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But the moment softened something in all of them. The robin stayed, a silent sentinel on a stray branch, as they walked on through the dying forest toward the heart of Vargrheim as the first raindrops started falling.

They continued forward, over the stone bridge that had once arched proudly over roaring water. Now, only a sad trickle slipped beneath. The rocks below were bleached and exposed, thirsty for the flood that used to come with spring.

Seren paused at the apex, her eyes fixed on the dwindling stream. Her breath hitched. Silent tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I did this," she whispered, voice trembling.

Hagan stepped beside her. "No."

He reached out and, without hesitation, wiped the tears with his rough palm before cupping her cheeks in his palms. But as the teardrops hit the thirsty earth underfoot, something impossible happened—small shoots of green pushed through the cracks. A sprig of grass. A single, defiant bloom.

Every tear left a thread of life in its wake.

The buzz of the tribelink crackled faintly in their minds.

As they reached the outer rim of the township, the sorrow was tangible. The air was heavy, grief-laced and reverent. No drums. No voices. No greeting call. Just silence.

But the looks they received were not hostile. Not afraid.

Hope.

That was what met Seren—wide eyes filled with startled wonder, lips parting in awe. Children peeked from behind their mothers' skirts. Warriors paused. Even those in their wolfskin, lean and restless, did not growl. They simply watched.

Then—"Highclaw!"

Garrik came sprinting through the crowd, chest heaving, hair wild. He skidded to a stop before them and dropped his head low to Hagan.

"Highclaw," he said again.

Hagan blinked. "No," he said, voice thick. "No, Garrik. I'm not—"

Garrik shook his head, eyes full of pain.

Something inside Hagan shattered. He felt lightheaded. No. NO.

He pushed past him, heart racing, barely aware of those who stepped back to give him space. The longhouse loomed ahead, its doors open, its hearth cold.

Inside, the air was still. The scent of incense, sage, and old blood hung heavy.

Draken lay on a wooden palate in the centre. Nude, save for a white shroud pulled to his collarbone. His face was still—the strong lines of it now marked with bruises, cuts, the ravages of a battle he'd lost. His expression was not one of violence but of peace.

Astrid sat beside him on the floor, one hand cradling his weathered cheek. Her silver-blonde hair spilled around her shoulders, her eyes vacant as tears traced steady rivers down her cheeks, dripping silently onto the shroud and soaking it through.

Renna and Kastor sat with her, one on either side. They did not speak. They did not move.

Hagan fell to his knees at his father's feet.

"Dad..." he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

Astrid stirred, her focus returning as though waking from a dream. She turned, eyes finding her son. Her body seemed to surge forward only to be caught in her distraught son's arms. Wretched sobs escaped him in a torrent of guilt and shame. She held him tight, her face buried in his broad chest. He could feel the frailty of her bones, hear her heartrending song of sorrow for her lost soulmate.

"No, Hagan," she said, her voice hoarse but clear. "This was going to happen. I saw it in a dream. Nothing could stop it."

She rose, slow and graceful despite the weight of her grief. Anguish had etched lines of suffering on her face. Her eyes landed on Seren, who stood just within the doorway, her shoulders trembling with remorse and sorrow.

For a moment, she hesitated.

Then, Astrid crossed the space between them and gathered Seren into a fierce embrace.