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"The mark of the Forsaken," she said, tapping the drawing with a worn fingertip.

It was a twisted spiral, precise in its symmetry. Familiar to some of them already—etched into the skin of the dead attackers.

"This," she said, voice low, "is The Wanderer's Rune—a brand placed on every exile. Carved in flesh. Burned into memory. A sign that they walked beyond the tribes—by choice, or by force."

She turned another page, revealing a second image—the same spiral, but crossed through by a harsh, jagged burn.

"If they were cast out for crimes... it was seared through like this. A scar over the rune. It meant they were beyond forgiveness. Kill-on-sight."

She paused then, flipping again—more slowly—until she reached a third symbol.

This one was subtler. Less bold. Faded over time. But the spiral was there again—this time with a red line beneath it.

The oracle stared at it for a long time.

Then she murmured, almost to herself: "Þrælkaðr."

She said the word again, firmer, so the others could hear. "Þrælkaðr."

Her eyes met theirs. "Enslaved."

A silence followed, deep and still.

"It's not just a Forsaken mark," she said, almost afraid to believe it. "This—this red line—this is something else. Something darker. This is demonink. Only demons can produce it. The dead Forsaken were not just exiles. They were... claimed. Bound. Made to serve."

She swallowed hard, her voice raw now. A teardrop made slow progress down her hollow cheek. "If Lilja bears this, then she is no longer merely a threat by nature. She is controlled. Or she commands those who are."

Hagan's face darkened. Veyr clenched his jaw. Threk looked down at the floor, fists tight.

And Seren felt the sharp weight of the truth settle like a stone in her gut.

Whatever was coming—it was worse than any of them had imagined.

Chapter 78

The longhouse was alive with the quiet murmur of strategy and the low burn of unspoken worry.

They sat around the central fire; its glow casting shadows on the rough-hewn stone walls. Weapons from a distant time hung on the walls. Smoke drifted slowly up to the vents in the roof, the rain a steady drizzle on the slate tiles. All around, greenery ran amok in a way the tribe hadn't seen in a long time. From the time Seren had left precisely. The cubs who had followed her had become young boys, sparring with their friends under the lead enforcer's careful tutelage. The twang and whack of thebostaffs being wielded in training was a constant rhythm in the background as all those who gathered shared what they had learned. Astrid stood up to close the window facing the training field.

The oracle's voice was quiet, but when she started speaking after a long pause, everyone turned to her.

"Children born of a fated bond... they are different. Usually, their power shows itself early. Lilja's never did."

The crackle of the fire filled the pause that followed. Shadows danced across the rough-hewn walls of the longhouse, flickering over solemn faces.

Veyr sat straight-backed, his expression stern. "That you know of," he said. "There's no saying what grew in her while she was gone. Or how much she revealed to you."

Beside him, his father—the former Shadow—shifted slightly, his gaze never leaving the flames. "Or what twisted it," he murmured, voice like the rustle of old leaves. The room fell quiet again.

"She's not just twisted," Garrik said from the other side, practical as always. "She's dangerous. Driven. "

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, gaze fixed on the fire. "I remember something from when we were kids. There was a girl in our sparring group—Elira. She and Draken were close. Nothing serious, but friendly. Lilja didn't like that."

A flicker passed through the group—some vague memory stirring.

"It was during paired combat," Garrik went on, eyes darkening. "We were just learning holds. Wooden blades. Just supposed to be friendly tussling. She should've pulled her strikes."

He paused, voice low now.