Amidst the ancient trees of the Whisperwood, our new home continues to rise from the ashes of the old. Life settles into a rhythm of shared purpose. Yet, this newfound tranquility is not destined to last. One crisp autumn evening, as twilight paints the sky in hues of violet and gold, a frantic hooting echoes through the deep woods, growing closer. A large, agitated owl, a rare sight in this part of the Whisperwood, swoops down, dropping a small, intricately carved wooden figurine—a stylized, howling wolf—at Shineah's feet before disappearing back into the deepening gloom. It is not an omen, but a message, a desperate plea from a distant, embattled clan.
Shineah kneels, picking up the small, polished wooden wolf. Her fingers trace its intricate lines, a subtle tension tightening her jaw, a flicker of something ancient in her keen eyes. "This... this is a totem of the Direfang Clan," she murmurs, her voice soft, almost lost in the rustling leaves. "My clan. My mother's people." She looks up at Tormack, her expression shifting from recognition to deep concern. "I haven't heard from them in years, not directly. Their traditions are ancient, fiercely guarded. For a message to be sent like this, by an owl... it speaks of great urgency, and perhaps great peril. My family, my people, they are in trouble." She clutches the figurine tightly, her knuckles white. "This isn't merely an omen, Tormack, it's a desperate cry. We must go. We must find out what troubles the Direfang."
My eyes grow wide in shock. "What? You are not from Oakhaven?! You have never spoken of your parents before; your only family members that I have met so far are your brothers, Kael and Finn. With all your love and devotion to Oakhaven, I could only assume you were born there."
Shineah looks up, a shadow of regret crossing her face. "No, Tormack. Not truly. My father was from Oakhaven, yes, a man of the city. But my mother… she was of the Direfang, a people of the deep forests, fierce and proud. I was born on the borderlands, in the old ways, but raised in Oakhaven after my father brought us there." She gestures to the wooden wolf. "This was hers, passed down from her clan." Her gaze grows distant. "My loyalty to the city is real; it is my home, the place I chose to protect, the place my father loved. But the blood of the Direfang runs through me, and their traditions, their plight, are as much a part of me as the cobbled streets of Oakhaven. My brothers, Kael and Finn, are my half-brothers, sharing only our father. Their mother was a city woman. We were always different, kept separate in many ways, but always family. The Direfang, they value loyalty above all else. I could not abandon them now." "I'm sure your Mom will be surprised when she finds out about you getting married!" I say with a chuckle. "I wonder what she will think of this."
Shineah offers a fleeting, wry smile, a rare softening of her usually serious expression. "Indeed, my love. My mother's people, the Direfang, are... traditional. They value lineage and custom, and an unexpected marriage to an outsider, even one as formidable as you, might be met with some surprise. Perhaps they will simply be grateful for any aid, given the urgency of this message." She squeezes the wooden wolf figurine. "But their judgment is the least of my concerns right now. The Direfang do not send such tokens lightly. Whatever troubles them, it must be dire indeed." Her gaze turns serious, sweeping towards the dark expanse of the Whisperwood. "We must make haste. Every moment we delay could mean more suffering for my kin."
Without another word, I start packing, my large hands moving with practiced efficiency. Charlie and Grizz sense the shift in mood, the call to adventure, and lumber to my side, their powerful forms ready for the journey. Shineah leads the way, clutching the Direfang totem, and I follow her through the thicket.
The familiar paths soon give way to deeper, less‑trodden ways. The trees grow denser, their branches interlacing overhead until they swallow the daylight. Hours pass in determined silence, broken only by the soft padding of my boots, the rustle of leaves, and the occasional chirps of distant birds, until at last, we reach the edge of a deep, mist‑shrouded valley—a place utterly wild, far removed from the civilized comforts of Oakhaven. Here, the Whisperwood truly lives up to its name, the wind sighing through the trees with an almost vocal quality.
"So, your Mom lives in the Whisperwood?" I ask.
Shineah nods, her gaze fixed on the mist-shrouded valley below, a distant, almost wistful look in her eyes. "My mother *was* of the Whisperwood, Tormack. Born and raised within these deep forests, among the Direfang. When she married my father and went to Oakhaven, it was a great departure from her people's ways. But her heart always remained here. The Direfang have lived within these woods for generations, moving with the seasons, hunting, and guarding the ancient places. They are a nomadic folk, but their territory is this valley, and the hills beyond."
She takes a deep breath, the chill morning air filling her lungs. "This mist… it's unusual. It blankets the valley far deeper than normal, even for dawn. Something is wrong." She glances at the wooden wolf in her hand, then tucks it carefully into a pouch. "The clan will have left signs, ways to guide their own through these lands. We need to be vigilant."
With that, she steps forward, beginning the descent into the swirling mists. Charlie and Grizz follow closely, their massive forms disappearing into the grey expanse. I move right behind them. The forest here feels different—ancient and watchful—a place where the veil between worlds seems thinner.
As we descend into the valley, the mist swallows the remaining starlight, cloaking the world in a chilling grey. The air grows heavy with dampness, clinging to our skin and hair, and visibility shrinks to mere arm's length. Shineah moves with quiet grace, her eyes constantly scanning the barely visible ground and the gnarled trunks of ancient trees. She occasionally pauses, touching a broken branch or examining a pattern of disturbed leaves, deciphering the subtle markers left by her clan. Charlie and Grizz, usually boisterous, are unusually subdued, their massive forms moving like silent shadows behind me. The silence is profound, broken only by the drip of moisture from unseen branches and the muffled echo of our footsteps.
After what feels like an eternity, the mist begins to thin slightly, revealing a small, desolate clearing ahead. The faint, acrid smell of burnt fur and decay stings my nostrils, growing stronger with each step. In the center of the clearing, a small, hastily constructed campsite lies abandoned. A cold, dead fire pit is surrounded by overturned cooking pots and scattered personal effects. But it is not the disarray that catches my attention—it is the dark, viscous stains on the ground, spreading from what appears to be a crude, shallow grave marked by a single, broken wooden totem: a howling wolf, identical to the one Shineah carried, but snapped in half.
Shineah gasps, a sharp, choked sound tearing from her throat. She rushes forward, her eyes wide with a horrifying certainty fixed on the broken wolf totem. Kneeling beside the crude grave, she runs a trembling hand over the snapped wood, her features etched with profound sorrow and growing anger. "This… this is a war totem," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Broken. It means defeat. And this." She points to the dark, viscous stains on the ground, then sweeps her gaze over the chaotic campsite. "This wasn't just an attack. It was a brutal struggle. No bodies, but signs of blood, and… an unsettling, faint tang of corruption in the air."
She rises, her posture rigid, her eyes like flint, scanning the periphery of the clearing for any sign, any track. "They would never abandon a fallen comrade, much less their sacred totems. This suggests… they were taken." A cold, quiet rage begins to simmer beneath her composure. "They were here. And something truly terrible happened." Her hand instinctively goes to the hilt of her sword, her gaze meeting mine, a silent, desperate plea for action in her depths. The mist, now thinner, seems to mock our presence, revealing only desolation.
"I'm seeing signs of corruption," I mutter, my voice low but firm. "We should have no problems with that. Was that one of the reasons you left the nomadic lifestyle—you wanted to get away from paganism?"
Shineah turns to me, her initial anger momentarily overshadowed by a flash of hurt, then a weary sigh. "Tormack, my people, the Direfang, they honor the spirits of the forest, the ancestors, the very land beneath our feet. It is not 'paganism' to them; it is faith, a deep connection to the living world. And no, I did not leave to get away from it. My father was from Oakhaven, and when he married my mother, she chose to raise me in the city for safety, for opportunity." She gestures around the desolate clearing. "My clan's beliefs might be different from yours, but they are not the source of this evil."
Her voice softens slightly. "Sometimes, the faithful can still be vulnerable, Tormack. Not because their faith is weak, but because evil is cunning." She turns back to the tracks, her eyes narrowing. "Have you so quickly forgotten how it nearly killed you back in Oakhaven?"
She has a point, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I deflect. "Spirits of the forest, the land itself—worshipping that stuff is exactly what paganism is!"
Shineah's shoulders stiffen, and she turns slowly. Her eyes, usually warm when they meet mine, now hold a cold fire. "My people call it reverence, Tormack. A respect for the life that sustains us, the spirits that guard these ancient places. It is no less 'worship' than your hymns to your God, merely directed differently." Her voice, though low, crackles with suppressed emotion. "To dismiss it as 'paganism' at a moment when my entire clan is in peril… it wounds me."
She turns back to the tracks, her movements sharp and deliberate, the previous softness in her expression replaced by steely resolve. "But we can debate theology later. Right now, what matters is that something of profound darkness, something akin to your Master, has struck my family. And that, I believe, is something we can both agree is evil, regardless of its source." Her focus shifts entirely to the ground, searching for any disturbance that might lead us, leaving the sting of her words hanging in the chill, misty air.
"That is exactly my point," I reply. "My hymns are worship. I'm sorry to offend you, but you need to know what you are up against. The devout are immune to dark magic. If people were hurt by dark magic here, then something was amiss. I say it as I see it and sincerely hope you have left your pagan ways behind. I don't want to see you hurt by it."
Shineah snaps, her head whipping around, her eyes blazing with a mixture of grief, anger, and fierce ancestral pride. "My 'pagan ways,' Tormack, are as old as these very woods! They taught my people how to survive, how to respect life, and yes, how to recognize evil when it shows its face—whether it wears the guise of shadow or the false piety of judgment." She takes a step back, a palpable distance growing between us. "Do not mistake reverence for vulnerability. And do not mistake my pain for a lack of understanding. My family is gone! They were taken, and I will find them, with or without your… your sermons."
Her voice drops, laced with a raw edge. "And know this: your 'devotion' does not make you immune to arrogance. We have a shared enemy, Tormack. Let us not create another between us with misplaced judgment."
She turns sharply, her focus now entirely on the faint signs on the forest floor, her shoulders tense, leaving the sting of her words hanging in the damp, heavy air between us. Charlie and Grizz, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere, shift uneasily, their low growls a silent commentary on the human tension.
I take Shineah by the hand. "If you don't press forward with pure devotion to God, you may very well be killed in all this. We can save your family, but only if we have the power to do so. That power comes from God. You've seen it. Don't lose faith on me now. Bandits and monsters are one thing, but dark magic and cultists are something we should be able to handle with ease, so long as we are pure. Can you devote yourself fully to your divine Savior, or do you really choose to serve rocks?"
Shineah's fiery glare falters. The raw conviction in Tormack's voice, combined with the desperate situation of her clan, forces a difficult introspection. She looks at her hand in his, then back at the desolate clearing, the broken totem a stark reminder of her people's vulnerability. Her shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a profound weariness. "Not rocks, Tormack," she whispers, her voice hoarse, "never just rocks. But... I hear you. I see the power you wield, the protection you offer. If this... this God... is truly the source of that strength against such darkness, then I will lean upon it. I will try." She squeezes his hand, her gaze now resolute, directed towards the tracks once more. "But first, we find my family."
"This way," she points toward a faint trail leading deeper into the valley, away from the abandoned camp. She moves ahead through dense undergrowth, her steps fluid and silent. Charlie and Grizz follow close behind her, their noses low to the ground, occasionally letting out low, rumbling growls that echo unnervingly in the fog. The air grows colder, and the faint, acrid smell of burnt fur returns—now mixed with a metallic tang that suggests fresh blood.
Suddenly, Shineah stops dead. Ahead, half‑hidden by a thicket of gnarled oaks, lies a grisly sight: the charred remains of a Direfang hunting trap, twisted metal and scorched wood scattered like bones. Beside it, impaled on a broken branch, hangs a crudely fashioned doll made of woven twigs and dried moss, its heart pierced by a shard of obsidian glowing with a faint, malevolent purple light. The message is unmistakable—a dark warning left for anyone who dared follow.
My eyes tense at the sight of the doll that looks like it was involved in some kind of witchcraft. Without a word, I pull the obsidian shard from its heart and crush it under my boot. Then, with a low growl, I ignite the woven figure with a spark of divine fire from my hand. The twisted twigs and moss burn with a sickly green flame before collapsing into ash. I then close my eyes, whispering a prayer for guidance as we seek a clear path through this unholy darkness.
Shineah watches the creepy doll burn to ash, a flicker of grim satisfaction crossing her face. She clearly sensed a power in it she wanted no part of, and my destroying it so quickly leaves her a little surprised — but not disappointed
"It's a curse doll, Tormack," she says softly. "A warning, but also a binding. Meant to cripple the spirit, to sow despair. My people would say it's the work of a blood‑witch, but the energy… it feels so much like the Master's touch."
She kneels beside the charred remnants of the trap, running her fingers over the scorched earth. "They're trying to break the Direfang's spirit, isolate them. This trap wasn't just sprung—it was sabotaged. It's meant to cause maximum injury, to instill fear." Her gaze hardens as she rises. "This isn't about territory or hunting. This is about malice."
I turn a loving eye to Shineah, my grip firm around her hand. "Sometimes a person wants something they know a parent wouldn't approve of, so they turn to other"—I gesture toward the desecrated site—"unholy sources and defile themselves to get it. They're worse off because of it, but all things can be made right if we repent and turn to our Redeemer. So long as we are faithful, I don't fear for us—only for those who have not yet become fully converted."
Shineah meets my gaze, emotions swirling behind her eyes—love for me, frustration at my unwavering certainty, and the crushing weight of her clan's unknown fate. She squeezes my hand, a silent acknowledgment of my intent, even if the delivery grates.
"Perhaps," she says, her voice tight with suppressed emotion, "but right now, repentance for them means finding them. And for us, it means pursuing whoever did this. Your faith gives us strength, Tormack, but my knowledge of these woods and my people will give us direction."
She gently pulls her hand from mine, her eyes sharpening as she studies the ground around the destroyed trap. She points to a faint drag mark in the soft earth, almost imperceptible to an untrained eye. "They were taken this way toward Old Crone's Peak. It's a place of ancient power—and often, ancient trouble. A site my people have always respected, but never truly occupied, for fear of waking what sleeps there." Her jaw sets with grim determination. "We must follow."
Without hesitation, I fall in behind her. My frame moves with surprising ease through the dense undergrowth, Charlie and Grizz staying close, their senses already alert to the subtle shifts in the forest air. Shineah moves like a specter, her eyes fixed on the nearly invisible trail, every step purposeful. The faint drag mark leading away from the ruined trap is the only thread connecting us to her vanished kin.
The ascent toward Old Crone's Peak grows steep and treacherous. The forest becomes older, more forbidding, with colossal moss‑draped trees whose branches knit into a suffocating canopy that swallows the first hints of dawn. The air thins and chills, carrying a faint, unsettling hum that seems to vibrate up through the stones beneath my feet. The deeper we go, the more the forest feels aware of us—its silence heavy with unseen eyes.
Ahead, the outline of the peak emerges from the mist‑shrouded gloom, a jagged, ominous silhouette against the barely lit sky. The "Old Crone" lives up to her name.
"I like ancient things," I say quietly. "Old trees show security—the opposite of the ravages of war. They're a symbol of peace." I glance at Shineah. "Is this your mother? If so, it seems disrespectful to call her an old crone…"
"Ancient things can hold great wisdom and peace, Tormack—you're right," Shineah replies, her voice tight, catching the sentiment beneath my words. She keeps climbing, eyes fixed on the path, but a sigh escapes her as she answers the rest. "No, Tormack, it is not my mother. To call her an 'Old Crone' would be a grave insult—one no Direfang would utter."
She gestures toward the looming peak. "This place has always been known by that name, long before my mother's time. It refers to an ancient spirit—perhaps a guardian, perhaps a warning. A very old entity tied to the land itself, shrouded in myth and reverence. Some say benevolent, some say malevolent, depending on who tells the story."
She glances back at me, her expression a mix of weariness and resolve. "My people have legends of what sleeps here—what watches from the highest point. Whatever presence gave this peak its name existed long before our clans, before Oakhaven. It's a place of power… and of danger." Her voice lowers. "We're nearing the summit now. Be wary. The air itself feels… charged."
I wave my hand dismissively. "This is simply a ghost that haunts this place. We should be immune to it."
Shineah pauses, her breath misting in the cold air, her expression thoughtful. "Not a ghost as you imagine one, Tormack. Not a lingering spirit of the dead — something older. A primal force. A spirit of this land itself. My people speak of it as an ancient awareness, a watchful entity that is the peak." Her eyes sweep the looming rock face, the mists curling around its craggy features. "Immunity… I cannot say. We believe all things have power, and all power, if disrespected or disturbed, can be dangerous. Your faith offers strength, yes, but even mountains can fall. This place demands reverence, not just courage."
She turns back to the faint tracks on the ground and exhales sharply. "What is true is that something evil has come here, disturbed this ancient place, and driven my clan toward it. That is the threat before us. Whatever power resides here is now tainted — and if the Master's influence has reached this deep, then it is a poison that cares nothing for the name you give your God."
I shake my head. "That sounds like the lore of a false pagan god. You need to understand — I am immune to that stuff, no matter how ancient it claims to be. Don't be deceived. If I need to cast it out and show you how powerless it is, so be it." My axe ignites in my hand, flames curling along the blade. "I'm concerned about your faith here. Devotion to your Savior means acknowledging His power. Remember the Master? This is no different. Fear shows a lack of faith in God, which only gives the ghost power. This thing is not something that deserves any kind of worship."
Shineah flinches at the sudden flare of my axe, disbelief and frustration tightening her features. She looks from the fiery weapon to me, a widening gulf opening between us. "Tormack, you don't understand—"
Her words are swallowed as the air around us thickens, heavy with pressure. A low, resonant thrum vibrates through the ground, growing louder — like a vast, ancient heart beating deep within the mountain. The mist churns violently, twisting into grotesque, fleeting shapes. From the summit of Old Crone's Peak, a piercing, mournful wail echoes — wind and sorrow fused into a single voice of offended age.
Charlie and Grizz growl, their fur bristling as they fix their eyes on the peak.
"Evil spirits hate hymns, I need you to sing with me Shineah!" I shout, casting my glowing axe aside. It clatters against the stone as I raise my hands heavenward. "I am a child of God, and HE HAS SENT ME HERE! DEPART, EVIL SPIRIT — YOU HAVE NO POWER OVER ME!"
Startled, Shineah tries to echo a melody, but her voice is devoured instantly by the rising shriek. The mountain's response doesn't retreat — it intensifies. The wail sharpens into a deafening scream that rattles my bones. The ground convulses beneath us, ancient trees groaning as if in pain. At the summit, a swirling vortex of dark mist and debris forms, churning with malevolent energy.
A thunderous crack splits the air. A massive boulder tears free from the peak and hurtles toward us, scattering smaller stones in its wake. Charlie and Grizz roar, throwing themselves between us and the impact as it crashes down, barely missing.
The peak has not departed — it has awakened.
"Shineah! You're not singing—come on! I'm safe, but it's trying to scare you. Sing and let this fear pass. Don't feed this ghost. It doesn't deserve your devotion. You told me you committed yourself to the Savior. TRUST IN HIM!"
Shineah is visibly shaken, her whole body trembling—not just from the mountain's wrath, but from the war inside her. Her eyes, wide with a terror she can barely contain, dart from the rumbling peak to me, then to Charlie and Grizz as they pant and brace themselves against the smaller chunks of falling debris.
She tries to sing, but the sound that escapes her is a thin, broken whimper, swallowed instantly by the cacophony. Her gaze whips around, frantic, searching for any path to safety.
"Tormack, it's not fear!" she screams over the din, her voice raw. "It's rage! It's not a ghost to be cast out with words; you've provoked the mountain itself. We need to move—this whole area is going to collapse!"
"The mountain is not alive, Shineah. It feels nothing and thinks nothing. Spirits can cause the ground to quake, and they can be cast out. Don't turn the mountain into an idol!" I sing louder and stomp my foot, channeling my holy fire into the mountain itself, causing it to burn and the spirits inside to wail.
Shineah gasps from fear. "The mountain *is* alive, Tormack, in a way your city lore cannot comprehend! It has a spirit, an essence older than any man, any faith!" She pulls harder at his arm, her eyes wide with desperation. "This is the power of the mountain unleashed because you challenged it directly!"
The ground bucks again, violently, throwing both of us off balance. A shower of small rocks rains down from above, clattering against the ancient trees. A deep, resonant growl, far deeper than any beast, rumbles from the peak, shaking the very air. "We need to move, Tormack!" Shineah shouts, her voice cracking. "It's trying to bury us! You cannot fight a mountain with words! We must find shelter, or it will crush us all!" Charlie and Grizz, their massive bodies trembling, growl urgently, their powerful jaws open as if trying to warn of imminent danger.
My body might be shaken, but my spirit remains firm. "God has power over all spirits! The mountain having a spirit would only make it possessed! God can cast out all spirits!" I roar, my voice competing with the mountain's wrath. "If not now, then perhaps we need to go back, calm down, and hold a fast. Stubborn spirits can only be cast out through prayer and fasting."
Shineah, still reeling, looks at me with a mix of desperation and dawning, terrible understanding. "Prayer and fasting?" she shouts, trying to pull me from the path of falling debris. "Tormack, we will be crushed before we can begin! If this spirit you speak of is truly so powerful, it seeks to silence us now!" She points frantically toward a jagged overhang of rock a short distance down the slope, offering some temporary shelter. "That way! We must get to cover!"
The mountain continues its furious assault, sending another cascade of rocks tumbling down, forcing a desperate scramble for safety. Shineah drags at my arm, and together we dive beneath the precarious overhang just as a larger shower of stones obliterates the spot where we had been standing. The ground still trembles, and the chilling wail from the peak slowly begins to subside, though it doesn't entirely vanish. Gasps of relief mix with the cold, damp air. Shineah leans against the rough rock face, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with the ordeal. Charlie and Grizz huddle close, their low growls now sounds of discomfort rather than warning.
"Now," Shineah pants, glancing back at the still‑ominous peak, "what do you propose we do about this… possessed mountain?"
I steady my voice, calm amidst the lingering tremors. "This is in God's hands. The purpose of the fast is to purify ourselves by showing our devotion to Him. This is no bandit, dragon, or monster we can slay. The only weapons that have any effect here are hearts giving sincere devotion to God. This is a spiritual battle, not a physical one. Shineah, I need you to reject your devotion to this mountain and dedicate yourself to God, like you told me you would. Say it to the mountain and watch His miracles."
Shineah stares at me, her chest still heaving, her eyes darting between my unwavering conviction and the malevolent peak beyond our meager shelter. The absurdity of it, in the face of such raw geological fury, wars with the memory of my past miracles, of the strength I've shown. She closes her eyes for a moment, her knuckles white where she clutches her arm. She swallows hard, then opens her eyes, meeting mine with a fierce, strained resolve.
"Alright, Tormack," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the mountain's distant grumbling. "For my family. For our purpose."
She turns her gaze toward the churning mists, her shoulders squared, and forces the words past her trembling lips. "Hear me, Old Crone's Peak! Hear me, spirit of this place! My devotion, my faith, belongs now to my Savior, to the one True God! I reject your ancient hold, your fear, and dedicate my heart, my spirit, to Him alone!"
Her voice, though trembling, gains a strange, defiant power with each word. As the last word echoes, an unnatural silence descends upon the valley, stark and absolute. The ground tremors cease. The chilling wail from the peak dies, not with a whimper, but a sharp, sudden cut.
The swirling mists, however, do not dissipate. Instead, they begin to coalesce, drawing together at the very summit of Old Crone's Peak. The form they take is colossal and vague, but undeniably feminine, with craggy, ancient features carved from mist and stone. Its eyes, two dark, cavernous voids, fix upon Shineah with an intensity that promises neither benediction nor wrath, but an ancient, profound knowing.
And then, from the heart of that stony visage, a voice—not a sound, but a thought—echoes directly within our minds: "The Master… he comes for the child of the wolf and the child of the raven. You have bought yourselves a breath, mortal. Now prove your devotion, not with words, but with blood."
I roll my eyes. "Another lurker!" I shake my head. "Spirits cannot take a physical form by themselves. They require a host. Thank you for showing yourself."
Shineah's eyes widen, and a new, chilling understanding dawns in their depths, connecting this ancient, disembodied presence with the insidious, possessing nature of the Master.
"I told you this was no different than what we were dealing with in Oakhaven," I say.
As I speak, the colossal, vague form of the Crone carved from mist and stone shimmers. Its dark, cavernous eyes, which had fixed upon Shineah, slowly recedes. The form dissipates back into the swirling mists of the peak. The profound silence returns, though it now feels heavier, full of unseen threats. The mountain no longer quakes, and the chilling wail is gone, but the air still crackles with an ancient, lingering power. The Crone's warning, however, hangs heavy in the air, a cold, mental echo: *'The Master... he comes for the child of the wolf and the child of the raven. You have bought yourselves a breath, mortal. Now prove your devotion, not with words, but with blood.'* The challenge remains, stark and unavoidable.
I nod, satisfied. "Not the mountain," I say firmly, "just ghosts and pagan lore, that stuff is gone now!"
Shineah, however, doesn't share my sense of triumph. Her face is etched with deeper worry, her eyes wide as she processes the Crone's chilling message. "The child of the wolf… and the child of the raven," she whispers, her gaze locking with mine. "My clan uses the wolf as their symbol, Tormack. And my father's lineage, Oakhaven's heraldry, often depicts the raven. It spoke of the Master coming for us, for our families. It wasn't just a warning about the mountain—it was a warning from the mountain, about the same enemy we face."
She shivers, though the air has calmed. "It knows. It was trying to tell us something, to prevent a greater evil." Her eyes sweep toward the direction of the tracks we've been following, her resolve hardening. "We must hurry, Tormack. If the Master is after them… we cannot waste another moment debating spirits."
I shake my head, my voice steady. "Come on. The Master is just another ghost, or a possessed man. More dark magic nonsense. We're just repeating what happened in Oakhaven. Fear not—see past the dark facade. The faithful are immune to this stuff."
Shineah takes a deep, steadying breath, her hand coming to rest on the hilt of her sword, not in aggression, but in a gesture of grim readiness. "Perhaps," she concedes, her voice tight but unwavering. "Perhaps it is merely another ghost, another possessed host for the Master's darkness. Another facade. But this 'facade' has taken my family, Tormack. It has left a trail of desecration and fear, just as it did in Oakhaven."
She turns towards the barely visible tracks, her gaze sharp and focused. "You may be immune to this 'stuff,' Tormack, but my family is not. And I have committed myself to your Savior, yes, to find the strength to fight this evil, not to stand by and debate its nature while my kin are in peril. So, let us not waste time. Let us follow this 'dark magic crap' and rescue my 'pagan' family. If their hearts need converting, then let it be after they are safe from whoever, or whatever, has taken them." She steps out from under the overhang, her stride purposeful, leaving no room for further discussion. Charlie and Grizz fall in behind her, their eyes fixed on the path.
I lay a firm hand on Shineah's shoulder, my gaze locking with hers, unwavering. "He is your Savior too," I say with conviction. "By your devotion, you are immune too."
She meets my stare, uncertainty flickering across her features. My words are meant to reassure, but I feel the weight of expectation in them as well. She nods slowly, a tight smile brushing her lips, though her eyes remain haunted. "Then let us test that immunity, Tormack," she murmurs, her voice low but edged with steel. "Lead the way, husband. Or rather, follow me. We have a family to find."
Her hand lifts mine from her shoulder, gentle but firm, and she steps forward along the barely visible track. I watch her move into the quiet forest, the silence pressing in around us, as if the ancient trees themselves are witnesses to our resolve.