with his hand. His fingers brushed against the cold metal embedded in his back. An axe. His heart skipped a beat as the realization hit him like a bolt of lightning.

“Take Ylva,” he urged. “Run, Sylvi. Don't... don't look back.”

As Sylvi looked into his eyes, she placed her hands tenderly on either side of his face. Her palms were warm. She forced a smile onto her face. A smile that was as brave as it was fragile.

“It's okay, Elrik. We’ll fix this,” she breathed, her voice shaky.

She continued to hold his gaze as her tears fell down her cheeks. Searching his face. She pleaded, “Stay with me, love.”

“I can fix this,” she repeated, more to herself than to him, as if trying to will it into reality. She clasped her hands together as if in prayer, while her eyes remained locked on him.

Her touch and words were like anchors, desperately trying to keep him grounded, but he felt himself drifting, lost in a vast, shadowy abyss. Amidst the fog, her pleas reached his ears, her voice quivering with emotion. “No! Elrik, you can't leave. Please, stay with me.”

His consciousness wavered, and he was pulled into a memory from earlier that day. “What's on your mind, my fierce hunter?” she had playfully asked, her voice dripping with flirtatious undertones.

A broad, genuine smile spread across Elrik’s face. “Just wondering how I, in all my wanderings, found the greatest treasure in all the land,” he responded.

Upon hearing his words, a soft blush graced Sylvi's cheeks, reminiscent of dawn's gentle embrace. He had then kissed her.

Her voice, laden with desperation, pierced through the heaviness around him. “Elrik! Fight!” she implored, her voice fraying with emotion. The touch of her fingers on his cheek felt like searing embers. Inside, he ached to reach out, to grasp her hands and shower them with kisses, to assure her that he'd battle with every fibre of his being for their sake. But his body was unresponsive, a ship caught in a storm that it couldn’t steer away from.

As his senses blurred, his focus involuntarily shifted and there she was - their daughter. Small and fragile, her hair cascading like golden waves, her blue eyes - mirrors of his own - wide with terror and confusion. His heart shattered into a thousand pieces. If he could have, he would have caught each tear falling from her eyes and turned them into smiles.

A memory from the morning tugged at his consciousness. As Sylvi prepared to leave, she turned to Ylva, who was engrossed in conversation with Elrik, and offered, “Ylva, would you like to join me today? I could use some help gathering herbs.”

Ylva’s eyes lit up like twin stars at her mother’s proposition. “Yes! Can Father come too?” she responded eagerly, looking between her parents.

Elrik, who was now donning his hunting gear, shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, little one, not today,” he said with a touch of regret in his voice.

Ylva’s face fell slightly but perked up again quickly. The prospect of accompanying her mother on her ventures was too exciting he guessed. She scampered to get her little cloak. As she returned, her eyes directed towards him, she pointed a tiny finger. “Alright, Father, but you must promise to bring back a story from your hunt!” she demanded.

He had then bent down to meet her. “I promise, my little hare.”

Tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He wished he could gather her into his arms, wipe away her terror, and promise her the safety that every child should have.

His mind was in turmoil; the dizziness intensified like a whirlwind threatening to sweep him away. Yet, he struggled against it with all the fibres of his being, wanting - needing - to remain just a little longer.

“No! Stay! Elrik!” Sylvi’s voice echoed like thunder in his ears as she shook him harder. An abrupt calm swept over him. His body, weary and battered, sought refuge. His head, heavy as lead, descended upon her shoulder. Her scent enveloped him, familiar and comforting - a mixture of lavender and a hint of something that was uniquely hers.

His eyelids fluttered closed as he fought to stay awake. He wished to speak, to tell her that he loved her, to tell her she needs to run. But words eluded him. The world around him dimmed, the cacophony muted into whispers. The shadows in his periphery grew, pooling around him. And then, as if he were a leaf falling gently from a tree, he slept.

The contours of reality grew indistinct. He was distantly aware of Sylvi’s sobs softening and of her gentle rocking. Her voice grew fainter until it was like the ghost of a touch.

And then, nothing.

The sensation of awakening was not an isolated event, but a wave that spread through the ranks - a shared spark that fanned into an eerie, collective consciousness. He felt a sense of connection, not bound to the shell of his decaying form but entwined with a network of minds, forming a single, resonating entity.

Voices. Human voices.

They cut through the numbing veil of his existence, the sounds reverberating oddly in his hollowed shell.

“He'll survive.”

“Sylvi! You've gone mad. He's already dead.”

“I just have to find the right—”

“It’s not going to bring him back if he is already gone.”

“Trying can't hurt, can it?”

“Dalla, this is not something we should be fostering.”

Each word was like a shard of hot iron piercing his frigid world, evoking memories of a life that once was. He felt the prodding of fingers against his pallid flesh. It was an aberrant sensation - a sizzle of heat that taunted his frigid being.

“There is no life song.”

Rise. Fight. Kill.

The mantra pulsed through the depths of his consciousness, an incessant, relentless rhythm that hammered against the frigid walls of his existence. It was more than a command; it was a call, a relentless howl echoing through the endless night, unifying them, propelling them.

The fingers departed from his neck, yet a hand lingered on his shoulder.

“Sylvi, my dear, don't weep. It's time we laid him to rest.”

An intrusive warmth lingered where the fingers had touched.

“No, look! He's not dead!”

Instinct, borne of the searing heat, drove him to lash out. His teeth, seemingly carved from ice rather than bone, found their mark on the source of the heat. He bit down hard.

Rise. Fight. Kill.

A scream cleaved the biting air. The taste of life's warmth, as foreign as it was familiar, spread across his tongue, yet it offered no pleasure, no fulfillment except for the chill of the blood as it was exposed to the air. It was simply an act, an instinctive response to the ceaseless drumbeat of commands reverberating within him.

Suddenly, a blade was thrust into his eye. There was no pain, only a distant sensation of obstruction. His jaws clamped even tighter around the hand he had bitten, feeling the crunch of bones, then he latched onto the arm for a better hold. His gaze landed on her exposed neck, and an innate understanding of his next move took hold.

Rise. Fight. Kill.

Hands were suddenly all over him, grappling, pulling. He refused to relinquish the wrist, gnawing relentlessly until the wrist was severed cleanly from the arm. He was still gripping it in his jaws as he was roughly shoved into a cage. He spat it out. It served no purpose now.

When he reached for the bars, the act was mirrored a thousandfold. Shadows played upon the icy ground, their dance observed not by one, but by an army of lifeless watchers, each perspective slightly skewing the surrounding reality.

Rise. Fight. Kill.

Chapter Text

“Thistle,” he began, “we must discuss the matter of the trade.”

Thistle turned to face him, her sharp eyes softening at the evident unease in his demeanour. Her hand paused midway through the complex knot she was weaving. “That's exactly the reason I'm here, Kieran,” she responded, her tone tinged with dry humour. “To listen to your troubles in the midst of my fleeting moments of peace and quiet.”

Choosing to disregard the barb, Kieran found himself leaning against the rough bark of a nearby tree. “I've been thinking,” he admitted, his eyes focused on the ground as if he could unravel the mysteries of the realm from the patterns in the dirt if he stared long enough. “I can't help but feel that we're walking into a snare.”

Thistle shot him a sharp look, the hint of surprise evident on her face. He supposed she hadn't anticipated such reticence from him, as he usually demonstrated faith in her strategies. Yet, this was a perilous time to gamble, and a gamble he had not been privy to until recently, and still wasn’t completely privy to. It sent echoes of past mistakes reverberating in his mind.

“Do the members of this tribe think me both deaf and blind?” she retorted, a touch of indignant defensiveness creeping into her voice. “The dangers are as clear to me as they are to everyone else. Of course, we're aware of the risks. There's always a risk involved, isn't there? But our need for allies is becoming dire. Chances like the one their tribe is offering don't present themselves often.”

Meeting her scrutiny, he felt his lips tightening into a thin line as he digested her words. “And that,” he responded, “is precisely what's causing my unease.”

“Have you given any thought to where we stand with the Lord of Bones if this situation gets twisted against us?” He posed the question, not so much to enlighten her to the possibility – for it was rather obvious – but more in hope that Thistle would actually acknowledge it. But that hope seemed slight.

With a grumble of annoyance, she resumed her weaving. “Aye, it's possible, no doubt, but consider the stakes. If we don't trade, we'll be fighting over scraps when winter hardens it’s hold. We can't push forward without making some friends. Surely, you're not suggesting we cower forever, are you? Already our folk mutter about our craven ways, not to mention the views of others. We're fast becoming easy pickings, while your imagined enemy sits comfortably.”

Kieran interjected, “He’s watching, Thistle.”

“Let him watch,” she retorted dismissively. “Your mistrust is doing his job for him. Our young wolf, when he grows up, won't be content hiding in the shadows, I promise you.”

For a moment, he simply looked at her, the question unasked but apparent in his eyes. Sensing his inquiry, she paused her weaving and swivelled to meet his eyes, her expression sincere. “What we require now is patience. Everything will reveal itself in time.”

“There are strings being pulled.”

“Yes, as there always will be, yet no strings lead here, not yet, or is there reason I should know to doubt such?” She asked, but didn’t wait for a reply. She continued, “the night is a time for hiding, but dawn is approaching, and I'd prefer to be standing with a weapon poised in my hands when the light finds me.”

“And what makes you so sure about that?” Kieran asked, an edge of scepticism in his voice. Even as the words spilled out, unbidden, his thoughts centred on Harlyn's manipulations. Whether they made a move or not, Harlyn would always be in the game, no matter his silence – either turning their pieces against them or enveloping them with his own.

Thistle merely shrugged, her hands resuming their intricate dance as she wove. “Intuition, if you'd like to call it that,” she replied. “We can't always know the precise workings of things. Sometimes, we have to trust the natural order of the realm.”

Kieran understood her sentiment. Their time was dwindling, and it was better for them to be in a position where they could rally support than to be hopelessly outnumbered. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was all a trap.

“Or perhaps you're mistaking the moon for the sun,” he countered to her nonsense. He signed and then tilted his head slightly as the puzzle seemed to fall in place. “You don't actually know what task we're being requested to undertake, do you?” he ventured.

She met his eyes, a tense few moments passing between them. After a weighty pause, she finally conceded.

With an accepting nod, she confessed, “The precise nature of the task, no, I don’t.” Nevertheless, she held firm eye contact as she went on, “But remember this, Kieran, I don’t make these decisions lightly.”

His response was nothing more than a noncommittal hum. He didn't need to hear anything further. With a pivot on his heels, he prepared to make his departure.

“It's not as if you'll have to wait much longer,” she added. He was already disappearing into the foliage.

Trudging through the underbrush, he caught the eyes of the Sina Dalar guards as he passed. He nodded in silent acknowledgment while his mind began to meander over the recent troubles: the trade issues and the disappearances. Initially, he suspected a connection to the cult he had infiltrated, a feat that was in no small part thanks to some unaffiliated assistance.

As far as he could tell, the cult had a penchant for abducting children, specifically skinchangers, but the purpose of these abductions was still unclear. He had spent a considerable amount of time researching and observing them before attempting to infiltrate their ranks, yet much remained shrouded in secrecy. The frequent disappearances, though alarming, seemed too numerous to be solely the cult's handiwork.

Thistle had hit the nail on the head. Their days of hiding were numbered; they needed to expand, to strengthen their defences, and to broaden their information network. Sooner or later, trails would lead back to them. Harlyn would simply have to eliminate the surrounding tribes near the Wall until his search was narrowed down to the Antler River Tribe. Their nomadic lifestyle could only shield them for a limited period.

In his days as Mance Rayder, he would never have gone to such extremes, especially not for a child with no ties to him. But Harlyn had taken something precious from him, just as he had taken from the boy. That shared loss was their bond. Now, assuming the identity of Kieran, he sought to reclaim a fragment of what had been cruelly snatched away.

As he neared the camp, on the fringes of the forest, his eyes fell upon the familiar figures of Orell and Jon. He then locked eyes with Jon, whose stern expression offered nothing short of displeasure. It was clear that the boy's loyalty had wavered from his mentor—a misstep that would surely bring repercussions, particularly since Orell was already aware of it.

Kieran let out a weary sigh and looked away.

Yet, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to that morning's disagreement—if it could even be labelled as such. Tormund had relayed Orell's concerns along with a proposed solution; one that he had flatly rejected. He was acutely aware that Jon's growth was paramount, not just in demonstrating progression but in actual personal development. He needed the boy to demonstrate his ability to stand alone, to validate that Orell's approach wasn't the only path forward. Yet, despite his best efforts, he found himself stuck on the details of that conversation, even though he should have been strategizing his approach towards Harma Dogshead.

“You need to bond with an animal,” Kieran had firmly suggested. Jon's reaction to the statement was vivid in his memory: a blend of surprise and something more elusive. It was a nuanced expression, one he was still trying to decipher.

Since he had invited Orell into the tribe and entrusted him with Jon’s tutelage, he had consistently addressed Orell's viewpoints without involving Jon. Recognizing that he required time to navigate this new terrain, he had maintained a respectful distance. It was a topic had remained untouched, a silent pact existing between them. Given the initial challenge of coaxing Jon into conversation, he had habitually steered clear of potentially unsettling topics. But that avoidance was a practice he knew he couldn't maintain any longer.

Skinchangers inherently sensed the presence of their kin. If they were vulnerable to being trailed due to this innate capability, they might as well harness it to their benefit.

“Why?” the boy asked.

He had paused, taking a moment to find the right words. “Because it's about more than just mastering a skill,” he began, his voice soft yet firm. “This is part of who you are. It's a gift, Jon, and it can be a powerful ally.”

“And what if I don’t want this... gift?” Jon countered, his voice strained.

Kieran paused, beginning to lace up his boots in preparation for the snowy journey ahead. “You don’t always get to pick the legacy passed on to you or the lineage that dictates your abilities,” he stated, trying to keep his tone light, hoping a subtle touch might make the topic more palatable.

He looked back up at him. “Or the blood that courses through your veins,” he remarked nonchalantly.

Jon's grey eyes locked onto his, probing, searching, desperate for answers. “Whose blood runs in my veins?”

Kieran had seen the signs, the hints Jon dropped and questions he danced around. But this direct confrontation was unexpected, throwing him momentarily off balance.

“The old blood,” he replied, his tone clipped.

“That's not…” Jon began, his voice quivering slightly. He could see the struggle in his eyes, the question he was trying to voice. Who are my parents? Sensing what was coming and not yet ready to face it, he interrupted.

“You're avoiding the real issue,” Kieran observed. Jon's changed behaviour was telling enough. Once an open book, he had become increasingly reserved, his every move calculated. The boy's initial submissiveness, bordering on naiveté, felt unsettlingly contrived to him. Jon had once only spoken when addressed and followed instructions without question, displaying an almost exasperating lack of pushback.

Jon's eyes flashed defiantly. “You're doing the same.”

Kieran sidestepped the question and returned to his authoritative tone. “Answer me, Jon.”

The boy sighed heavily, his frustration apparent. “I don't know what you want me to say,” he confessed.

Kieran fixed Jon with a stern look, concern lining his face. “You've been evading the issue, not confronting what needs to be done. I need to know why. What is stopping you from taking an animal?”

Jon's voice wavered as he responded, “What if I can't?”

“We both know that you have the skill and capability, if only you would apply yourself.” As the words left his mouth, he felt a shiver run down his spine, reminded of the exact sentiments once voiced by Ser Denys.

“I don't want to,” was the reply he received.

“Why are you making this a challenge?” Kieran inquired, a puzzled frown on his face. “You're already recognized as a skinchanger among our people; there's no shame in forming a bond with an animal.” He stopped, studying Jon's countenance, and added, “Not in this place, at least.”

Jon's features stiffened into a mask of reserve. “I know,” he responded, though his tone had an edge of irony that hinted at a less than wholehearted agreement.

“Then talk to me,” he urged. The plea hung in the air, a gentle nudge for the boy to break the ice that had formed around him.

Yet, he chose silence.

“If this is regarding…” Kieran signed, not knowing exactly how to phrase it. “We can discuss it?” he proposed tentatively, leaving the sentence hanging, a question left unanswered. Jon, however, merely studied him, remaining a steadfast enigma. He offered no words, no clues, just a silent stare that spoke louder than any words could. Kieran swallowed, tasting the tension in the air, then let out a dry chuckle, “Or you can continue to occupy that spot, glaring and growling at me.”

He earned a shift of expression, but little else. He supposed that silence was the only real tool at the boy's disposal, the only thing he had complete control over, and he couldn't fault him for using it.

“Is it fear?” He finally asked. “Fear of losing yourself, of becoming too much a part of the animal?”

Again, Jon remained quiet. His face was a hard mask, his grey eyes staring at Kieran, unreadable. Yet, there was something in the depths of those eyes that betrayed a turbulent undercurrent.

“I've seen it happen,” he continued, softer this time. “A skinchanger losing themselves to the animal, forgetting their human side. Being afraid doesn't mean you're weak. It means you're wise. You know there's a risk, and you're wary of it.”

Jon's eyes flickered at that, his eyes momentarily shifting to the side before returning to Kieran. His mouth opened slightly as if he wanted to say something, but then it snapped shut again, and he looked away.

“The choice is yours,” Kieran said, “but you’ll need to face Orell either way.”

Now that did earn him a response. “I never wanted his training.”

“I know,” he replied. His tone was neither dismissive nor apologetic, merely a statement of fact. “You didn't want it, the training or the skinchanging, yet here we are. If you want to have a say in this, then you must take it yourself.”

He observed as Jon moved towards the tent's entrance, the quiet of the room giving way to the gentle rustle of fabric and the muted sound of boots on the earthen floor. He could see the tension in Jon's frame, like a spring wound tight, ready to release its pent-up energy at any second.

The boy paused at the entrance, silhouetted by the daylight outside, his posture rigid and unreadable. Then, he turned back, his eyes meeting Kieran's with an intensity that hadn't been there before. The corner of his mouth twitched into something that was neither a smile nor a grimace.

“I never asked for this, for any of it,” Jon whispered, his fists tightly balled at his sides.

“None of us do,” he answered. They lingered in that moment, tension palpable. Jon seemed to wrestle with his emotions, and Kieran mentally prepared himself for the rebellious outburst he anticipated from the boy.

Instead, Jon declared stubbornly, “I don't growl.” The intensity with which he uttered the words suggested he had meant to say something else entirely, yet at the last moment, had grasped onto the first phrase that sprang to mind. Nonetheless, the statement carried the same vehemence. He then made a hasty exit from the tent, leaving Kieran enveloped in the quiet aftermath.

He couldn't help but chuckle at the statement, a bitter-sweet taste lingering on his tongue. They were kin now, in the truest sense, sharing the same parental figure in their lives. Yet during his youth he at least had the protection of Ser Denys. He promised himself, he would do a far better job than the old knight ever did.

The morning chill began to subside as Kieran made his way to the heart of the camp. Tormund approached him. “You look lost in thought,” he remarked, a wry smile playing on his lips.

He just nodded, “Just trying to piece together the best way forward.”

Tormund clapped him on the back, “With Jon, you mean? Or with Harma?”

“Both,” Kieran admitted. “One is a personal struggle, the other a matter of strategy. Yet, both are equally important.”

Tormund cast a strange glance at him before leaning in, his voice a hushed whisper. “Orell's been spreading rumours, stoking the flames. Some of the tribe are beginning to doubt your approach. And Thistle…”

“I know,” he interjected, his gaze intensifying. “And you?”

The red-haired giant laughed heartily. “I've been with you long enough to know you've got a plan, even if it's hidden up that sleeve of yours. And I've known Thistle even longer to be certain she's got something brewing, or else I wouldn't be here with an unsullied blade.” Tormund paused for a moment, his tone growing more serious. “But bear in mind, not everyone shares our history. They need reassurance, particularly when the winds of change are blowing with such force.”

Kieran inhaled deeply, absorbing Tormund's counsel. The road before him was fraught with danger, and securing the trust of the tribe was crucial. “Then let's give them something to believe in,” he declared decisively. By the old gods, they desperately needed this trade agreement, and whatever underlying schemes were at play, to succeed.

Thistle and Kieran were escorted into the central settlement of Harma Dogshead, having gained entrance to her territory through a combination of negotiation and a demonstration of trust with one of the outer villages. This task had been made easier by the timely arrival of Halleck, but it was still a draining process. Their welcome had been less than warm, as the clansfolk, unaccustomed to outsiders, received them with obvious apprehension.

Despite the initial hostility, Thistle and Kieran had met with Halleck to iron out the more tedious details of trade between their villages. Medicines from Eitt Gran were exchanged for the food and supplies that were offered in return. The medicines Eitt Gran traded were a diverse array of herbal remedies and tonics, prepared by tribe healers who originated from the Antler River Tribe. Kieran had uncovered, years prior, that one of their descendant’s had trained with Maester Wylis during his tenure at Hardhome, before its devastation, had meticulously documented and conserved their medicinal knowledge. These remedies had been passed down from generation to generation, allowing the tribe to cultivate a deep knowledge of local flora and how to harness the healing properties of various plants. Their impressive collection of remedies included salves for burns and cuts, tonics for fever and pain, teas for calming nerves or ridding oneself of child and poultices for sprains and bruises.

In addition to medicines, the Eitt Gran tribe brought furs, hides, and leather goods for trade. It was during this meeting that Halleck revealed the tribe's interest in expanding trade and improving relations, or rather his interest, Kieran noted dryly. They arranged for Eitt Gran to be present during Seraphbane, a trade event where Harma’s villages would trade amongst themselves, forging bonds and settling disputes. It was hinted that this was the time when most of the significant meetings took place, where proposals could be presented, alliances formed, and crucial decisions made.

Kieran had been excused not long after the initial discussions, leaving Thistle and Halleck to become reacquainted. Following Halleck's suggestion, they pitched their tents relatively close to the main village, travelling towards Harma’s central territory, but still a fair distance away to facilitate the easy transport of supplies and because they were expected to meet with Harma the following day. However, they were careful not to encroach too much on the land, as during Seraphbane, many villages would set up camp within the vicinity of the central village. Now they found themselves encircled by various tribes, all united under Harma's banner, which featured a literal dog's head, severed, and impaled on a stake. The emblem had been visible in the village, and more posts adorned with the same emblem welcomed them as they entered her central territory and stronghold. He couldn't help but ponder whether Harma bred these dogs, akin to the pigs she was rumoured to bring into battle, and what might have motivated her to abstain from training the dogs for combat as well.

Halleck, walking ahead of him and flanked by his men, caught Kieran's eye. He was of average height and not particularly handsome, but his features were more delicate than most of the free folk. Halleck's eyes sparkled with a ready smile, a sort of easy-going charisma that made him approachable. However, there was a hint of danger that lingered just beneath the surface, a subtle sharpness that contrasted with his otherwise friendly demeanour. His hair, a messy tumble of blonde curls, framed his face, enhancing the contrast between his rugged beard and smooth, pale skin. His hair was adorned with bells and trinkets woven through the curls. His attire was typical of the free folk, but there was a sense of individuality in the way he wore it. Layers of leather and fur covered his muscular frame, and his broad shoulders were adorned with a heavy fur-lined cloak that billowed behind him as he walked.

Thistle kept pace with the man, engaging him in conversation. Kieran thought back on the initial tensions between the two. The complex history they shared was obvious, even to an outsider.

Harma's settlement was a sprawling collection of tents, yurts, and wooden huts, all clustered together in an organized chaos. It was an impressive sight, nestled in a natural bowl formed by the rolling hills. The area was alive with activity; people moving hurriedly, shouting instructions, children laughing and playing. Smoke billowed from numerous cooking fires, the air thick with the scent of roasting meats and herbs, accompanied by the distant sound of drums. Seraphbane was not far away, and the timing seemed more than coincidental.

In the centre of the village was a large, ornate yurt, standing taller and grander than the others. The large circular structure was intricately adorned with carvings that depicted tales of hunting, battle, and survival, etched into the wooden framework. Lining the entrance were animal pelts, prominently those of dogs. Kieran assumed this to be Harma's residence.

As they neared the yurt, he couldn't help but notice the glances and furrowed brows of the residents. He could feel their piercing eyes studying him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He sensed their unspoken questions about these strangers in their midst.

Halleck approached the two stony-faced warriors guarding the entrance, giving them a nod of recognition. Their eyes met his, their expressions unreadable. They looked as if they had been carved from stone, their stances rigid and unyielding, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Without a word, they returned his nod and stepped aside, their axes and spears held steady, allowing him and his companions to pass.

The interior exuded warmth and coziness, with intricately woven rugs blanketing the floor and plush furs draped over low-slung wooden furniture. The central hearth's flickering flames cast a warm, reddish glow throughout the space, creating dancing shadows that played upon the walls. The air was thick with the rich scents of burning wood and aromatic herbs. Wooden chairs, arranged in a circle around the hearth, suggested that this space often served as a meeting area for the village leaders. But at present, the yurt was inhabited solely by a squat, round woman with full cheeks, who sat near the fire, and a lone guard who stood behind her, watchful and silent.

The woman raised her eyes to them as they entered, scrutinizing the group before settling her gaze on Halleck. Her eyes bore into him with an intensity that seemed to assess their intentions. However, a faint smile graced her lips as she nodded in acknowledgment to Halleck.

“Welcome,” she intoned, her voice deep and resonating, demanding attention. She gestured for them to sit. “I am Harma, leader of this tribe.” Her eyes darted to Kieran and Thistle. “It has been a long time, Thistle.”

Thistle nodded slowly, her expression impassive. “It has been a long time indeed,” she said, her voice cool and composed.

Harma's attention shifted to him. “And who is this?” she inquired, her eyes now fixed on him.

“I am Kieran,” he responded.

“He is the one I mentioned,” Thistle interjected quickly, as if to head off any further questions. She directed her attention to Halleck, who was now looking at her intently. Halleck glanced over at Harma, who had been listening with a blank expression, and nodded in acknowledgment, a gesture he had long since mastered. Kieran's eyes darted to Thistle, his brow furrowing in confusion. What had she told them about him, and to what purpose had she sold him into?

Harma turned her gaze to him, studying him with a critical eye. After a moment, she spoke, her voice heavy with caution, “Very well,” she said slowly, “You may stay. You are here as our guests for now, as long as you respect our customs and our people. We shall see about the rest in due course.” She shifted her eyes to address the room. “Tonight we commemorate the start of Seraphbane,” she announced, her tone more authoritative despite the small audience. “Many village chieftains will be arriving shortly, and I intend to extend my hospitality to them all. We shall hold a feast to mark the occasion.”

Kieran listened, still trying to process the information. Thistle had mentioned him to these people, and now he was somehow involved in their affairs, whatever they might be. He was curious, but also wary. He didn't know these people or their customs, and he wasn't sure what they expected of him.

Harma looked back at him, her eyes still assessing. “Tomorrow,” she continued, her focus firmly on him, but addressing both, “You will both be summoned to discuss the matter further. We'll address the other details then.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Thistle looked at him sympathetically, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“I have business to discuss with my sister, so I'll have one of my men escort you back to your camp,” Halleck spoke, breaking into Kieran’s thoughts. His voice was curt but not unkind, and his expression was unreadable.

Kieran didn't have a chance to object or to ask more questions. Before he could voice his concerns, a burly man with a shaved head and a patchy beard stepped forward, motioning for him and Thistle to follow. Reluctantly, he turned to leave the room, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. As he walked out, he caught her eye. She gave him a reassuring nod, her eyes still holding that mysterious smile.

They were led out of the yurt and back through the village, their footsteps creating a soft thudding against the hard-packed earth beneath their feet. The man leading them was not acting as a guard, he realized, but more as a guide. He walked far enough ahead that they could speak without being overheard, but still close enough to ensure they didn't lose their way. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Kieran turned to Thistle, his voice low.

“That meeting was a lot shorter than I expected,” he remarked, his eyes still focused on the man ahead of them.

“Harma isn’t one for lengthy conversations,” Thistle answered in a similarly quiet voice, her expression contemplative as she observed the man in front of them. “She values actions over words, a quality that has garnered her the respect of the villagers. It can be unnerving to those unfamiliar with it, though. In any case, there isn’t much for her to discuss; Halleck is the one handling the trade arrangement.”

Kieran's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked at her. Thistle met his gaze unflinchingly, undeterred by the intensity in his eyes. After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke, her voice steady and confident. “Ask,” she urged, prompting him to express his thoughts.

Kieran leaned closer, his shoulders tensing as he whispered, “What am I supposed to do?”

Thistle inhaled deeply, pausing to collect her thoughts before answering, “You're to research, investigate, and gather information. I'm not privy to the specifics, but I can give you a rough idea of what I've heard. There's been some sort of accident in a village, according to Halleck. All I know are bits and pieces I've overheard in conversation with him, he is guarded with how much he reveals.”

She stopped, reaching for the water skin on her hip and taking a drink before continuing, “It seems she's waiting for others to arrive with their accounts. That's not a good sign for how easy this mystery will be to solve.”

Kieran's brow furrowed as he considered her words. “Is Seraphbane just a cover?” he queried, trying to understand the trade event's significance.

“It could be, or it might just be a fortunate coincidence,” Thistle answered with a shrug. “Regardless, Seraphbane should offer you plenty of opportunities to investigate. Drunk people tend to have looser lips.”

“What if the investigation yields nothing and we end up straining our newfound relations?” Kieran pressed, his tone edged with concern. “Don't you have even the slightest hint of what this incident might be about?”

Thistle's eyes sharpened, a reflective look crossing her face. “In all honesty, as I mentioned earlier, I'm just as in the dark about this incident as you are,” she confided, her voice soft yet intense. “However, the longer we linger here on this mission, the more chances we'll have to delve deeper into their circles, building bonds with the villagers and Harma. This could be our means to a lasting alliance with them.”

She expects me to piece everything together, Kieran mused. He was torn between feeling bolstered by her trust and daunted by the weight of the responsibility. “Given the tribe's peace agreement with the Lord of Bones, do you think he'll grace the Seraphbane with his presence?” he questioned, the underlying concern evident in his tone.

“It's more likely that he'll send an envoy, someone to represent his interests, especially with the potential trade opportunities,” Thistle reasoned. Seeing his apprehensive look, she added, “Don't wear that face. Focus on what you've been tasked with.”

“Which remains a mystery,” he retorted with a hint of frustration.

Thistle met his gaze steadily. “And I have my own role to play,” she said, her voice firm yet reassuring. “Trust in the process. We'll find our way.”

The free folk of Harma's tribe welcomed him with open arms. Such an embrace was expected in hindsight. This was a community that embraced life with grandeur and gusto. Their battles were intense, but their celebrations matched in fervour. There was a certain simplicity to it all. The atmosphere in the clearing was electric, charged with a heady blend of anticipation, wildness, and revelry. The crackling fires danced and cast long shadows on the surrounding trees, while laughter resounded through the night, resonating in the open space.

Rows of long tables, hastily constructed from rough-hewn planks of wood, groaned under the weight of hearty fare. Roasted game, their skin crispy and glistening, sat beside thick slabs of freshly baked bread, still warm from the fire. Pots of stew, filled with succulent chunks of meat, lent their rich, savory aroma to the evening air. The scents mingled and intertwined, creating a mouthwatering tapestry of seared meat, the earthy smell of bread, and the teasing hint of spices that made his stomach rumble. He pondered how prepared they were for the impending chill that seemed to be coming from the north.

Women, draped in vibrant attire with faces artistically painted, flitted between guests, replenishing mugs with frothy ale and rich wine. Their presence highlighted Harma's influence and the tribe's impressive organization. Contrary to the stories from the Shadow Tower, witnessing such sophistication among the free folk was unanticipated. They might live intensely — fighting and loving with all they had — but they were not mere slaves to their instincts as the Watch often portrayed. Once you earned their trust, their unwavering loyalty was a force to be reckoned with.

The clansfolk savoured sweet mead, ale, and wine, their cups clinking in festive toasts. Their collective voice swelled into song, a symphony of interweaving melodies and harmonies that permeated the gathering. He became an active participant in the merriment when a lute serendipitously found its way into his hands.

“Oh, the moon it gleams so brilliantly tonight,

Over craggy peaks, pristine snow, and tall pine.

In the north where freedom is our tome,

We stand united, declaring it our home,”

Kieran's voice soared above the rest. Opting for a beloved tune known to the free folk, he wanted a chorus everyone could resonate with. As he led the verses, the crowd chimed in, their voices dancing in harmony to the song's pulse.

“Raise your voice, let the land hear,

Sing it bold, every note clear.

Even in the heart of winter’s chill,

Our spirits rise, and always will,”

He belted out the chorus, with the crowd echoing every sentiment. Then, an impromptu voice added flair,

“Oh, a giant once did come our way,

With feet as big as sleds, they say.

He tried to dance a merry jig,

But all he did was snap a twig!”

Kieran grinned. United in song, they revisited the chorus,

“Raise your voice, let the land hear,

Sing it bold, every note clear.

Even in the heart of winter’s chill,

Our spirits rise, and always will,”

The song carried on, enthusiasm from the crowd amplifying with each word.

“In the north, where free folk stand,

We weave tales, oh, so many to tell.

Of battles fought and love that's true,

Under skies of endless blue,”

The firelight's dance mirrored the energy, casting animated shadows on their faces. With the camaraderie plain, the stranger next to him, displaying an impish smile, seemed eager for the next verse. It was only then that he recognized the man harmonizing with him as one of the northern village chieftains. Locking eyes with the chieftain, he discerned the distinct scar marring one eye, rendering it sightless. Towering and robust, the chieftain had a broad chest and sinewy arms reminiscent of forged steel. A cascade of untamed dark hair flowed past his shoulders, complemented by a dense beard that nearly concealed his jawline. His remaining amber eye was strikingly intense. Thistle had spoken of this man, introducing him as Maxim.

Taking his expression as a cue, Kieran sang, with an almost mischievous cadence,

“In our midst was a free folk, daring and rash,

Dreamt of hoarding a turnip cache.

But instead of treasure, oh, so round,

He was met with a barking hound!”

The chorus rang out once more, the two of them leading the crowd in song. The friendly Maxim perked up again with another verse to add.

“There was a maiden, oh, so fair,

With fiery eyes and flaming hair,

She sought to tame a wild snow bear,

But in her arms, a bearish child she'd bear!”

The jest had its intended effect. The crowd's laughter and applause were hearty, their voices joining in the chorus with unabated glee. As the song ended, Kieran looked up, his own laughter subsiding. The chieftain clapped him on the back and raised a mug of ale in his direction. “You've got a voice, lad!” he exclaimed, his eyes bright with mirth.

He couldn't help but smile at the compliment. “Thank you, chieftain,” he said, raising his own mug in salute.

Maxim looked at him with a grin that spoke of years of shared stories and laughter. “Tormund told me about you,” he said, his voice low and rumbling like distant thunder. “He said you had a way with words. He wasn't wrong.”

Kieran remembered Tormund's contributions to the briefing about the different leaders. He had known quite a lot, having once set up near the territory. The fire kissed warrior had a certain camaraderie with Maxim, it seemed.

“Well, Tormund is a man of many talents, including observation,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Maxim laughed heartily, nodding in agreement. “Aye, he is. I've known him for many years. He's a good man.”

The discourse meandered to stories of fierce battles and daring escapades. Before long, Maxim took his leave, his eye caught by a young woman he wished to woo for the evening. As Maxim disappeared into the throng, Kieran mused how surprisingly easy it had been to assimilate among the free folk. But he pondered, how long would this camaraderie endure?

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Jon, who seemed to have materialized silently at his side, cradling a mug of ale. Kieran wasn't sure when Jon had joined him, such was his unassuming presence.

Acknowledging him, he tipped his mug slightly, signalling a wordless toast. Jon reciprocated, taking a cautious sip. A fleeting grimace passed over his face as his eyes scanned the bustling clansfolk. Something distant clouded them, and Kieran wondered if Jon had confronted Orell. An enigma lingered there. It might have been the unease of being in a crowd, or perhaps the relentless din, but something felt amiss.

“Did you meet her?” Jon's voice pierced the surrounding murmur, carrying an undercurrent of urgency. Yet, it seemed more a preamble to a deeper conversation than the actual crux of what he wanted to discuss.

“I did,” he affirmed.

“So, what's your take on her?” Jon ventured further. But behind those words, Kieran discerned multiple undertones. It wasn't just about Harma; it encompassed their objectives here, the prospect of their extended stay, and their impending decisions.

Kieran hesitated, allowing himself a brief respite to weigh his words. He looked at Jon, noticing the eager curiosity mixed with apprehension in his son's eyes. He chose his words carefully, knowing how much they could impact the boy.

Taking a moment to formulate his thoughts, he finally said, “She's strong, undoubtedly a leader. But as for whether this is the right place for us or what the future holds... that remains uncertain.” He took a sip from his mug, the warm ale grounding him. “Why? What are your thoughts?”

Jon nodded, either in acquiescence or perhaps not fully registering Kieran's reply. Sometimes, the boy would pose questions merely to let him speak, his attention appearing to drift, yet paradoxically, he seemed to miss nothing. Jon's eyes settled on the coarse table before him. His voice, almost a whisper, questioned, “Kieran, where am I from?”

Scrambling for a way to navigate the situation without delving into its depths, he sought words that might temporarily divert Jon's focus. Now was not the time; he needed to approach this with due preparation.

“You're aware of where I found you,” he replied. The words felt harsh, a reminder he wished he didn't have to invoke. But he hoped that, perhaps, the sting of the past would deter Jon's pursuit of answers, at least for a little while longer. “And where you'd still be if I hadn't.”

Jon's voice trembled, tears pooling in his eyes, “There were other kids.” The raw emotion behind those words made Kieran wonder why Jon had chosen this time and place to broach the subject. What had triggered such strong feelings? He pondered whether a specific reason was even necessary. “There were others, and you didn't...” the boy’s voice broke, unable to finish.

Save them, Kieran realized, finishing the sentence in his mind. He had left them under Harlyn's care.

“Why me?” Jon asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Not now,” he stated with a firmness that belied his inner turmoil.

“Then when?” Jon demanded, his voice cracking. Without waiting for a response, the boy turned abruptly and stalked off. He knew Kieran well enough to predict that he wouldn't receive an answer right away. Kieran stood there, watching as Jon disappeared into the distance. With that heavy thought weighing on his mind, he let himself be swept up in the boisterous wave of festivities surrounding him.

At first, he had enjoyed himself. Maxim had sought him out again, coaxing yet another round of songs from him to charm the girl he'd set his sights on stealing. Kieran had talked and talked, his eyes occasionally straying to a brunette stranger who kept drawing his gaze back to her, but he never allowed himself to linger. He took refuge in the comforting embrace of his drink, seeking temporary solace in its fleeting warmth, using it to dull the sharp edges of his thoughts. Lost in his musings, he barely registered the approach of Tormund's towering figure.

“What's got you so deep in your cups?”

Kieran managed a smile at his friend. “Just lost in thought,” he replied in a low murmur.

“Hmm,” Tormund grumbled, sitting down next to him, and sizing him up with a critical eye. “Worrying about your choices after making them... it's a bit late for that, don't you think?” His words slurred slightly, betraying his own participation in the night's revelry.

A heavy sigh escaped him. “The questions... they won't stop, will they?”

With a rueful grin, Tormund met his eyes. “Aye,” he agreed, a hint of tenderness in his voice. “But isn't that life? Questions always on our heels. Some we dodge, others, they track us down.”

Kieran’s face darkened, “This one... it's got its claws in me, Tormund. I'm at a loss.”

Instead of a comforting word, his friend’s response was a hearty chuckle.

“You're a lot of things, but helpful isn't one of them,” he quipped, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a playful smirk. The buzz from the drink made him feel lighter, almost detached.

Tormund's eyes twinkled. “Well, Kieran, I've never claimed to be a wise man,” he said, grinning broadly. "I'm just a free folk who knows how to drink and swing an axe. If you were expecting sage advice, you've come to the wrong place.”

Kieran chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, alright,” he relented, “I suppose I shouldn't expect too much wisdom from a man who once courted a bear.”

“She was quite the bear,” Tormund retorted with a grin. “Imagine, fur so rich and dense you'd lose your fingers in it,” he mused, a far-off look in his eyes. “Her gaze, piercing like moonbeams, seemed to delve into the very depths of your being. Her name? Ursula. And by the gods, she was magnificent.”

Kieran snickered. “Ursula? You named the bear Ursula?”

Feigning offense, Tormund arched an eyebrow. “Aye! Ursula is a dignified name befitting a bear of her stature.”

“Alright, Tormund, alright,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “Tell me, how exactly does one go about wooing a bear?”

“Well, it's all about knowing what bears like,” came the reply in a conspiratorial tone. “They love fish, so I made sure to bring her the biggest fish I could catch. And they also have a sweet tooth, so I would bring her jars of honey. I'd sit there, watching her as she devoured the fish and honey. It was like watching poetry in motion.”

“And did she ever return your affections?”

Tormund looked thoughtful for a moment, then his face broke into a wide grin. “Not exactly,” he admitted, his voice filled with enjoyment. “But there was this one time, after she'd had a particularly large meal, she let me scratch behind her ears. That's got to count for something, right?”

Kieran mirrored the grin. “Only you could fall for a bear and then brag about it.”

Yet, he understood the deeper narrative. Tormund's departed wife had been a skinchanger, linked to a bear which might have indeed been named Ursula. Tormund had a way of cloaking his cherished memories in light-hearted tales, concealing nuances only he truly grasped.

“I think you need a woman, Kieran,” his companion abruptly suggested.

A chuckle erupted from him at Tormund's proposal, the sound coarse and somewhat hollow amidst the cacophony of the ongoing festivities. “A woman?” he retorted, arching an eyebrow. “And how is that supposed to solve my woes?”

Tormund grinned slyly, leaning in closer. “Well, a good woman has a way of mending a heart, bringing light to the darkest corners. Or at least, she’ll give you a distraction from whatever's haunting you."

Kieran smirked, “Distraction? That's your sage advice?”

“With the right woman,” the red head winked, “it can be the best kind.”

Then he shrugged with seeming indifference. “Who knows? It's worked wonders for me.”

Kieran mulled over this, stirring his drink absentmindedly. The suggestion was ludicrous, yet somehow it coaxed a smile, however faint, to grace his face. “And whom would you suggest?”

Tormund gestured subtly across the room. “Perhaps start with the lady you've been stealing glances at throughout the night.”

Taken aback, he traced his friend’s gaze to the woman who had unwittingly been the focus of his attention all night. He shifted uneasily, his cheeks suffusing with warmth.

“That's Dalla,” Tormund enlightened him.

“Dalla,” he murmured, the corners of his lips lifting in a tender smile. Throughout the night, her vivacious spirit had drawn his gaze, leading to stolen glances and a budding curiosity. However, her name struck a familiar chord, as though he'd heard it in past conversations. Still, he couldn't place the context. “I didn't realize... I've been so absorbed in my own musings... I haven’t been too obvious, have I?”

Tormund chuckled, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Only to those who know you well,” he responded, a teasing glint shining in his eyes. “But I suspect she might have picked up on it. She's sharp, that one.”

“Maybe you're onto something, Tormund,” Kieran admitted after a brief pause, the sentiment feeling both new and fitting. “Maybe I do need a woman in my life... or, at the very least, a chat with one.”

The red head’s face lit up with a victorious smile, giving him a hearty pat on the back. “Then quit moping here and go approach her. She won't bite... unless you want her to.”

With a final appreciative nod to his friend, he drained his drink and stood up. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he braced himself for the upcoming challenge and began weaving through the crowd, eyes fixed on Dalla. Her brown hair shimmered with a golden sheen, accentuated by the flickering fire light. It flowed in intricate braids. Though her attire was simple, its very simplicity — or maybe because of it — made her look breathtakingly beautiful.

The furs thrown casually over her shoulders complimented her figure, enhancing her natural allure, while her dress nipped in at the waist, highlighting her curves. The raw elegance of her ensemble made her a truly captivating figure amidst the bustling crowd. Gathering his resolve, Kieran moved forward, ready to bridge the distance between them.

As he neared her, he offered her a congenial smile. “Greetings,” he said, his voice gentle yet brimming with genuine interest. “I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting. I’m Kieran.”

“Kieran,” she repeated, a delicate yet earnest smile playing on her lips. “I’ve heard your name before.”

Taken aback, he was momentarily rendered speechless. The idea that Dalla might know of him, especially by name, was unexpected. Gathering his wits, he replied, “Well, that's quite a surprise. All good things I hope.” He flashed a smile, hoping to ease the sudden rush of nervousness.

Her eyes sparkled. “Mostly,” she replied, her tone laced with mischief.

“Then again, no one is without their flaws,” she added, her voice dancing with subtle amusement. “Has Tormund been sharing stories about me?”

Her eyes shifted suspiciously towards Tormund's location. Following her line of sight, Kieran cast a wary glance at the red-headed man. It all made sense now. No wonder she’s caught on. A playful grin spread across his face, a spark of mirth igniting within him. “Ah, Tormund? He's quite the storyteller. But rest assured, he has nothing but praise for you.”

She raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Really? I'm flattered. I didn't think I'd become a topic of conversation among you.”

He offered a nonchalant shrug. “I suppose it's challenging to avoid discussing someone as captivating as you, Dalla.”

Her response was a soft, melodious laugh that resonated warmly within his heart. “My, you are quite the flatterer,” she countered, her voice maintaining a light quality.

Kieran laughed, sensing an immediate connection with her. “He only mentioned your name, but I'm keen to learn more about you.”

Dalla tilted her head slightly.

“Oh, you would, would you? Curiosity is a dangerous thing, you know,” she said, her voice dripping with saccharine allure, as if beckoning him to a snare. Yet, instead of deterring him, it only piqued his interest further.

A fragment of a past conversation clicked into place. He had heard her name from Maxim. There had been a story about Maxim lamenting the loss of one of his finest archers to the realm of healing. Later, the complaints transformed into speculative whispers of her secretly mastering magic to enchant her arrows.

Kieran leaned in slightly, a gleam in his eyes, and his voice low and conspiratorial. “Well, I suppose danger has its own charm. It keeps life interesting.”

She offered him a smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Alright then,” she began, her voice adopting a touch of drama. “What would you like to know, Kieran? Ask your questions, and I shall decide if they are worthy of an answer.”

“I'm eager to learn about the woman behind the bow.”

Her expression shifted, the teasing sparkle giving way to a deeper, contemplative look. “Behind each arrow, every mark made or missed, there's a tale, right?” Her voice had softened, musing.

He nodded. “Absolutely. And from what I gather, your story is an intriguing one.”

She laughed softly, her fingers tracing the rim of the mug she held before she took a measured sip. “So, you've caught wind of some stories? About the fierce archer who chose the healing arts over the thrill of the hunt? Or perhaps of the mysterious woman whispered to weave magic into her arrows?”

Kieran, enjoying their exchange, made an exaggerated show of looking around before leaning in, his voice dripping with mock secrecy. “In that light, may I have the honour of meeting your enchanted quiver? I've always been a believer in tales of magic and lore.”

Dalla leaned back, her arms crossing as if considering his request. “Ah, but what if it's not the quiver that's enchanted? Perhaps it's the archer.”

“So, the legends might be true then? An archer who possesses a mysterious power that can conquer giants with a single shot?”

She gave a playful eye roll, retorting, “You're laying it on thick now, aren't you?”

“Maybe just a tad,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “But in my defence, I am in the presence of the famed archery sorceress. How could I not be a little dramatic?”

“Is that an invitation for me to boast about my skills?”

He edged in closer, mischief alight in his eyes. “Only if you promise to be utterly shameless in your bragging.”

Dalla laughed, a genuine, infectious laugh that drew him in even more. “Well, since you're so insistent,” she began, her voice taking on a tone of pretend seriousness, “I should confess that I once single-handedly brought down a large elk using nothing but a single arrow.”

Kieran looked suitably impressed, his eyes wide with feigned disbelief. “A single arrow, you say? That's quite a feat. You must be some kind of archery sorceress.”

“Perhaps I am,” she conceded, looking delightfully flustered. She then gave him an appraising glance. “If we're going to continue this conversation, I'd prefer it wasn't solely about me.”

“In that case," he proposed, “let's make it about us. Tell me, what would you like to know?”

Dalla paused for a moment, studying him thoughtfully. “Well, you've grabbed my interest. I'm sure you've got more to you than what meets the eye.”

“I've lived through my set of tales,” he mused. “Believe it or not, some are true.”

“Those are often the best kind,” she returned, her smile bright. “But tell me, what is it that you want? You're not just a man who sings songs and tells tales, are you?”

He reflected upon her query. “I'm not just a storyteller,” he began, his voice firm with resolve. “There's not much to boast about, really. I’m navigating my path, living on my own terms. Alas, I can't claim the mystique of wielding a bow infused with magic or having any mysterious talents.”

His eyes followed hers as they settled on the sword he wore. In the society of the free folk, stepping out unarmed was akin to being naked, even under the protection of guest right. As she returned her eyes to his face, one eyebrow raised in silent query, he quipped, “But I am rather adept with a blade.”

She leaned in, the distance between them narrowing, their breaths almost mingling. “As am I,” she whispered suggestively. Pulling back slightly, she added, “So, I've stumbled upon a mischievous swordsman, it seems?" She teased. “A sword-wielding bard.”

His lips curled into a grin. “Indeed, it seems you have. Every bard needs a backup plan, you know? Sometimes, tales don't soothe as well as steel.”

“I'd imagine it would be quite a sight seeing a bard swinging a sword, singing his heart out while in battle,” she pondered aloud.

He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me with your words, Dalla. Why, I've been told my singing is nearly as formidable as my swordplay. Perhaps, together, they're truly unstoppable.”

She smirked. “I'd pay good coin to see that performance.”

Their eyes locked, a silent understanding passing between them. After a pause, she seemed to settle on a thought. As he waited, anticipation quickened his pulse.

“Tell you what, Kieran,” she began, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, “why don't we make a little wager?”

His curiosity stimulated, he echoed, “A wager?”

Her affirmative nod came with an impish gleam in her eyes. “Yes, a wager. It's been a long time since I've been thoroughly entertained. If you manage to impress me with your unique blend of swordsmanship and singing, perhaps we could continue our conversation in a more... private setting.” Her subtle gesture indicated a direction that Kieran surmised led to her tent.

His eyes were momentarily pulled towards the direction she indicated before settling back on her. Beneath her confident facade, he thought he detected a fleeting trace of vulnerability, making him question why she might ever doubt his interest. “And if I don't manage to impress?”

Drawing near, Dalla's voice turned into a sultry whisper, “Then, Kieran, you'll just have to find another way to make it up to me.”

Kieran laughed, the sound deep and rich. “That sounds like a challenge if I ever heard one. Very well, Dalla. I accept your wager. Prepare to be captivated.”

She leaned back, her eyes never leaving his. “I look forward to it. Either way, it seems I'll be entertained tonight.”

The sensation of the unfamiliar bedding beneath him was overshadowed by the dull, throbbing ache in his head. He winced, the weight of the previous night's indulgence pressing heavily on him. The soft rustle of the fabric walls seemed amplified, making his head pound even more. Kieran's eyelids felt heavy, but he managed to pry them open, revealing an exquisite tapestry of patterns that adorned the tent's ceiling. Patterns that were beautiful yet unfamiliar.

Thin rays of sunlight pierced through tiny openings in the tent, casting intricate shadows of the woven patterns around him. The glow was warm, bathing everything in a muted gold. As he breathed in deeply, attempting to clear the fog in his mind, the scent of fresh pine and the crisp morning dew from outside wafted in. Yet, it mingled with another scent — a more intimate, all too familiar aroma that reminded him of the night’s closeness and warmth.

With every heartbeat, the pounding in his head grew stronger, and he cursed himself silently for having perhaps one drink too many. But even the pounding couldn't suppress the flood of memories that came rushing back. As fragments of the night replayed in his mind, warmth spread across his cheeks.

Pushing himself up, propping on an elbow, he became acutely aware of Dalla's glaring absence. The vacant space beside him was only marked by crumpled sheets and an indentation where she had laid. There was no indication to her whereabouts or her thoughts about the night they had shared.

His fingers instinctively went to his temples, massaging them gently in an attempt to not only soothe the headache but also make sense of the whirlwind of emotions and sensations. The edges of the evening were hazy — their banter, their flirtatious wager, and the magnetic pull that had drawn them so irresistibly close inside her tent. But the latter part of the night was a maelstrom of feelings, leaving him both exhilarated and confused.

With caution, he sat up, the world spinning just a tad bit. He spotted his belongings scattered around. His trusty sword was right where he remembered placing it, propped against the tent's inner wall, still sheathed and untouched. As he began to dress, pulling on his boots and adjusting his tunic, one thought remained predominant: Where had Dalla gone?

He soon spotted Thistle standing at a discreet distance from the tent, her eyes sharp as it sized him up. Despite her diminutive stature, there was no mistaking the weight of her presence.

Kieran, his head throbbing, shot her an awkward smile. “Trust Tormund to keep tabs,” he muttered, trying to straighten up a bit. His eyes flitted around.

Thistle smirked. “Seems you had quite the evening, hmm?”

He sighed, brushing his hair back with his fingers. “You could say that.”

Thistle's demeanour shifted, becoming more business-like. “Well, it's high time we get down to the matter at hand,” she asserted. “Harma's ready to discuss the task ahead.”

Chapter Text

“Pay attention,” Orell said sharply, yanking Jon's attention away from Kieran and locking it onto the skinchanger.

Jon's lips thinned in irritation. “I am. Just got... distracted.”

Orell shot back, “Then you are not paying attention. Distractions get you killed. The wild won’t be so forgiving, boy.”

He took a moment and bit his tongue, suppressing his initial retort. He needed to handle this situation delicately if he hoped to ever be free of this teacher's grip. “I've seen enough to know that. You don't need to remind me.”

Orell's presence was oppressive as he closed in, his whisper chilling. “If I truly believed you were prepared, there'd be no need for reminders. But those stormy eyes of yours? They tell a different story.”

“You have your way, Orell, and I have mine. We're not the same.” Jon was surprised by how easily the words flowed from his lips, words that had been lingering on the tip of his tongue but had never before been voiced. Orell looked at him with a renewed sense of annoyance.

“Focus.”

Jon complied, sort of. He closed his eyes, though not in the manner Orell intended. He tried to focus on his disdain for the skinchanger without letting the man's scrutinizing gaze unsettle him. Yet, in the quiet moment, the ambient noises of the camp faded, replaced by the immediate sounds of the forest. The cold of the snow seeped through his clothes, grounding him. The pull of the forest and its inhabitants threatened to whisk him away, but with determination, he fought to remain present.

Suddenly, a sensation, like an unseen danger, crept up the back of his neck. Jon jerked away from it, his breathing erratic. When he opened his eyes, Orell's fury was unmistakable.

“You've stopped even pretending to try,” the skinchanger spat.

Jon's breaths came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering from the abrupt disconnection. For a brief moment, the rage, indignation, and the hastily built pride that had kept him upright shattered. “You don't understand,” he whispered, voice tremulous.

Orell's lips curled in disdain. “What? To touch the mind of a beast? Losing yourself? Don't flatter yourself. Many of us have walked that road.”

His eyes remained fixed on Orell, and as the words flowed from him, an undercurrent of something else lurked beneath. He shook his head, his eyes moist with pent-up emotion. “No, it's not just that. To be pulled, constantly. It's like... a song that never stops. A call that doesn't end.”

Orell observed him intently, a glint of recognition briefly lighting up his eyes. “You're fighting it,” he observed slowly. “But every time you resist, you weaken. You have to embrace it, control it, not push it away.”

Jon scoffed, drawing an icy glare in return.

“You think this is a jest? Some kind of game?”

The way he looked back at Orell spoke volumes and it didn’t go unnoticed. The skinchanger continued, “You think you’re the only one to face this? To wrestle with the pull? To command it, you must first welcome it. How often must I remind you?”

Orell regarded him with a look that melded contempt with an underlying, more complex emotion. “You have the awareness of a rock and half its usefulness.”

Jon averted his eyes. He didn't have any particular animosity towards Orell. In fact, he had felt a bond with him when they first met. Orell had elucidated many mysteries, aiding Jon in coming to terms with his new reality. But as time progressed and Jon's advancement stagnated, tension grew between them. Still, Orell was perhaps the only one who might truly comprehend, and Jon hoped this understanding would make it easier to extricate himself from future sessions without the anticipated confrontation. Curse Kieran.

“Every time I let it in, I feel like I'm losing a piece of myself.”

Orell responded in a tone flat of emotion, yet laden with implication. “It's the toll we bear.”

Jon paused before speaking, grappling with uncertainty. “It's a toll I'm not sure I'm willing to bear.”

“Life demands its due, whether you're a skinchanger or not.”

Jon looked towards the horizon, considering Orell's words. The wind swept past them, rustling the leaves of the trees, and making his hair dance around his face. The vastness of the wilderness around them made his problems seem insignificant.

Orell broke the silence, “When I first discovered my ability, I felt the same as you do now—lost, afraid, and resentful of the power bestowed upon me. But with time, I learned to harness it.”

Jon hesitated.

“The world can be a dangerous place for people like us,” Orell began, flatly. “I've seen many with our gift falter, unable to bear its weight. At least they made efforts, only to be overtaken by fate. You're just letting it pull you under.”

The definitive note in Orell's voice marked the end of the discussion and also hinted at his mounting impatience. These days, impatience seemed to be his default.

When Jon first experimented with skinchanging when he came into Kieran’s care, his efforts were wild and erratic. At first, his connections were too intense, too hasty. This intensity resulted in the unintended deaths of the initial animals he tried to bond with, especially during the times when Kieran was leading him before he had found Orell. However, even as the memories of his time in the cult began to dim, an escalating sense of mistrust and fear made Jon retract inwardly. His interactions with Orell were, to put it mildly, strained. While there had been brief interludes where he believed he was striking a balance, his latest endeavours left him feeling naked, raw. Every instinct urged him to bolster his defences instead of reaching out, for fear of trapping something unwanted within.

Jon shook his head and responded firmly, “No.”

Orell's eyes seemed to bore into the very core of him, as if trying to unearth hidden truths that Jon himself might not even be aware of. “You think you can refuse this path? You think you can deny who you are?”

He took a deep breath, gathering his strength. “I think I can choose.”

Orell's silence was more menacing than any shout could have been. The air around them grew heavy. Seeking to break the deadlock, he spoke up, “I'm trying to understand it, but on my terms. Not yours or anyone else's.”

“No,” came the curt reply, each syllable wrapped in a veneer of cold calm.

Confused and a little unnerved, Jon furrowed his eyebrows.

“You think I'm doing this because I want to?” Orell sneered. “You're a danger, you brainless cur. Understand that.”

Then, shifting his tone, Orell's voice carried a softness, an almost intimate nuance that he had never heard before. It did nothing to quell the underlying fury; in fact, it made it all the more disconcerting. “You've always stood apart,” the skinchanger murmured. “From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew you were different, that you held promise like few others. But if you won't reign in that promise, then for the sake of this tribe, you know what must be done.”

“Before you turn yourself into a beast,” Orell affirmed.

His teacher paused, his eyes narrowing as if reassessing Jon in this new, darker light. “If you're not one already,” he added, the final words hanging in the air like a malignant fog, casting a shadow over all that had been said and all that remained unsaid between them.

Jon's posture stiffened. “Why?” he asked. Why are you telling me this?

“Because you're trying to run from it, but it's not as simple as you think. It will always be there, lurking in your shadow,” Orell intoned. “You can attempt to flee, but you won’t gain any control until you face it.”

His words left Jon feeling exposed. There was a challenge in the older man's voice, an unspoken demand for him to acknowledge something he wasn’t ready to face. He'd always felt Orell's peculiar focus on him, a concentration he'd often brushed off as mere curiosity. After emerging from his darkest moments, the world had seemed new to him, and he often felt out of place. People's eyes lingered on him, but with time, most moved on. Not Orell. His interest felt constant, sometimes even obsessive, in ways that evoked memories Jon would rather leave buried. Yet that same attention was what pulled him closer, beckoning him towards something he'd always yearned for but never attained.

Jon scrutinized Orell, searching his eyes for even the slightest hint of falsehood. Out of the corner of his vision, he sensed the presence of Orell’s companion creature, soaring somewhere nearby. Reluctantly, Jon's gaze shifted skywards, spotting the majestic bird as it came into view. Orell’s eagle. Its sharp, golden eyes scanned the surroundings, talons poised and wings broad and powerful. The brown and white plumage glistened in the light, every feather seemingly painted with deliberate strokes. The world around him seemed to pause, every sound and motion fading into insignificance in the presence of the eagle. With a sharp, piercing squawk, the bird—whom Orell called Riass—announced its presence.

Jon sighed. He might not fully trust Orell, but what were his options. His ability to skinchange, the vivid dreams that haunted him—there might indeed be a connection there, a tie that binds the two together. If he could master this ability, perhaps he wouldn't feel like he was constantly being manipulated. But the alternative was to keep running, a tactic that had brought him nothing but exhaustion and more questions. He needed to find answers.

“Okay,” Jon finally said, his voice betraying a hint of resignation.

Orell blinked, clearly taken aback.

“Not today,” he quickly added, wanting to clarify his terms.

“I agree,” Orell replied, his concurrence catching Jon off guard. “You're too clouded right now. I’ll find you tomorrow.”

In an instant, he was relegated to insignificance, the unfolding events sharply at odds with his initial hopes. Fury welled up inside him, its direction unclear. Orell's words reverberated hauntingly. If you weren't one already. If you hadn't already become a beast. A monster. Maybe there was truth in the man’s words.

Feeling adrift among those who seemed to have found their purpose, Jon felt the weight of isolation. Kieran was deeply enmeshed in the politics of commerce, while Ygritte delved deeper into her practice with the Sin Dalars. With those of his age and even the elders, he felt no camaraderie or understanding. Needing refuge, he withdrew to the sanctuary of his tent.

A frenzied search ensued, and finally, his fingers recognized the distinct feel of an old, well-thumbed book spine. The book's edges were frayed, its corners bent from being stuffed hastily into bags during numerous journeys. Kieran had opened the world of words to him, instilling a lifelong appreciation for the written word. But now, Jon wasn't looking to be swept away by stories or knowledge. Instead, he sought the warmth of the memories associated with the book. The first thing he could ever call truly his own.

Jon's fingers stilled upon the book's cover as distant, otherworldly chimes pierced the quiet. The camp had remained hushed throughout the morning in anxious anticipation of news from Thistle and Kieran. This sound, however, was entirely unfamiliar. It was a gentle, melodic resonance, both enchanting and enigmatic, intertwined with distant murmurs of conversation. Setting the book aside with a curious tilt of his head, he felt an irresistible urge to locate the source. Pushing aside the tent flap, he stepped out into the bright noonday sun.

Outside, a flurry of activity that was foreign to the regular rhythms of the Eitt Gran tribe unfolded. Members of his tribe stood in a circle, their familiar faces interspersed with strangers. Dominating the scene was a woman. Her silver-streaked hair flowed down her back, and her robes were hues of deep blue and green. As she scanned the assembly, her eyes briefly anchored onto each person as though she glimpsed their very essence. An ornate staff, which she leaned upon, signified her importance.

Around her, an array of items lay on display: Sunlit crystals, jars filled with mysterious herbs, and liquids of myriad colors. Presented by her followers, they appeared to be offerings or gifts of some kind. Spotting Vgritte in the crowd, Jon noticed the Sin Dalars among them. Their spiritual leaders seemed deeply engrossed in conversation with the woman and her entourage, their words escaping his understanding.

“Who is that?” Jon inquired, looking towards Vgritte.

Vgritte's attention was locked onto the woman with silver streaks in her hair. “That's Helga,” she replied, her tone thick with disbelief, “the so-called woods witch.”

A frown deepened on his face, silently urging her to elaborate.

“Had I stumbled upon a tribe under her sway before joining this one,” she said with caution, “I wouldn't be alive to speak of it. To them, I'm cursed – a carrier of death.”

He observed her closely, catching the hint of apprehension in her stare. “Is she a threat?”

Vgritte let out a scoff, her eyes sharp. “A threat? Jon, she's more tempting than a wench to a boar on a cold night. She spins tales and so-called prophecies with such flair, you'd think the old gods themselves were drunk and gossiping in her ear. And if she brands you 'cursed'? Well, you're buggered, and not in the fun way.”

“And what does she seek here?” Jon pressed.

Her eyes met his with a grim intensity. “You’d have met the same fate.”

“So why even come here?” he asked.

Cautiously scanning their environment, she shrugged ambiguously. It was then that Longspear Ryk jumped into the conversation. Although cordial enough with Jon, it was clear Ryk's rapport with him was mostly through Vgritte. “Rumour has it she sees more than most,” Ryk offered.

Jon's brow furrowed in contemplation. “Perhaps she's marking her territory now that we're treading on Harma's grounds.”

Vgritte responded with a sardonic grin, “A rather frosty 'greeting' for intruders, wouldn't you say?”

Jon's smile was fleeting. As he turned, he met the stare of Helga. Emeline, their tribe's priestess, followed Helga's line of sight to him, her expression echoing bewilderment. She murmured something to Helga, but the elder woman's attention stayed firmly on him. He swallowed hard. As he shifted his eyes between Emeline and the imposing figure of Helga, he sensed a shift in the camp's dynamics. The usual sounds of the tribe –the hum of conversation – seemed muffled, replaced by an uneasy silence.

“Why does she single him out?” Jon heard Ryk murmur to Vgritte.

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but Emeline's graceful approach cut him off. She was revered among their tribe, and the subtle change in her disposition now set him on edge.

“Jon,” her voice held formality, “Helga wishes to speak with you.”

The thud of his heartbeat echoed in his ears. Vgritte's fingers tightened around his arm, her touch a silent vow of solidarity.

“Tread lightly.”

Following Emeline, with Helga and her entourage leading the way, their destination seemed predetermined. They reached one of Emeline's tents, which Jon perceived as a spiritual haven. Though he had always been somewhat removed from the mystical customs of their tribe and the free folk, they were too familiar for his liking. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and resins. Flickering candlelight threw ghostly patterns, illuminating an array of ritualistic instruments and bones.

The woods witch took her place at the centre of the tent. She deftly assembled various ingredients, creating some sort of potion. The old crone’s face, etched with lines, held eyes that shone with undiminished clarity.

“You come,” Helga's voice was raspy, like dry leaves scraping together, but it carried an authority that made Jon straighten his stance. The tent seemed to close in around him, the mingling scents of burning herbs suffocating.

“Helga,” Emeline began, her voice gentle yet firm, “this is Jon. He's a trusted member of our tribe.”

The old woman didn't reply immediately. Instead, she continued her ritual, dropping various dried herbs and roots into a smouldering bowl. The smoke wafted up, spiralling around them, and making Jon's eyes water. When she finally looked up, her eyes seemed to see beyond him.

“Why have you called for me?” he ventured, his voice betraying a hint of trepidation.

Helga simply gestured for him to come closer, her fingers long and gnarled, reminiscent of ancient tree roots.

Emeline stepped to his side, offering a silent support, but the underlying tension between the priestess and the seer was noticeable. It was clear that Emeline was uncomfortable having Helga in her sacred space, and Jon wondered what events had led to this moment.

“Sit,” she rasped.

Jon hesitated briefly before complying. He sensed Emeline's concerned look on him and found himself wishing for Kieran's presence.

“You carry chaos in your wake,” Helga murmured, her tone accusing. He felt a knot in his stomach tighten, and he struggled to swallow past the sudden dryness in his throat. The thick, smoky air in the tent felt stifling, pressing down on his lungs.

Restlessness crept into his bones, causing him to fidget.

“Disappearing kin. Murmurs swallowed by the night,” Helga recited solemnly. “The kin of Harma point to the Dar Soarn.”

Emeline spoke up, “The Dar Soarn were once kin to my tribe. Their ways and teachings are still revered and followed by many among us.”

Helga waved away the priestess’ words as one would a pesky gnat. “The vanishing clansfolk are no mere happenstance. The Dar Soarn may not be at fault, or they could be the true evil of this dark deed. Who else in these lands can claim to steal the souls of our brethren?” With that, she turned her penetrating stare to Jon. “You, you bear the mark of a skinchanger.”

The weight of her words settled heavily, laden with unspoken implications and judgments. His eyes shifted to Emeline, whose surprised expression did little to reassure him.

“Skinchangers,” Helga began with a tone of disdain, “disrupt the natural balance, playing with spirits and forces they cannot understand.”

“Many view their gift as a boon,” she continued, “but I've lived long enough to see the chaos it can unleash. They might think themselves masters of their craft, but all too often, they are the puppets, not the puppeteers.”

Emeline's face tightened, but she held her tongue.

“And you, young Jon,” Helga leaned forward, her eyes narrowing, “how deeply have you dived into these forbidden waters? Beware the currents that lie beneath; they've been known to pull even the strongest souls under.”

Emeline stepped forward, her voice calm. “Jon's gift has never brought harm to our tribe and kin. He's been taught to respect the balance and never abuse, as is the Dar Soarn way.”

Helga's focus shifted to the priestess. “You've always been too trusting, Emeline. Aligning with Harma's tribe for trade is one thing. But inviting danger into the heart of Eitt Gran by harbouring skinchangers.”

Jon wasn't surprised that if Helga knew about his abilities, she'd also be aware of his mentor.

“Carrying that curse,” the woods witch asserted. “Is abuse to everything it touches.”

Emeline interjected, “Helga, our primary concern today is trade, as our tribal leaders agreed upon. We needn't rekindle old disputes. Jon, you may leave. Helga and I have matters to address.”

But Helga, unyielding in her focus, continued to fixate on him. “I've witnessed things,” she whispered, her voice low.

“Every step you take, young one, casts a shadow,” she stated sternly. “They might bend to your whim, yet they dance to a tune only they hear.”

A cold shiver, almost like the touch of a ghostly hand, slid down his spine. Overwhelmed, he lowered his gaze, trying to escape her eyes. “I've-”

His words were cut short. “Intentions are a fickle thing," she mused. Raising his eyes, Jon found himself once again locked in her intense stare. “Many have wandered into the abyss, guided only by what they believed were noble intentions.”

Emeline stepped closer. “Helga, spare us the riddles. If there's a pressing issue concerning our tribe, be direct.”

With a slight recline, Helga disengaged from her scrutiny of him. “Forces from eras past are stirring. Lines that once clearly divided realms are now becoming indistinct. While the Dar Soarn poses a danger, they are not the sole threat.” She gave him a look as she emphasized her last words, as if the meaning wasn’t already clear.

Jon's thoughts raced.

“And I suppose all Skinchangers are?” he retorted, a mix of defensiveness and disbelief evident in his tone.

Her face remained impassive, but there was a steeliness in her voice. “Not all Skinchangers, but some harbor energies that can upset the balance. And sometimes, even without intent, they become conduits for darker forces.”

She seized the lingering pause to press on, “In my visions—”

“Your visions are mistaken,” Jon interrupted, his tone sharper than he had intended. He tried to steady his voice, aiming for the calm assurance he had so often heard in Kieran's speech.

Helga's lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Visions don’t claim to be right or wrong. They merely are. And they show me things, futures, paths that might come to be.”

Before he could reply, Emeline responded. “Skinchangers have been a part of my community for ages. They've stood by us, protected us. They're not enemies.”

“Past harmony promises nothing about the present,” Helga shot back, her eyes unyielding as they met Jon's. “Times change, and with them, people—or perhaps they merely reveal their true selves.”

Jon felt his fists clench involuntarily. Helga's veiled accusations were causing a knot of tension to form in his stomach. The room seemed to close in on him, its walls echoing the sentiments of change, threat, and inherent nature that the woods witch had cast into the air.

“The disturbances you sense are not of Jon's making, but perhaps, with your wisdom, we might find a way to address them,” Emeline remarked.

Helga pondered this for a moment with a sceptical expression. “My wisdom, you say? Yet you harbor skinchangers and dismiss my warnings.”

“Considering every angle isn't the same as dismissal. Our forebears prospered by embracing mutual understanding, not by creating rifts. If you possess valuable knowledge, offer it. Otherwise your words are chaff in the wind.”

“The winds themselves are changing, priestess. I suggest you listen carefully to their whispers. Sometimes the danger we ignore is the one that comes from within.”

Emeline, undeterred, replied, “I am in harmony with the old gods, seer. Their ancient whispers shape my path.”

The old woods witch’s lips pressed into a thin line, clearly frustrated. “Then perhaps the gods whisper in tones unfamiliar to your ears. Or mayhaps, they unfold truths you're unprepared to see.”

Emeline's eyes sparked with retort, but she was swiftly silenced as the tent flaps were pushed aside, revealing Torwynd. The mere presence of him shifted the room's dynamics. Slender, his pallor suggesting a delicate constitution. A single sweeping glance from him was enough to capture the scene — Helga's guarded stance, Emeline's troubled face, and Jon's evident distress.

“Why the dark faces in this tent?” Torwynd inquired, his voice softer than one would expect, but no less commanding. “Are we not here for trade?”

Standing taller, Helga's demeanour reflected a mix of deference and resolve. “Young Torwynd, I've shared my concerns regarding the fate of Eitt Gran—concerns rooted in the visions I've had.”

Torwynd raised an eyebrow, a fleeting smirk playing on his lips. “Ah, Helga, always the harbinger of mysteries and omens. You haven't changed.” He then turned to Emeline and Jon, taking in their expressions. “And from the looks of it, your words have not fallen on deaf ears.”

“Visions, though unseen, often bring forth truths.”

Torwynd's eyes narrowed slightly. “Visions may be unseen, but they also exist in the realm of guesswork,” he countered. “They're not always the clearest guides to actionable truth.” His eyes then turned to Jon, and he couldn’t help but shift uneasily, drawing the man’s attention more fully. “Uncertainty breeds tension, doesn't it?”

A shadow of indignation crossed her face. “Visions have shielded and steered the free folk for countless moons. They might not be visible to many, but their impact surely is.”

“True,” Torwynd conceded evenly, “but we must pick our battles. The here and now demands our attention. If Harma Dogshead seeks a trade agreement with Eitt Gran, that should be our focus.”

A hush enveloped the room, all eyes turning to the wood's witch. “I recognize a dismissal when I hear it,” Helga retorted coolly. “I won't overstay my welcome, but beware, you might just overstep yours.”

Torwynd's eyes met his, and with a firm nod, he declared, “You're free to go, Jon.”

There was a weight to his words. Without hesitation, Jon caught the depth of the gesture. Gratitude briefly flashed in his eyes, but he didn't linger. He turned on his heel and exited the tent, letting the flap close gently behind him.

Outside, the bleak expanse of the frozen wilderness stretched infinitely. He was a whirlwind of thoughts, making him oblivious to the biting cold as night drifted closer. Each step he took felt leaden, as though he were wading through deep snow. Helga's words echoed in his ears, her eyes, full of foreboding, remained imprinted on his mind.

Lost in thought, he barely registered the crunching of footsteps in the snow approaching him until a hearty voice broke his reverie. “You've got the face of a man who's just pissed on his own boots,” Tormund Giantsbane said with a smirk and a boisterous laugh, giving Jon a firm slap on the back.

He blinked and met the ginger-bearded man's keen eyes. For a moment, the man's subsequent words became a distant murmur, the background noises overwhelming his senses. Tormund, however, seemed too wrapped up in his own tale to register his distraction, or maybe he had just grown used to being met with silence. Gradually, Jon's focus returned, piecing together Tormund's words: there was to be a feast tonight.

Jon's reaction to his dreams had shifted dramatically over the past year. The first time the change manifested, when he jolted upright in bed, voice choked by a silent scream, Kieran instinctively moved from his position, placing a gentle hand on Jon's shoulder, aiming to comfort him like always.

But then suddenly, Jon had reacted differently. He had pushed Kieran away with such force that he stumbled into the table, nearly toppling it over. A torrent of fear and rage welled up, a flash of blind anger that seemed to surge from a previously unknown depth. In that split second, Jon was consumed by self-loathing so profound that he yearned to obliterate anything and everything that was a reflection of him or even remotely connected to his being.

He lashed out at the world around him with such intensity, it almost felt as if his own consciousness was being overwhelmed. He had sensed the tumultuous ripple of his emotions, repelling nearby creatures, from rats scurrying in the shadows to birds taking hasty flight overhead. After a few heavy breaths, he had managed to speak to Kieran, “It was just a nightmare. I'm sorry. I was still caught in it.”

Kieran had responded with an initial curt, “I understand.” Then, after a pause, his voice softer and more reflective, he repeated, “I understand.”

Kieran eventually moved back to his own bed, not before attempting to offer some form of comfort but Jon signalled with a shake of his head. This was something Kieran couldn't aid him with. And he hadn’t been able to for as long as he’s had them. The nightmares didn't plague him every evening, but they were frequent enough to make the prospect of sleep daunting. He was torn between which type of dream was worse: the subtle, entrancing ones that led him to wander in his sleep, drawn inexplicably as a moth is to a flame, or the violent, chaotic ones that left him filled with self-contempt and rejection. The inconsistency was maddening.

On this particular occasion, he couldn't pinpoint what had jolted him awake, but the residue of the dream clung to him. He looked around, realizing Kieran wasn’t beside him. He was conflicted, uncertain whether to feel relief or longing in his absence.

A torrent of memories flooded his consciousness, moving so swiftly that they left him feeling disoriented and nauseous. There were chants, an eerie cadence that seemed to reverberate through his very bones. Then hands—countless, greedy hands that reached out, always wanting, always taking but never giving. Brown hair. Blood.

Yet, amidst the chaos, what remained constant were a set of piercing green eyes, eyes that seemed to assess him, as though passing judgment on his very soul.

He loathed the sensation. It made him feel alienated, as though he were an intruder in his own life. It hurt.

Jon reached for the book lying next to him. Its worn cover felt familiar under his fingertips, and as he opened it, the scent of aged pages wafted up to him. The memory of their first lesson was still vivid.  He closed his eyes, and he could hear him. Kieran’s voice—soft yet steady—as he guided Jon through the labyrinth of letters and words.

They had spent countless nights side by side, with Kieran's finger gracefully moving along the lines as he read aloud. He would pause from time to time, allowing Jon to wrestle with the pronunciation of a word. Kieran never displayed a hint of impatience, even when Jon faltered. At the start, the entire experience had been tinged with apprehension for Jon. He had wondered if this newfound knowledge was just another deceit, a fleeting gift destined to be yanked away. Even now, he wasn't entirely sure.

“Do you ever tire of this?” Vgritte asked, motioning to the jumble of tents and cacophony surrounding them. She grumbled under her breath, fighting with a particularly stubborn twig caught in her knotted hair.

He turned slightly, offering her a sidelong glance. “Tire of what?”

She huffed, her voice tinged with exasperation. “All of this,” she growled, gesturing with a broad sweep of her arm.

Cocking his head, he tried to suppress a smirk, watching her rising ire, and hoping not to fan its flames. Yet he couldn't help but ask, “What set you off?”

Vgritte's eyes blazed, and she shot back, “The tents, the damned lot of 'em, their bloody rituals. It's all so... so…” She couldn't find the words, but Jon raised his hands in defence, barely hiding his amusement.

“I get it.”

She let out a derisive snort. “Feels like we're treading the same ground.”

A brief pause settled between them, as she seemingly expected a reply.

“Well?” she pressed impatiently.

Jon let out a long breath. “All of it, I guess. It’s still better.”

Her eyes, sharp with curiosity, locked onto his. Sensing he'd given her an opening she’d been waiting for, she inquired, “Better than what?”

A hint of unease flickered in Jon's eyes. Vgritte had been trying to uncover that part of his past for a while now. He didn't bother disguising his evasion. “Better than what came before.”

Vgritte's eyes softened, her demeanour changing as memories, perhaps her own, momentarily consumed her. “Aye,” she whispered, lost in thought.

Their introspective moment, however, was short-lived. The merry sounds of children, full of energy and vivacity, broke through the stillness. Giggles and shouts filled the air as a cluster of spirited youth swarmed around them. Vgritte was soon engrossed, expertly weaving intricate braids into a young girl's hair, the child looking up at her with wide-eyed admiration. Jon, on the other hand, allowed his gaze to drift across the group, taking note of the new faces interspersed with the familiar. He picked up on a few who, judging by their attire and mannerisms, likely hailed from Harma's tribe.

Among them, a particular girl stood out. Her wild, chestnut locks seemed to dance with the golden rays of the setting sun, creating a shimmering halo around her. However, as she drew nearer to him, a sudden change overtook her expression. The light in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a deep, searching intensity. With a confidence that belied her age, she looked squarely at him, her voice bearing a hint of accusation. “You've seen it,” she declared, her tone dripping with implications Jon wasn't quite ready to decipher.

The lines of Jon's face drew together, forming an expression that wavered between caution and genuine puzzlement. “Seen what?” he asked, the underlying edge of defensiveness not going unnoticed.

The young girl, with a practiced caution of someone who had been in treacherous conversations before, cast a furtive glance around. Seemingly satisfied, she leaned in, her voice a whisper laden with urgency and a hint of desperation. “You must know they're lying to us,” she breathed, so close now that he could feel the warmth of her exhalations against his ear. “We’re not safe here.”

He instinctively straightened up, eyes searching hers for more. “Who is lying?" he inquired.

But as quickly as the intensity had settled upon her, it vanished. The young girl blinked, her expression shifting to one of pure innocence, as if the wind had blown away the shadows of her previous manner. “Eh?” She cocked her head slightly, seemingly oblivious. “Do you think it'll rain by dawn?”

Jon found himself momentarily disoriented. His mouth opened, but the words that came out felt alien, as if they were spoken from some deep recess of memory or whispered into his ear by phantoms from a forgotten age. “We are home,” he whispered, the words so soft that they seemed to evaporate before fully forming.

Shaking off the eeriness of the moment and meeting the expectant gaze of the girl, he replied, albeit with some hesitance, “It might rain. But how would I be certain?”

Her eyes bore into his with a knowing glint. “You're a skinchanger.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon caught Ygritte's penetrating stare, her face a silent tableau of warning. The words unsaid between them rang loud and clear: The old woods witch has cursed you.

A whirlwind of thoughts crowded his mind. Did Ygritte overhear the child's words? Or was all of this merely a figment of his imagination? He shifted his eyes between Ygritte and the young girl, the latter of whom seemed to relish his evident bewilderment. A smirk formed on the child's lips, hinting at mischief. “My ma warned me about you,” she chirped, her voice dripping with rebellious glee. “Said to stay away. But I've never been one to listen much.”

Ygritte let out a chuckle. Her eyes sparkled with a hint of amusement, matching the audacity of the young girl. “Being told not to do something just tempts you more, don't it?”

Jon tried to focus, to grasp the thread of their conversation. “But why would you think I'd know about the rain?”

She shrugged, her face animated with childlike wonder. “I like chasing weasels,” she said, emphasizing the animal with a giggle. “And they always seem to dart into their holes right before the rain starts.”

Jon's lips twitched upwards, the corners of his mouth hinting at the amusement bubbling within him. “It doesn't really work like that,” he said, his voice gentle, clearly charmed by her naive perspective.

Lost in this fleeting moment, he was soon brought back to reality by the sight of Riass sitting with poised grace on a branch not too far off. The play of sunlight through the canopy made the bird's brown and white feathers shine with a luminescent glow. Those piercing golden eyes were fixed intently on him, observing. An all-too-familiar urgency rose within him.

Rising from his spot, he murmured a soft apology to those around him as he excused himself.

As Jon neared, Riass stretched out his wings, revealing their full span for just an instant before folding them once more. And then the eagle shot upwards. His powerful wings carried him effortlessly into the sky, leaving Jon to navigate the intricacies of the forest below.

Upon arriving at his destination, he found himself face-to-face with Orell. The latter raised his head slowly, locking eyes with Jon as he drew nearer. For what felt like an eternity, they simply stood there, silently measuring each other. Jon was keenly aware of the expectations that the skinchanger had of him, yet wrestling with the complexity of those expectations continued to be a formidable task. He made a conscious effort to banish memories of past failures from his mind.

With a subtle nod, Jon acknowledged Orell.

Taking a seat, he extended his senses to his surroundings, quickly realizing the significance of their chosen meeting place. Not far from where they sat, a cozy den of snow foxes was tucked away. These diminutive creatures, no larger than an average cat, sported jet-black fur. As Jon reached out with his mind, he felt a gentle pull, guiding him towards the consciousness of one of the foxes. It was a sensation unlike any other.

“Take it,” Orell's voice was firm, laden with an authority that was hard to dismiss.

He hesitated for a heartbeat, the raw, innocent curiosity of the fox washing over him. Each breath he took was shallow, charged with the weight of the moment. Orell's eyes bored into him, he could feel it like a tangible force, and he felt as if the very trees surrounding them had turned into silent spectators, their leaves whispering secrets and judgments.

Knowing he had to make the connection, Jon focused on melding his consciousness with that of the fox. He closed his eyes, picturing the vast realm of thoughts and emotions as a tranquil pond. With each mental step, he imagined himself wading deeper into the pond's still waters. Every inch forward felt like immersing himself further into a world of shared emotions and intertwined thoughts, allowing the boundaries between man and beast to blur.

“Open yourself to it,” Orell ordered.

As Jon ventured deeper into the fox's consciousness, he became attuned to its innermost sensations. He could feel its unease, the quickened pace of its tiny heart echoing like a rhythmic drum against his own chest. He felt the stark juxtaposition of its warm, living body against the cold ground, every paw print imprinting a memory of life against the unforgiving frost. But deeper than that, he tapped into its very essence, feeling its undeniable zest for life and the intricate bonds it shared with its kin.

Their minds collided momentarily, a brief skirmish of intent and resistance. The fox's instincts urged it to protect its essence, to shield itself from this intrusion. However, Jon eventually prevailed, aligning their consciousness in harmony.

A wave of triumph surged through him, the exhilaration of success and newfound connection. Yet, almost as quickly as it came, it was tinged with a pang of guilt. Had he violated the sanctity of another being's inner world? But the aftermath of the melding left him feeling unrestrained, liberated even. It was akin to glimpsing an uncharted horizon or soaring high above constraints. For a fleeting moment, Jon tasted a freedom so profound, it seemed as if chains he hadn't known existed had fallen away.

Then it hit him, a tidal wave crashing against him. It was so sudden and overwhelming that Jon couldn't immediately discern its origin or intent. His initial thought was that the fox was reacting, perhaps retaliating. But as the sensations grew more intense, they began to feel less animalistic and more strategic, calculated.

As clarity began to pierce the confusion, a chilling realization dawned on him: this was not the fox's doing. In a desperate bid to protect himself, he instinctively severed the connection with the fox, causing a ripple of panic that sent the entire den of snow foxes scattering in alarm.

Blindsided by the abrupt shift and reeling from the residual emotions of his connection with the fox, he felt like a ship caught in a raging storm, trying to navigate the tempestuous seas of his own mind. The mental assault mounted in intensity with each heartbeat, and the walls of his consciousness, once so firm and impenetrable, began to crumble under the relentless pressure of Orell's siege.

Desperately searching for an anchor, something to ground him amidst the chaos, Jon's consciousness latched onto another nearby presence. Without hesitation; the primal urges of his newfound form demanded immediate action. With a burst of speed that was both terrifying and exhilarating, he lunged.

Orell was knocked off balance, the sheer force of the attack sending him crashing to the ground. Jon was atop him in an instant, the growl that resonated from deep within his throat was a raw, primal sound of dominance. In a desperate bid to shield himself, Orell raised his arm, only to have his jaws clamp down on it. The crunch of bone and sinew was almost drowned out by Orell's scream of agony. The warm, metallic taste of blood painted Jon's mouth, and he could feel it, hot and sticky, dripping down his jaw and onto Orell beneath him.

Caught in this surreal experience, Jon felt his consciousness oscillate between the animal and his own human self. The disorientation was intense, akin to being in two places at once, and an excruciating headache began to build, threatening to split his focus further.

Amidst the chaos of sensations and emotions, a sharp, agonizing pain abruptly yanked Jon back. The sensation was unmistakable: the cold steel of a blade had found its way into his side. He let out an involuntary whimper as he recoiled, automatically pulling away.

A pained whimper escaped him, betraying the depth of his hurt. Orell didn't miss this brief window. He forcefully shoved him off. And before Jon could react, Orell's boot descended onto his neck, its weight and force applying a suffocating pressure.

The world began to blur around the edges, darkening as the weight bore down on him. But just as the cloak of unconsciousness threatened to envelop him, Jon felt a wrenching sensation – as if being pulled through a fast-moving current. He heard a crack. Then he gasped, drawing in a desperate breath as he found himself returned to his own body.

He gasped again, the sensation of drawing air into his lungs jarring. Every nerve ending was ablaze, every inch of his skin sensitive to the cool touch of the wind and snow around him.

Orell's footsteps approached, the steady crunch of snow underfoot. Every sound seemed amplified. His head throbbed with a relentless pain, each pulse sending dizzying waves through his vision, making the world tilt and sway in unsettling patterns.

Jon tried to focus, to centre himself, but the act of breathing itself was a challenge. The pain from his side flared with each inhalation. Instinctively, his hand flew to the source of the pain, expecting to encounter wetness, the telltale sign of blood. But his fingers met only the rough fabric of his clothing, unmarred and intact.

Confusion clouded his thoughts. The pain felt so real, so immediate, but there was no evidence of injury. Phantom pain, he realized. The disorientation from his rapid shift in consciousness had likely muddled his perceptions, causing his mind to misinterpret the sensations from his other form as his own.

As Orell's foreboding silhouette grew larger, casting a shadow over him, Jon felt an urgency stirring deep within. He summoned every ounce of will and strength he had, trying to overcome the incapacitating effects of dizziness and the lingering mental dissonance. He needed to rise, to put up a defence, to not be so vulnerable.

But a frustrating chasm existed between his will and his body's ability to act. Each attempt to move was met with sluggish resistance, as if his limbs were ensnared in a viscous trap.

Caught off guard and struggling to process his situation, Jon felt the chilling, unyielding grip of Orell's hand tighten around his throat. Lifted effortlessly, his feet sought the ground, but found himself balancing on the tip of his boots.

“You always have to make everything difficult,” Orell's voice rumbled. As he spoke, his frigid breath brushed against Jon's face. His eye shone with an unsettling blend of anger and something akin to remorse. “You don’t even realize the gift you've been given.”

With the vice-like grip on his windpipe, Jon’s ability to speak was compromised. He could only produce a feeble, raspy noise.

Anticipating the direction of his fragmented thoughts, Orell's expression darkened further, the lines on his face deepening as if carved by years of longing and resentment. “Why?” he posed the question himself, giving voice to the word that had been on the tip of Jon's tongue. Yet, in his compromised state, he couldn't determine if he'd meant to ask that or something entirely different.

Orell didn't offer any clarification or response to the hanging query. Instead, an internal battle seemed to rage within him, the strain evident on his face. His grip, already painfully tight, constricted even further. Desperation took hold as Jon felt the edges of his consciousness fading. The sensation of tears forming and spilling down his cheeks was almost surreal, distant from the imminent danger he was in.

However, just as the oppressive blackness threatened to claim him completely, Orell, in a sudden burst of emotion, hurled him aside. Jon hit the ground hard, the snow beneath him offering little cushion against the impact. Gasping, lungs desperately seeking air, he tried to focus on Orell's words, which seemed to come from afar.

“Let me in and it will only take a moment,” Orell urged, a hint of desperation seeping into his tone. His eyes, previously filled with anger, now bore an almost pleading quality. “It will be quick, and when it's done, we will both be better for it.”

Panic mixed with confusion bubbled up within Jon. The cryptic plea of ‘letting him in’ repeated in his mind.

Attempting to muster the strength to lift himself, his eyes scanned the terrain, desperately searching for an out, a weak point, something he could exploit. It was then that the grim realization struck, he spotted the beast he had bonded with – a wolf, now lifeless, a mere stone's throw from him. The gleam of a dagger protruding from its body caught the faint light. But every subtle move Jon made was mirrored by Orell's relentless approach, the distance between them shrinking with each passing second. Quickly, his attention was drawn back to the looming threat of the man.

“I don't understand,” Jon rasped out, his throat raw. “What do you want from me?”

The look Orell returned was all too familiar. It was a mirror of the same haunting intensity that father used to cast upon him. A rush of memories flooded his mind, taking him momentarily out of the present danger and into a dimly lit room from the past.

“They promised us,” she had whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “They said we were chosen, destined for something greater. That they would protect us and bring us home.”

“We will be home soon,” he had countered, trying to comfort her, to convince himself.

She had grabbed his arm, her eyes piercing into his very soul. “They lied. They took us away from our real home. Somehow, through what you did, I remember things I shouldn’t. You made me remember."

Snapping back to the present, with the chill of the snow beneath him and Orell's looming presence above, Jon's voice took on a new edge. “You're one of the unclean,” he murmured softly. The man’s subtle but unmistakable flinch confirmed his words struck a nerve. In the recesses of his mind, the unspoken understanding emerged: too tainted, too entrenched in the old ways to truly accept or understand ‘home’.

Orell's once-imposing presence was momentarily shaken by Jon's words, his steely eyes faltering for the briefest of moments. But that split second was all the opening Jon needed. His attention homed in on the dagger.

Reacting with a swiftness that surprised even himself, Jon lunged for the blade. However, as he did so, a shadow fell over him, and the sharp talons of Riass raked across his scalp, tugging at his hair, and leaving a stinging pain in their wake. For an agonizing moment, the world seemed to blur, yet Jon managed to grip the dagger firmly in hand.

He barely had time to turn before Orell was upon him, a mixture of shock and fury in his eyes. But Jon acted first. Using the momentum of his turn and driven by sheer desperation, he thrust the dagger upwards, plunging it deep into the man’s side. The sound that followed was a mix of a gasp and a grunt as Orell’s face contorted in pain and surprise.

The action was frantic and raw. As Jon withdrew the dagger, the weight of what he had done sinking in, the urge to survive took over. He thrust the blade back into Orell, this time slicing upwards through the stomach. Dark blood gushed, warm against his hand.

Orell, despite the grievous injuries, seemed to summon strength from somewhere deep within. His fingers, slick with blood, snatched at Jon's hair, pulling him in close even as his other hand wrapped around Jon's neck. But the strength that had once been so overpowering now faded rapidly. With a growl of exertion, Jon pushed him away, watching as Orell's form crumpled to the snow-covered ground.

However, before Jon could even process the weight of his actions, a piercing pain slashed across his face. With a swiftness and precision that was almost terrifying, Riass had descended, its razor-sharp talons finding their mark. Jon's reflexes took over, his arms shooting up to protect himself, but the speed of the attack left him with a deep, bleeding gash over his left eye. He squinted against the rush of blood that threatened to blind him, his heartbeat thundering loudly in his ears.

A tense moment of stillness followed, broken only by the soft thud of falling snow and the distant howl of the wind. Then, the shadow of the eagle, large and daunting, cut through the pale sky once more. With predatory focus, Riass circled above, readying for another dive.

Every fibre in Jon's being screamed at him to run, to seek shelter, but he knew that turning his back would be a mistake. Instead, he steeled his stance, feet digging into the cold snow, and waited.

Suddenly, the distinct sound of a bowstring being released cut through the stillness. Before the danger of the sound could fully register in Jon's mind, an arrow flew past him, striking Riass. The majestic bird uttered a cry of shock and pain, its wings beating the air erratically before it descended onto the snowy earth.

Regaining his senses, Jon's eyes shifted to the origin of the arrow. With vision blurred from his wounds, he discerned a silhouette stepping out from the trees, the curve of a bow in hand, eyes taking in the scene with calculated precision. Likely one of Harma’s tribe. But Jon wasn't focused on him.

With caution, he neared the wounded Riass. The bird, despite its pain, locked eyes with Jon, revealing not just anguish and fury, but a profound, sentient intelligence that transcended its avian existence. As Jon closed the distance, understanding struck him: Riass wasn't merely a bird; it bore a piece of Orell's very soul within.

“Drop it,” a voice commanded. Looking up, Jon spotted another figure, another man with a drawn sword.

“Drop the knife,” clarified the archer behind Jon. Turning, Jon found him poised with another arrow, aimed straight at his heart.

Chapter Text

As Thistle and Kieran navigated the camp's pathways, the crunch of frozen ground echoed beneath their boots. The cold air carried whispers of their conversations, interspersed with the rustle of their fur-clad forms. Although the clansfolk seemed engrossed in their morning tasks, Kieran sensed their watchful eyes, kindling a flurry of thoughts within him about their purpose and position amidst these people.

“I need to ask you something,” he said quietly, casting a fleeting glance at Thistle.

She met his eyes, replying, “What's troubling you?” He motioned towards a secluded spot, and a shadow of annoyance flitted across her features. Kieran was all too aware of the danger in making Harma wait, but he believed it was crucial to broach this topic first.

“This incident happened recently,” he began, the uncertainty in his words evident.

Thistle responded with a solemn nod. “It did.”

Kieran's expression grew more troubled, wrinkles deepening on his forehead as he wrestled with the situation's intricacies. “From what you've said, it seems our trade discussions hinge upon this recent event,” he reflected aloud. The thought was hard to reconcile. They had been journeying for an extended period, with the specific goal of reaching Harma's tribe. Prior agreements and preparations should have superseded any recent happenings.

A soft warning came from Thistle, her voice a gentle chide. “Careful, Kieran.”

His mind raced, connecting snippets about Harma Dogshead - rumours he'd caught wind of, their first interactions, bits of conversations he'd overheard. They all painted the image of a woman unyielding in her authority. “She's pushing for a confrontation, isn't she?” he concluded.

Thistle attempted to break in, “Kieran—”

But he was deep in contemplation, barely noticing her. “What piece of knowledge could we have that might...”

A realization dawned on him suddenly. His thoughts shifted to Tormund, the burning of Ruddy Hall, the Dar Soarn. Skinchangers. “She plans to forge an alliance with them,” he whispered, more to himself than to Thistle.

But the concept seemed at odds with all they knew. Harma had, historically, been relentless in her pursuit of the Skinchangers, treating them not as people with profound abilities but as mere creatures to be hunted, much like how the majority in their realm perceived them.

Thistle looked deep into his eyes, as if piercing the veil of his thoughts. “Sometimes, the enemy of our enemy becomes our ally.”

Kieran began to protest, “We—”

“We'll be long gone before any of this unfolds. We can delve into the details later. Our role, for now, is merely to facilitate communication between two parties.”

His thoughts quickly shifted. “Our eagle?” he ventured, wondering if Orell was a pawn in Thistle's game. Using him would certainly expedite matters.

Thistle shook her head, her voice carrying a note of caution. “Orell may be ours in some ways, but he's a creature of his own passions. He lacks the tactfulness required for such delicate situations.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “And this incident we're now entangled in. When exactly did it occur?”

“I’ve narrowed it down to just a few days before we got here,” she admitted.

Kieran took a deep breath, his voice tinged with irritation despite his best efforts to conceal it. “So, you're saying our initial objective—the tracking—has been set aside for this new investigation?” His eyes bore into hers, an unspoken plea for straightforwardness lingering in his eyes.

“Not set aside. I'll take care of the tracking while you focus on this new task. We're about to discover the reasons. But this could be an opportunity to strengthen our ties. Them entrusting us with such responsibilities will improve our standing here.”

He signed. “As you’ve said, yet if it drags us into a war?”

“Joining a conflict might work in our favour,” she reasoned, “that said, my initial intention was only to exchange information and open a channel of communication. We'll decide our next moves together.”

His eyes flicked to hers, searching. “Will we really?”

As they resumed their journey, a pensive stillness enveloped them. Deeper into the village's core, the yurt that would serve as their meeting place came into view. Finally, he broke the quiet. “It's not her design,” he stated, certainty ringing in his voice. He didn't need to turn toward Thistle for confirmation.

Upon their arrival, one of Harma's men greeted them at the entrance, his eyes briefly but intently assessing them. With a curt nod, he pulled back the yurt's flap to admit them. Once inside, Kieran immediately surveyed the room, taking in its heavy atmosphere. Across the way, Harma sat with an unwavering, icy stare, her eyes meeting his and then flicking to Thistle's. The feeling of being a rabbit trapped in a snare was almost overwhelming.

His eyes shifted from Harma to Halleck, who maintained a deliberate distance from her. Halleck's smile, far from being assuring, deepened the unease within him. It was the grin of a man fully aware of his own hidden agenda, reinforcing Kieran's growing suspicion of a power play unfolding behind the scenes.

When his eyes met Maxim's, a brief, unexpected shimmer of surprise disturbed his otherwise unyielding expression. The northern village chieftain's attendance was unanticipated, but the more Kieran mulled it over, the clearer it became that perhaps it was a natural course of the unfolding events. Maxim seemed deeply engrossed, likely strategizing, or negotiating something of import, as evidenced by the map spread out before him on the central table.

Nearby, two elder women were seated. One, with a hand missing, appeared somewhat removed from the immediate discussion. While not entirely aloof, her demeanour suggested someone caught amidst unforeseen upheavals, still grappling with their implications. Her lack of one hand certainly lent to that explanation. Next to her, a woman in blue and green robes decorated with mysterious symbols sat with an unabashed, keen observation. Kieran instantly identified her as Helga, the renowned seer and woods witch of local legends.

“We have been expecting you,” Harma began, her voice carrying an edge of challenge.

Kieran straightened his posture, locking eyes with her unflinchingly. Beside him, Thistle caught his eye, her glance a silent prompt for caution. Gathering his thoughts, he responded, ensuring that his voice held firm, “We are here as planned, Harma. Let's get to the matter at hand.”

“There was a killing in our northmost village,” Halleck interjected, seizing the opportunity to redirect the conversation. “We've been scouring lands near our territories for clues related to the recent disappearances.”

And to trace the movements of the Dar Soarn, Kieran thought to himself. However the increasing frequency of mysterious disappearances was indeed troubling, even in a land as perilous as this one. Though vanishing clansfolk had been a reality since his integration with the free folk, the situation had clearly escalated of late.

“One of Maxim's hunters was the victim of an attack,” Halleck continued, providing more context.

“As in, he returned?” Thistle interjected, her eyebrows knitting together in puzzlement. The situation seemed incongruous; if the hunter had come back, then why associate him with those who had vanished? Kieran was about to voice this inconsistency when another beat him to it.

“In more ways than one,” Helga intoned mysteriously. The room plunged into an uneasy stillness, a heavy, anticipatory kind of quiet. Neither he nor Thistle had a chance to probe the enigmatic statement of the seer when Harma, with an almost regal demeanour, raised her hand. The gesture was absolute, silencing all.

“Maxim,” she summoned with a tone that brooked no contradiction. Her eyes met the chieftain's. “Recount the recent events.”

Maxim's posture stiffened, and his voice cut through the air, sharp and precise. “Elrik, one of our most adept hunters and trackers, ventured west, beyond our designated territories. By his side was Arnor, a learned elder of our village, well-versed in the old ways.” He paused, drawing a deep breath before continuing. “Upon Elrik’s return, it became evident that they had encountered danger. Elrik had an axe embedded deep in his back while Arnor remains missing.”

He glanced to the side at the woman with a missing hand. “Elrik’s life song had come to an end, Cethi herself saw this. Still, that didn't stop him from attacking, causing harm to her. We took a hard measure, cutting her hand free. And there's something else — Elrik's eyes, after his spirit left, turned a shade of blue unlike anything myself or our elders have seen before.”

“Resurrected?” Kieran whispered, almost to himself, the word leaving his lips like a forbidden curse. “But how is that even possible?”

Helga, eyes fixed on a distant point, spoke with a low, haunting tone, “There are realms beyond our understanding, young Kieran. Things that defy the very essence of life and death. It is believed that some places are doorways to these realms.”

Interrupting, Maxim proclaimed, “The man before us may wear the skin of Elrik, but the spirit within him? It’s a far cry from the comrade we once knew.”

“Is it possible that he somehow endured, yet the trauma fractured his sanity?” Kieran ventured with a hint of hope.

Helga looked at him, her eyes a blend of sympathy and sorrow. “Many brave the storms of life and return different. But with Elrik, we're seeing more than one touched by madness. No, there's been a deeper, more unsettling change within him.”

Cethi, having held her tongue thus far, finally broke her silence. “He seems alive, doesn't he? Moves as if he's got the breath of life in him. Yet his heart... it's as still. How can that be?” She paused, her good hand resting on her chest momentarily. “How can a man walk and not have the fire of life burnin' inside 'im?”

“That can't be,” Thistle declared, a touch of scepticism evident in her tone. “Every living being needs a heart's song to exist.”

Helga let out a deep, melancholic sigh, her fingers caressing the pendant that rested against her chest. “Under the rules of the world as we know it, you’re right, Thistle. But what we face now? It’s something that stretches beyond the boundaries of our natural realm. Our ancestors spoke of such occurrences – tales that were meant not just as bedtime stories, but as warnings of things to come.”

Thistle shifted beside him, a frown marring her face. “And those blue eyes, even after death? I suppose you believe they're akin to the ones from old tales? The forsaken ones?” She directed her inquiry to the seer.

Kieran's mind whirred. It was known that eyes could alter in hue post-mortem, but the specific blue that Maxim spoke of was unique. It reminded him of age-old legends, tales murmured around the shadow tower to unsettle green recruits.

“This blue shade in the eyes, it is an omen from the oldest of our tales. A sign of a spirit trapped between two realms, neither fully departed nor fully alive,” Helga intoned.

A dubious glint formed in Thistle's eyes. “You draw from legends of the long night. I’ve seen corpses with oddities: strange patterns, unfamiliar hues. A shift in the eye’s shade might be due to a myriad of reasons. Why put it to fantastical tales?”

Maxim's eyes held firm, an intensity burning within them. “If you're so inclined, we can bring him forth for your own eyes to judge,” he offered.

Kieran's eyes widened, astonishment written across his features. “You've managed to keep him alive all this time?”

With a cryptic look, the chieftain replied, “His condition defies nature; he's neither fully alive nor completely dead.”

Confused, Kieran knit his brow, attempting to grasp the enormity of the revelation. “And how have you succeed in containing something—someone—in that state?”

A sardonic smile played on the chieftain’s lips, tinged with both mockery and a certain grim amusement. “In the sturdiest thing we had at hand – a cage meant for swine.”

“And he hasn't broken free?” He inquired, incredulous yet tinged with apprehension.

“Ah,” Maxim sighed, his eyes briefly betraying a shadow of concern. “He struggles, but the bars hold—for now. We've taken additional measures to secure the cage with whatever means we could muster, be it chains or ancient symbols of protection.”

A chill ran down his spine. Once a man, now trapped and enigmatic, with a soul altered into the unfathomable. As he grappled with the morality of their actions, Helga’s voice broke the silence.

“Halleck, there's no need to involve outsiders in our matters. I've relayed my visions; our path is clear,” Helga stated, fixing her piercing eyes upon Halleck. Kieran pondered her sudden dissent. Had she been merely indulging him up until now, or had the realization dawned upon her that he was being entrusted with a deeper investigation into the situation?

Halleck met her steely gaze calmly. “Helga, your visions have been our compass. Yet, a new set of eyes might offer insights we've overlooked.”

Kieran felt the weight of unspoken tensions, the air thick with unsaid words and disagreements that predated his arrival. He quickly realized he was an unexpected element in a long-standing conflict.

“We confront a being that defies all our known truths. Is it not wise to consider connections with others known for their unnatural practices?” Her words dripped with implication, leaving an unmistakable trail for those familiar with the lore.

A brief pause later, Kieran connected the dots - she referred to the skinchangers. The scattered chatter from the feast and the tribe’s evident discomfort on their arrival now made sense. Halleck appeared to be playing a delicate diplomatic game. Did he intend to persuade her into accepting the Dar Soarn, provided his larger plan progressed to that juncture? Kieran shot a quick look towards Thistle, hoping her face might offer some insight. Yet, she remained a portrait of neutrality, giving nothing away.

“He stands among us at my behest,” Harma declared, her tone brooking no room for doubt or opposition.

Kieran met their expectant eyes, his tone measured but unwavering. “Why have you brought me into this? What do you seek from me?”

Halleck advanced a step, his demeanour calm but authoritative. “Our intent is twofold: to shield others from suffering a fate akin to the one we've witnessed, and to discern if there lies a logical explanation beneath the surface of these vents.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle, “And we believe, Kieran, that you might hold a key to some of those answers.”

His mind raced. What could they possibly see in him that was of such value?

Helga, still smarting from earlier exchanges yet undaunted, chimed in, “Time-honoured rites have been passed down, designed to banish or seal beings of this nature.”

Before she could elaborate further, Halleck quickly interjected, “We tread carefully, Helga. Even you've spoken of the perils that come with dabbling in the arcane. Our next steps must be marked by caution and clarity.”

“I possess that clarity,” Helga shot back, her voice edged with defiance. “I've identified the wellspring of this threat, and yet its guardian stands among us.”

Kieran's thoughts darted to Jon, and a jolt of understanding washed over him, unsettling and daunting in equal measure. He struggled to maintain his composure. “Explain,” he demanded tersely.

Helga fixed her eyes on him, as if staring into his soul. “This chain of events is entangled with your young charge, Jon. My visions place him at the very centre of it all.”

Before Kieran could muster a reply, Thistle, with a scoff, jumped in, “Your visions? Truly? Maybe you'd like to scatter some bones or cast some runes next? Foretell our fates while you're at it?”

He was so taken aback by Thistle's brazen response that his brewing rage momentarily took a back seat. He hadn't expected her to be this direct, almost cheeky in her retort.

Harma, with a glint of irritation evident in her eyes, replied without missing a beat, yet keeping her voice steady. “Scoff all you want, Thistle, but history has taught us the perils of turning a blind eye to the omens. More than one tragedy could've been averted had we heeded the signs.”

Sensing the atmosphere in the room becoming increasingly volatile, Halleck quickly intervened, raising a pacifying hand. “Now's not the time for discord. Our priority must remain to comprehend and counteract this looming danger, not to debate the legitimacy of the revelations that brought it to our attention.”

Top of Form

Kieran inhaled deeply, grappling with the revelations. “Jon is merely a child, untouched by any of this.”

The gaze of the old woods witch grew tender, almost pitying, which ignited a flare of annoyance within him. “The lad might be free of guilt,” she began gently, “but that doesn't mean that he isn’t an unwitting puppet in the hands of unseen powers.”

Thistle snorted dismissively, “Are we really basing our plans on visions and vague feelings?”

Before the woods witch could reply, Harma cut in, her voice firm and authoritative. “We cannot ground our actions in uncertainties, Helga. If you can't provide proof to your claims, it might be prudent for you to distance yourself from this matter.”

A blush tinged Helga's cheeks with indignation, but she managed to keep her composure intact. “For generations, the wisdom gleaned from my visions has steered our people's destiny. I offer my counsel not from a place of vanity, but out of concern.”

Once more, Halleck intervened. “Both visions and facts have their place in guiding us. Dismissing either would be shortsighted. In these dark hours, every view holds value.”

Maxim, in an effort to guide the conversation back to more practical grounds, returned to the table where a map was laid out. With a deliberate finger, he pointed to a specific location marked on the parchment. “This is where we believe Arnor and Elrik were last known to explore. It might serve us well to retrace their steps,” he proposed.

Helga's eyes flashed with frustration. No doubt to her, venturing in the same direction seemed redundant, a detour that would only squander precious time.

“Before any of you make a decision,” Kieran interjected, his voice carrying a determined edge, “I need to see this man for myself.” There was a weighted pause as everyone in the room gauged his resolve.

Seeing no objections, Halleck gave a nod of agreement. “Very well.”

As the murmurs died down, the assembly gradually began to disperse.