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She didn't speak. Just knelt and began to draw the runes—fast, with urgent precision. The symbols to reinforce the border. To keep the tribe safe. To hold back whatever might be stirring beyond.

Seren dropped beside her, hands moving in sync. Drawing protection with each stroke of her fingers.

They didn't speak again. But both of them felt it.

Something had come too close.

Chapter 77

They had barely stepped through the threshold when the oracle began to pace. Her robes whispered against the stone floor, her hands fluttering to her mouth, to her temples, to the shelf as if unsure where they belonged. Her usually quiet presence was fracturing. Agitated. Almost panicked.

Hagan reached for her first, his voice calm and reassuring. "You're safe. Whatever it was—can't cross the border."

She didn't respond. Her eyes were distant, skin pale beneath the lantern light. She muttered something in an older tongue, words meant for herself.

Seren stepped forward and took the oracle's hands gently in her own. "Breathe. Breathe with me."

It took time. Long minutes of silence were broken only by the creak of wood and the wind pressing against the shutters. But slowly, the oracle's shoulders eased, and her breathing steadied. She gave Seren a faint nod of recognition.

Threk stood near the doorway, his usual playfulness stripped away. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, his eyes scanning the room, then the windows, then back again.

Veyr was near the hearth, half-shadowed, tense and watchful like a wolf expecting trouble.

And Dain was by the far wall, leaning with one hand on the frame, his eyes narrowed. He hadn't said much since they'd returned, but the intensity of his gaze said more than words.

Finally, the oracle moved.

She turned to one of the shelves that lined her walls—old wood, bowed from the weight of years and knowledge. Her fingers danced over the spines of leather-bound tomes until she found the one she wanted: thick, blackened at the edges, bound with a strip of grey hide.

She pulled it down with both hands, reverent and afraid.

"This hasn't been opened in a generation," she said, more to the book than to them. "But if that cloth is what I think it is... we have less time than we believed."

The room held stillness like breath before a scream.

Seren looked at Hagan, and he looked back. Both knew whatever lay within those pages would hold the answers to their unanswered questions.

The room was hushed, the kind of quiet that makes the air feel heavier. The oracle's fingers trembled slightly as she opened the worn tome, the brittle pages crackling like dry leaves. Her eyes scanned the faded script, lips moving silently before she spoke aloud:

"Lík er ekki í samlyndi..." she stumbled over the pronunciation, voice strained. "The... the body which is not in harmony."

She paused, frowning as her gaze moved further down the fragmented parchment.

"Dyradyr," she whispered, her brow furrowing. "A portal."

Then, her voice lowered further.

"Djöflaríki—the demon realm."

Her words seemed to dim the light in the room. Seren felt a chill crawl over her skin. The others remained silent, the strangeness of what they were hearing leaving only chaos and confusion.

The papyrus was poorly preserved—pieces missing, some writing blurred with time and smudged by the oils of ancient hands. She turned the pages carefully , as if fearing they would crumble beneath her touch. Then she lowered the book into her lap and looked down at the scrap of red ribbon she held tightly in her palm.

"I haven't spoken of this... not in many years," she said, voice dry as ash. "But you need to understand."

She took a breath, then another, before beginning.

"I was fated once," she said quietly. "To a good man. Strong. Brave. He was to be Highclaw—Draken's older brother. We were only coming to terms with each other when he passed. Twenty-five summers when he died. I was only two months with child."