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Hagan stood off to one side, seething.

His broad chest rose and fell in measured fury, one hand constantly running over the close-shorn stubble of his scalp—again and again. His eyes held a maniacal gleam, his forehead damp with sweat and strain.

Across from him, Threk stood like a man at the gallows—shoulders squared, jaw set, but his eyes betraying the guilt coiled in his chest.

"You led her right to them," Hagan shouted, pointing a rigid finger between them. "Seren is gone—my heart. Only the bond in my chest tells me she is still alive. Dáin lies on the edge of death. All because of YOU."

Threk opened his mouth, but the words caught.

"I never meant—"

"You never meant to what?" Hagan's voice rolled like thunder. "To betray us? You were supposed to be her friend. She saved you, remember that? Brought you back from the Forgotten. Or did you forget your debt?"

In one swift motion, Hagan grabbed the talisman from around Threk's neck. The braided cord snapped. He held it up between them like an accusation.

"Was it worth it?" he hissed, his expression tortured. "Did she cry when you handed her over to them?"

Threk's fists clenched. "I didn't know."

"Didn't know—"

"Enough," came a voice from where the healers bent over Dain.

The Oracle stepped forward, small and hunched. Warriors parted for her without thinking.

"Give that to me," she said and took the talisman from Hagan's hand with surprising strength.

She held it up, the flames catching the faint symbols carved into its weathered surface. Her hand trembled. A hiss escaped her lips.

"Spelled," she muttered. "A lure. A powerful one because it is tied to Threk's past—someone wove this to pull him back. It couldn't workwhen he was far away in the city. Not until he crossed the tribal boundary. Then, it reeled him in."

Silence fell across the hall like frost.

Hagan's anger ebbed into something like panic. "Then they used him to get to Seren."

The Oracle nodded once.

Hagan stepped back, rubbing both hands over his head, the short stubble catching against his callused palms. His voice, when it came, was hoarse.

"We have no more time."

He turned, sweeping the hall with a warrior's command.

"Call every able body. Every youth who's held a blade, every elder who can still draw a bow. Garrik, take the children, the wounded, the elders. Hide them in the tunnels. Do not emerge until I come for you myself or a clear signal is sounded. Understood?"

Garrik nodded and immediately began ushering the first wave toward the hidden door behind the longhouse hearth—Vargrheim's oldest secret, the tunnel system that coiled beneath the mountain, safe and shielded.

And then, the sound.

A low, distant rumble. A steady tremor. The sound of a thousand feet marching in tandem.

And then—a flood.

The tribelink flared alive in a dissonant chorus, messages crashing into every open mind like waves on rock.

They're crossing the river—fast—gods, they're fast—

Too many eyes. They're not blinking. They're not breathing—