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“In the days before the Binding,” Jessa began, her voice slipping into the steady rhythm she used when telling tales, “the gods joined with vessels—mortals who willingly allowed the gods’ will to act through them.”

Wren had never heard this particular tale before. Perhaps Jessa was making it up on the boy’s behalf. Both Tommick and Calen were marveling at Jessa as she spoke, as if they’d been enchanted by her words alone—though Wren suspected only one of them truly cared how the story ended.

“The Rotfather and the Mother of Blossoms waged a war for control of the Cycle,” Jessa continued. “Dawnblades purged Witherborn, burned the rot from the soil, even banished the undead. But high among the peaks of the Broken Steppes, a halfling village stood safe—until the day it wasn’t.”

The fire softened to an amber glow and shadows climbed the boulders like listeners. “They came at night,” she said quietly. “The dead—reborn in the Rotfather’s image.” Tommick leaned in, the whites of his eyes shining, not frightened but spellbound.

Branwynn frowned. “Are you sure this is good for bedtime? He’s only a boy and—”

“Momma! It’s a halfling hero!” Tommick protested.

“I promise,” Jessa said with a grin. “It ends well.” She leaned forward, the tone calling the story forward. “Douglass was a simple baker, but he survived the attack—barely. He swore vengeance, arming himself with whatever he could find: a mallet, a broken doorframe for a shield, even his rolling pin. He hunted the monsters through ash and ruin until the dawn itself took notice.”

“Did he kill the Rotfather?” Tommick’s hand found hers, mouth agape.

Jessa smiled softly. “No. But he became the first halfling knight—sworn to Elaren’s own guard.” Her words lingered like the last glow of the coals.

Tommick beamed. “I want to be like Douglass!”

Branwynn laughed, kissing his hair. “Then you’ll need sleep, Little Knight. Can’t fight monsters if you’re snoring on your feet.”

“Maaa!” he groaned, crossing his arms in defiance, but with one look from his mother, he obeyed. He stomped aside, muttering all the way about knights and halflings.

“Interesting story.” Silas’s voice drifted from the edge of the firelight, quiet but carrying enough weight to dampen the chirp of insects. “Heroes always make their own way in tales. In real life, you survive because someone stronger kept you alive. The world doesn’t forgive weakness.”

His mouth was set in a grim line. It fell heavy against her shoulders. He wasn’t wrong, but it was a very lonely way to look at the world.

“Do you really believe that?” she asked quietly.

Silas nodded toward the darkened tree line. “Nothing out there cares who you are. Soldier, child—it’s all the same. If you can’t stand, you’re prey.”

Orzen’s voice cut through the quiet, calm but solid as stone. “That’s one way to see it. Or you get strong enough that no one’s forced to save you in the first place.”

Silas tilted his head, watching Orzen with a curling smile. “A noble intention. Until you count how many die trying to prove it.”

“Die on your feet or live on your knees,” Orzen said simply. “Know which I’d choose.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Then the fire popped, loud as a thunder crack.

“Enough stories for one night.” Garin braced himself on his staff, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. He nodded toward Silas. “Best get rest if you’re leading us tomorrow.”

He moved to the camp’s edge and began scratching runes into the dirt with practiced precision. Each mark gave a brief pulse of light, followed by a hum that seemed to steady the fire itself.

Wren lay on her side, watching the flames pulse in the reflection of the runes. Her headache had eased, but the mark beneath her skin still hummed faintly, like a wire drawn tight. The air was heavier here, attentive, as if the forest leaned close, listening, waiting. And though she couldn’t have said why, the thought came to her all the same.

Silas found this place too easily.

The world was gray. The sky hung endlessly in that hazy space between morning and dark. All around her, the soil steamed faintly. Mist swirled between the remains of a harvest long dead. Broken stalks bowed—once lush and blooming, now brittle husks. Far in the distance, skeletal trees curved against the horizon, their branches stretching toward one another like the ribs of an ancient beast.

Everything was waiting here. The world was a single held breath between life and death. Wren turned, heart thudding distantly, as though it belonged to someone else. Spores drifted on a slow wind like ash.

From between the trees, something glided forward—a massive, silhouette cloaked in priestly robes once fine, but now threadbare and moth-eaten. The hood was pulled up, casting shadows across its gaunt face. It was only partially visible beneath a half-broken deer skull, crowned with two fractured antlers. When it exhaled, the air smelled of loam after rain.

“Why am I here? I don’t belong here,” she said.

A laugh answered—deep and hollow, resonant in her chest. The antlers shifted, the exhausted eyes beneath the the skull mask were those of a man…hardly godlike at all.

“All life belongs here,” he rasped.