I remain awake, listening for Rhianelle's heartbeat across the impossible distance.
Svenn.
My name carries, whispered by the wind. I lift my head, searching the darkness beyond the firelight.
Nothing moves. It's just shadows and mist.
But I know I heard it. A voice, thin as spider silk.
The sound shifts into a melody, threading through the night air.
It starts soft, barely audible over the crackling fire. A lullaby sung in a strange language that I somehow understand. The notes pull at something deep in my chest. It hooks into my ribs, drawing me forward.
The others don't stir. Hrolf's snores continue uninterrupted. Garrett rolls over, muttering something in his sleep. Even Aelfric, who should wake at any unusual sound, remains slumped against his tree.
The song calls only to me.
I rise without waking them. My feet move of their own accord, drawn by the haunting melody. It's beautiful, promising answers if I follow.
The mist parts before me like a curtain. I step past the camp's boundary and into the forest beyond. The trees here are different from those we passed during the day. Their branches twist, forming archways and tunnels.
The lullaby beckons me deeper. I follow because I have no choice. Because something in my bones recognizes the call and cannot refuse it.
I keep walking until I reach a clearing bathed in moonlight.
She's waiting for me there.
An old woman with a cane. She looks so ancient she seems carved from the earth itself. Her back is bent with the weight ofeons and her fingers are gnarled like old roots. Yet her eyes are sharp and knowing, bright as stars.
"You took your time," she mutters in a voice older than the space between stars. "I wondered when you would hear my call."
My hand goes to where my sword would be if I'd brought it. I left my weapons at camp, I realize. I walked unarmed into a fae forest following strange music.
I'm a fool.
But I have never relied on steel to kill.
"Who are you?" My throat tightens around the words.
Her fingers rest lightly on the head of her cane. "Somewhere in your soul, you recognize what I am."
Yes.
Deep in my primal awareness, I recognize what she is.
"You're one of them," I say slowly. "One of the Un."
"Clever boy." Her smile widens, pleased. "Yes. I am one of the patrons your wife serves so faithfully. One of the forces that shaped this world before the elven gods were even conceived."
She straightens slightly, though her eyes never leave mine.
“I’m Elli,” she says.
The air tightens around us, as though the world inhales and forgets to exhale. The faint rustle of leaves dies. Even the distant hum of crickets fades, as if the insects know better than to make noise when that name is spoken aloud.
It stirs something in my memory. Tales told around fires, legends whispered in dark places in my human days.
Thor, the mighty Thunder-bearer himself challenged her, certain of his divine strength. She put his arm to the table without effort. I look at the old lady before me. "You arm-wrestled a god."
