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They turned a corner and found an uneven brick wall, more recently sealed compared to the others. Just a slit near the bottom. A hand-width opening, barely large enough to pass food or water. The air around it pulsed like an old wound.

Veyr approached and froze. "This one..." he hesitated. "Maybe it's better left alone. Whatever's behind that wall—what demons crossed our realms, we don't know."

Seren didn't respond. A strange feeling welled inside her being , her knees suddenly weak. Despair—old, aching, alive—poured over her like a wave.

"No," she said hoarsely. "We need to open this one."

Hagan looked at her, reading the change in her. He nodded grimly and raised his axe.

The bricks fell away with dull thuds, one by one. The stink of age and human suffering poured out.

Inside crouched a man. Barely more than bone, but his frame was broad. Filthy. Half-naked. His eyes burned like embers, feral and watchful. Behind him, sheltered by his arms, was a woman—hair falling in long, matted tangles, her face sunken but oddly serene.

Seren stepped forward, but Hagan flung an arm across her chest and blocked her.

The man straightened, slow and stiff, muscles trembling under his skin as if he hadn't stood upright in years. Which was probably the case with the low ceilings of some of the cells. He towered even in his weakened state, his shoulders broad despite the flesh stripped from them. Filthy hair hung in matted ropes around a gaunt, wild face, and his eyes blazed with a feral light—part defiance, part madness.

Behind him, the woman shrank into the shadows, her eyes glassy but watchful, as if suddenly aware that something had changed.

Hagan stepped forward, his voice firm, but not unkind.

"I am Hagan, Highclaw of Vargrheim."

The wild-eyed man tensed further, lips curling back in a low warning sound.

Hagan's expression did not change. He gestured behind him. "And this is Seren... my Lunara."

There was a waiting stillness in the air. A breathless second passed. The man's fingers twitched, knuckles cracking. The fire in his eyes flickered—less feral now, more... human.

"The blessed one..." he whispered hoarsely, as if dredging the word from deep memory.

Seren nodded once. "We're not here to harm you. We came to find who was left... and bring them back."

The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. His gaze darted between them, cautious, searching.

Then, finally, his lips parted.

"I am Sigurd," he rasped, voice brittle as rusted steel. "Alphason of Highclaw Steine. And this..." He turned, stepping aside just enough to shield but not hide the woman behind him. "...this is my mother."

The night was dark, but dry. The drizzle had paused, as if for the main event. The longhouse crackled as flames licked up its beams, each flicker a memory being devoured. The fire was contained—carefully fed, watched by townsfolk and wolves alike.

Sigurd stood a distance away, eyes glowing orange in the firelight. He didn't blink. Not once.

Seren and Hagan stood beside him.

"You don't have to stay," Hagan said. "Come with us. Rest. Heal."

Sigurd's mouth curled into something almost like a smile. "These are my people," he said. "If there is anything left to rebuild... I'll be the one to do it."

"You're not alone anymore," Seren said softly. She touched his hand—callused and cold. His expression immediately shifted from tortured to calm. "We're close now. And we'll help."

The flames rose higher, hissing into the heavens. The longhouse, with all its ghosts, finally fell.

Chapter 91

The river shimmered beneath the pale morning sun, its waters sluggish and low from the drought that had gripped the land for months. A cool breeze stirred the reeds, whispering secrets only the old and the broken could understand.

The oracle sat hunched beneath a tree, her shawl pulled close around her bony shoulders. Her hair, once silver and glorious, hung in dull ropes over her shoulders. Her face, furrowed with time and knowledge, was turned toward the water—but her eyes saw nothing.