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Starnheim (day two after the war)

The drizzle had begun before they saw the broken gates marking the entry to Starnheim.

It hung at an angle, half-rotted, as if ashamed of what it once represented.

The land beneath their feet was no longer as barren—patches of green had begun to break through the neglected earth like fragile promises.

Far off in the distance, tilled fields stretched unevenly across the slopes, dotted with figures bent low, working silently.

Seren paused, rain catching in her hair. The scent of damp soil, the faint stir of life—it made her feel hopeful. It was a beginning.

A low sound of movement stirred ahead. A door creaked. Another. From shadowed homes, they came—women clutching children, men with hollowed eyes, limbs like sticks. The townsfolk emerged like ghosts called to witness.

One woman stepped forward, her child's head resting against her thin shoulder.

"Thank you, Blessed one," she said softly, as though the act of speaking might bring forth the demons that had haunted their homes. "We knew you would come."

Seren looked at her, at the child's impossibly large eyes. The woman's skin was nearly translucent, like the famine had stolen not just flesh, but hope.

Seren said gently. "This place... it can become home again. "

The woman nodded once, eyes glazed with disbelief.

Seren let her gaze wander past the township to the green-flecked land in the distance. I'll need to come again , she thought. To heal. To ask the earth to forgive

The longhouse loomed in the centre, a dark silhouette against the greying sky.

Its timbers sagged, swollen with time and the horrors it had witnessed.

The war had just ended two days ago. They stepped across the threshold with caution—Seren, Hagan, Veyr, and two others who stayed close, weapons half-drawn.

The air inside was heavy with rot. The little child's body had been taken away but Seren's eyes were drawn to that spot where he had lain that last time.

They descended into the lower levels, their boots echoing on old stone. The first corridor opened into a row of cells. Iron bars twisted, rusted. Doors broken or still sealed.

In one cell, bones lay nestled together—adult and child, impossibly small. They'd curled together in the end, mother shielding child in a final, useless embrace. The flesh had long melted into the earth, but the sorrow remained, thick and clinging.

Seren knelt. She pressed her hand gently to the tiny skull.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "We were too late. "

Veyr found another cell down the corridor. The door hung open, claw marks scored into the walls.

"Some have run," he said quietly. "Out into the woods would be my guess."

"Forgotten," Hagan murmured, brow furrowed.

Seren said nothing. But her heart ached with the thought. Could she reach them, too? Could the ones who had slipped past reason ever come back?

There were more forgotten down the corridor. There was no choice but to let them run to freedom. Their eyes held a feral light too dangerous to stop.

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.