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“There’s something else,” she added, her eyes brightening with sudden inspiration. “Someone who might help us.”

“Who?” he asked, skepticism creeping into his voice despite himself.

“There’s a woman in the mountains.” She gestured towards the shadowy peaks visible beyond the forest’s edge. “The villagers call her the Crone of Elmridge. Some fear her, others seek her wisdom, but they all respect her knowledge of the old ways.”

He frowned at her. “A wise woman? What could she possibly?—”

“She knows things, Egon.” Her fingers tightened around his. “Ancient things. The elders say she was old when their grandfathers were young. She speaks of the Old Gods as if she’s met them personally.”

“You think she might know how to break Lasseran’s curse? How to free his warriors?” The possibility seemed remote, yet he couldn’t dismiss it entirely. He remembered his brother Wulf’s certainty that the Old Gods were working on their behalf, and the strange pull he’d felt toward the abandoned shrine.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But she once helped heal a man from this village who’d been poisoned by dark magic. The healers had given up, but she knew a ritual that cleansed his blood.”

He considered the idea, weighing the risk against the potential reward. “The mountains are at least a day’s journey. If we go, that leaves the village unprotected.”

“We’d need to leave at first light to return before the festival,” she agreed. “But if there’s even a chance she knows something that could help us fight Lasseran’s corrupted warriors…”

The warrior in him balked at leaving the village vulnerable, even briefly, but the strategist recognized the value of gathering more information, more weapons for the coming fight. But it was the part of him that had prayed at the forgotten shrine—the part that desperately wanted to believe in something beyond brute strength—that made his decision.

“We’ll go,” he said finally. “But we leave before dawn and travel fast.”

For the first time since he’d left Norhaven, he felt a sense of purpose beyond mere reconnaissance. Her unwavering faith in him—in what they could accomplish together—awakened something he’d long thought dead. Hope flickered in his chest, fragile but undeniable.

“We’ll leave before dawn,” he repeated, already calculating the fastest route through the mountains. “But first…”

His gaze drifted towards the village, thinking of the two guards still lying. The villagers had retreated to their homes after the violence, shock and fear written plainly on their faces despite their gratitude.

“We can’t leave until we deal with what happened today,” he said, his voice low. “Those men will be missed. When they don’t report back, Lasseran’s forces will come looking.”

Her expression sobered. “You’re right. We need to clean this up.”

He rubbed his jaw, the reality of their situation settling heavily on his shoulders. “The bodies need to be hidden. And we need a story for the village—something they can tell if questioned.”

“Something believable,” she agreed. “Something that won’t lead back to you.”

He appreciated her quick understanding. Most humans would be overwhelmed by such grim practicalities, but she’d survived the slums of Kel’Vara, she had a survivor’s practicality.

“The guards were drinking heavily at the tavern,” he suggested. “Perhaps they wandered into the forest, fell afoul of wild animals.”

“Believable enough.” She nodded thoughtfully. “The woods beyond the northern fields are known to be dangerous. We could leave evidence there—torn clothing, blood.”

He studied her face in the moonlight, struck by her calm pragmatism. “You’ve thought about this before.”

“Survival requires preparation,” she said simply. “I’ve lived too long looking over my shoulder not to consider all possibilities.”

The admission sent a pang through his chest. What had she endured in the years since he’d left her? What dangers had she faced alone?

“I’ll handle the bodies,” he said, pushing those thoughts aside for now. “You should return to the village, check on Samha and his sister. Make sure everyone understands what to say if questioned.”

They dressed quickly and headed back to the village. He left her with Elder Harta, then slung the guard’s bodies over his shoulder and slipped into the darkness, moving with practiced stealth. Their weight was nothing to him, but the responsibility of what he was about to do weighed heavily. He’d killed before—in battle, in defense of his clan—but disposing of bodies like this felt different. Necessary, but grim.

The forest thickened around him as he ventured deeper, far from any village paths. He’d chosen this spot carefully—a rocky ravine where scavengers would find the remains quickly. Nature would erase his handiwork, completing the illusion of a wilderness accident.

As he arranged the scene, his mind drifted back to Lyric again. Her unwavering faith in him both honored and terrified him. What if he couldn’t be the protector she believed him to be? What if his presence only brought more danger to her doorstep?

He placed torn clothing on jagged branches, spilled blood in strategic patterns. The scene told a story of men who’d wandered drunkenly into dangerous territory and paid the price. It wouldn’t withstand intense scrutiny, but it didn’t need to—it just needed to be convincing enough to buy them time.

When he finished, he stood back, scanning the area one last time. It was close to midnight and they needed to be on the mountain path before the village stirred. The Crone of Elmridge was an unknown variable—perhaps a waste of precious time, perhaps their only hope. Either way, he couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward the mountains, as if something beyond his understanding was guiding his path.