Page 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.

" Djoflaríki —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. "

Her voice trembled.

"He died a horrible death. And I... I fell apart. The bond was broken, and the grief—without his touch, without that link—my daughter grew within me unguarded. Unshielded. And I was too lost to protect her."

She looked up briefly, but her eyes didn't meet anyone's. They were elsewhere—trapped in a memory.

"She was beautiful when she was born. Eyes like crystal-clear spring water. Skin like snow, her hair the colour of sun-ripened wheat. The happiest child, or so I thought."

Her fingers tightened around the ribbon.

"She was five when she first shifted—into a wolf pup, small and golden. Quite late, but still. I thought the trauma of losing her father while she was still in the womb was the reason. I was so proud of her, grateful to have her. Until..." Her voice faltered.

"I found her one morning, crouched in the underbrush, playing with a baby bird.

When I got closer, I realized she wasn't just playing.

She was hurting it—slowly. Letting its mother watch from a nearby branch.

The cries..." She swallowed hard. "I ended its suffering quickly.

But the way she looked at me—calm. Curious. Not a trace of remorse."

"She was cruel to the weak," the oracle whispered. "Always. "

She turned the ribbon over in her hand now, softer, like touching a memory.

"She loved this. Always wore it in her hair, weaving it like a crown. She was almost unearthly beautiful."

Her voice softened as if speaking to herself.

"We named her Lilja... Lily. Sweet to smell—deadly to taste. Lily of the valley."

There was a long pause, and then she looked up, her eyes glassy with something between fear and sorrow.

"This ribbon... it smells of her. She's the one who left it."

Seren felt a tightness in her chest.

"She was born into our tribe," the oracle continued, "but she dreamed of power beyond it.

When she was small, Draken followed her everywhere.

His mother was pregnant with him when my fated passed.

He was protective of Lilja. Infatuated, like so many others.

He was her uncle by blood, but only months apart.

They grew together. She believed they were destined to rule together.

When I saw the bond twisting into something unnatural, I left. Took her away when they were twelve."

"They never forgave me."

Her voice dimmed to a whisper .

"She accused me of betrayal. Of infidelity. She hated me for separating them."

The oracle closed her hand around the ribbon now, her knuckles white.

"When they turned twenty, we returned to Vargrheim. By then, Draken was promised to Astrid. Love came slowly to them, but truly. My daughter... couldn't bear it."

"She vowed to have her revenge. And she disappeared soon after. I heard whispers she was taken in by the Starnheim tribe. Bonded to one of their warriors."

Her voice cracked.

"We never spoke again."

Silence settled again in the room, heavy and absolute.

Then, softly—almost too softly to be heard—the oracle repeated:

"She smells like this. Lily of the Valley. Beautiful. Poisonous."

"She was my daughter. Lilja," she said to herself, lost in memories.

The oracle set the red ribbon aside, her fingers still trembling, and rose from her seat.

The others watched in tense silence as she crossed to another shelf—this one darker, dustier.

Her hand hovered over the tomes until she found the one she wanted.

It was older, bound in cracked leather, its spine nearly split .

She returned to the centre of the room and laid it open on the table with a soft exhale, flipping the brittle pages until she came to a sketch—rough but distinct. The ink faded with time, but the shapes were clear.

"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: " Traelkaer . "

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

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.