Page 84

Hagan

The fires burned low in Vargrheim's central hearth as dusk bled into darkness.

Healers rushed about, their soft-spoken mutters punctuated by the hiss of steaming bowls and the rasp of bandage cloth.

Dáin lay on a table of rough-hewn oak, feverish, his breathing shallow.

His neck had been sliced clean to his vertebrae but fortunately, his shifter healing had allowed him to cling to life.

A pungent mixture of crushed herbs mingled with the coppery scent of drying blood.

No one dared to leave his side for long.

Still no word of Seren.

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 work when 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—

My brother—he died last year—

We need reinforcements at the eastern border

Hagan staggered under the weight of it—so many voices, so much fear. He closed his eyes for a second, fingers gripping the edge of the central table.

The door burst open—a scout, wide-eyed and breathless.

"Wolves!" he shouted. "Pouring out of the caves. And an army behind them—too many to count!"

Chaos surged. Flame leapt high from the braziers. Steel sang from hastily drawn sheaths. Cries echoed as warriors raced to the outer defences. The scent of war filled the hall like a storm at sea. The hum of fear sparked off the walls like flashes of lightning.

Meanwhile in Starnheim

The door slammed shut behind Lilja, leaving Seren alone in the cell's dim flicker.

Hours had passed since her capture and every one of them she'd spent playing the role they expected—docile, cornered, afraid. She'd slowed their steps with feigned weakness, whispered half-truths, and misdirected when she could.

Now, with the stone silence settling around her, the act dropped like a mask slipping from her face.

Her arm lifted. She pressed her thumb into a rune hidden beneath her armpit—faintly glowing, inked by Ryn's careful hands. They'd told her no one would think to look there. They'd been right. Like a mystical panic button, she had activated as soon as she entered the caves.

The evil ones had taken her phone and everything else in her pockets including her beloved knives. But they had missed this.

A flicker of gratitude surged through her.

She closed her eyes and inhaled the stale air. Ana. Ryn. They had to be close by now.

Drawing in a steady breath, she reached out—not physically, but with her other sense.

And there they were.

Mice nesting in the stone. Termites feasting on soft beams. Insects scuttling through floor cracks. Centipedes winding through damp soil.

Small. Forgotten. Overlooked.

But hers now.

She whispered to them in the language only she could use and only they could understand.

" Dig ."

All at once, claws scraped wood. Mandibles clicked. Little bodies pressed forward with a single purpose. She heard it begin—the faint, frantic scuttling, the soft crumble of dust.

" Quiet "

The sound quietened to a faint buzz.

Slowly a tunnel began to take shape through the mud walls in front of her.

She was not done.

Not by a long shot.

They dared threaten her Fated. Her family.

They don’t know who they are dealing with.

When the time came—

She would burn this place from the inside out.