Two Direfangs push through the brush first — broad‑shouldered silhouettes carrying the dented cooking pot between them, steam curling faintly from its rim. Shineah recognizes them instantly. Rokan and Talla, Cousins. Childhood sparring partners. Partners in mischief before Shineah ever dreamed of council chambers or city walls.
Rokan's hair is tied back in the same rough knot he's worn since they were children, though now it's streaked with soot and blood. Talla's braids are frayed, her cheek smeared with ash, but her eyes — sharp, amber, unyielding — are unmistakable.
They stop at the edge of the hollow, breathing hard. "Water," Rokan grunts, lowering the pot with a wince. "This is just for drinking for now, we've only got the one pot. After everyone has had something to drink, we'll come around again for washing."
A few Direfangs gather and pass the water around. Talla, on the other hand, came back with an arm full of wild apples to share.
Shineah rises shakily to greet them.
Talla's gaze flicks over her — the torn clothes, the trembling hands, the blood on her knees — and something softens. But only slightly.
"You came back," Talla says. Not accusing. Not warm. Just… stating a fact with weight behind it.
Shineah swallows. "Of course I did."
Rokan snorts, wiping sweat from his brow. "Could've fooled us. Councilwoman Shineah of Oakhaven." He says the title like it tastes sour. "We thought you'd traded tents and trails for stone walls and fancy speeches."
Shineah flinches — not visibly, but enough that her mother's eyes flick toward her.
Talla elbows Rokan sharply. "She saved us, idiot."
Rokan grumbles but doesn't argue.
Shineah steps closer, voice low. "I never left you. Not really."
Rokan raises a brow. "You left the tribe."
Shineah's jaw tightens. "I left the path, not the people."
Rokan folds his arms and looks both ways. "Not being with us for years is leaving the people!"
Talla studies her for a long moment, then nods toward Tormack — pale, barely breathing. "That man," Talla says quietly, "risked his life for us. For you. We saw it. We won't forget it."
Rokan shifts uncomfortably. "We're grateful. Truly. But it's strange, Shineah. Seeing you here again. Fighting beside us. Bleeding beside us. Like old times."
Shineah's voice softens. "It is like old times."
Rokan shakes his head. "No. Not exactly. You're different now..."
Shineah's breath catches — because it's true.
Talla steps forward, placing a hand on Shineah's shoulder. "But you came when we needed you. And that counts for more than where you sleep at night."
Shineah's eyes glisten. "I never stopped being Direfang."
Rokan grunts and rolls his eyes.
Shineah lifts her chin. "I'm here, aren't I?"
Rokan looks at her for a long moment — then nods once, a gesture heavy with old loyalty.
Talla squeezes Shineah's arm. "Welcome home, cousin."
Shineah's breath shudders out — relief, grief, belonging all tangled together.
Behind them, Shineah's mother smirks faintly as she takes a bite of her apple. She swallows. "Now that the family drama is sorted, how is that fire going?" It is evident we still don't have a fire. She then shoos them off to get busy on that. We need sterile water to clean up with.
Rokan and Talla glance at the cold fire pit, then at each other.
Shineah's mother waves them off with a sharp flick of her hand. "Go on, then!"
They hurry to obey, gathering wood and kindling. The hollow fills with the soft rustle of movement — branches snapping, boots shifting, the low murmur of tired voices.
Shineah's mother kneels beside Tormack again, checking the pressure on the bandage. Her hands move with practiced certainty, but her voice drops into something older — something ritualistic.
"Spirits of the Deep Earth," she murmurs, bowing her head. "Hold this warrior's breath steady. Spirits of the High Wind, carry his pain away. Spirits of—"
"Mother." Shineah's voice cuts in, sharper than she intends.
Her mother pauses mid‑chant, brows lifting. "What? I'm calling the spirits to keep him alive."
Shineah glances at Tormack — pale, still, chest rising unevenly — then back at her mother. "He… wouldn't want that."
A few Direfangs look up from their work. The air shifts.
Her mother frowns. "Wouldn't want healing?"
"No," Shineah says quickly. "Not that. Just… not the spirits. Not from those gods."
Silence settles over the hollow.
Rokan straightens from the fire pit, eyes narrowing. Talla's hands still on the apples she's sorting. Even the bears lift their heads.
Her mother's expression tightens, not angry — just startled. "Shineah… what are you saying?"
Shineah clears her throat. "I mean that he follows a different path. A different God. And I—" She hesitates, the words catching. "I follow Him now too."
Her mother stares at her as if she's spoken a foreign language.
"You… abandoned our gods?"
Shineah's voice is quiet. "I didn't abandon anything. I found something truer."
Rokan mutters under his breath, "City life changes people."
Talla elbows him, but her eyes stay fixed on Shineah — searching, uncertain.
Her mother sits back on her heels, studying her daughter with a mixture of hurt and disbelief. "You left the tribe. You left our ways. And now you leave our gods too?"
Shineah flinches. "Mother… I'm still your daughter."
Her mother doesn't answer immediately. She looks at Tormack — unconscious, bleeding, a stranger to their traditions — then back at Shineah.
"You chose him," she murmurs, the words gentle, acknowledging what Shineah has already admitted to herself.
Shineah nods, eyes shining. "Yes. I did."
Her mother exhales slowly, the sound heavy with years of tradition and the weight of a daughter she no longer fully recognizes. "Then I suppose," she murmurs, "I must learn who my daughter has become."
The Direfangs exchange glances — the rift widening, but not yet breaking.
Shineah reaches out, placing her hand over her mother's. "I'm still Direfang," she whispers. "Just… walking a different path."
Her mother's fingers tighten around hers — not acceptance, not rejection, but a fragile, uncertain hold.
For now, it's enough.
Shineah squeezes Tormack's arm gently, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand. "Speaking of faith, Mother… there's something I need to tell you. About the Old Crone."
Her mother's brows lift, wary but listening.
"Up on Old Crone's Peak," Shineah begins, her voice low, "when I showed Tormack the ancient spirit of the mountain… he didn't bow to it. He didn't revere it. He rebuked it." She swallows, remembering the sound of the mountain groaning beneath them. "He cast it out with his faith — with his hymns. The mountain cried out, but it yielded to him."
She lets the words settle, watching her mother's face shift.
"And seeing that," Shineah continues softly, "feeling the sheer force of his conviction… seeing the way it bends the world around him… I dedicated myself to his God." Her voice trembles, but she doesn't look away. "And just now, when those cultists hurled their vile magic at me, it dissipated. It had no effect. He called it immunity — a blessing of his God — and I felt it. I felt protected."
Shineah's mother stares at her, mouth slightly open, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. Her eyes — seasoned, hardened, shaped by decades of Direfang tradition — widen with something Shineah has never seen in them before.
"He… cast out the mountain spirit?" she whispers. "And you… you felt its magic hit you and… do nothing?"
Shineah nods once. "If it wasn't for His God… my Savior, I would be dead."
Her mother looks from her daughter to Tormack's still form, and something shifts behind her eyes — a slow, dawning understanding. "This is…" she breathes, voice barely audible, "power unlike any I have ever known." Her gaze lingers on Tormack, softer now, almost reverent. "A true protector, indeed."
She exhales slowly, the weight of old beliefs pressing against the new truth before her. "Perhaps…" she murmurs, "perhaps the old ways must learn from the new, if this path offers such strength against the darkness closing in."
The fire finally catches with a sharp crack, flames licking up the kindling. A few Direfangs let out relieved breaths as the first curl of heat spreads through the hollow. The pot is set over the flames, water sloshing inside, and soon the low rumble of heating water fills the quiet.
Shineah stays close to Tormack, but the Direfangs drift nearer — not crowding, just… orbiting. Curious. Uneasy. Trying to make sense of what they witnessed.
Rokan is the first to speak, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the fire. "I saw it," he mutters. "That witch's curse hit you head on, Shineah. It should have obliterated you, like it did Dorrin…"
A few Direfangs go still at the name — a quiet reverence for the dead, the wound of it still fresh in their hearts. Shineah's hand flies to her mouth when she realizes who was lost — her older brother. Her breath punches out of her, a small, broken sound she tries to swallow. Her hand drops just as quickly, fingers curling into a fist. She doesn't speak — can't — but the shock ripples through her, sharp and unmistakable.
Her mother's eyes flick toward her, softening for a heartbeat.
Talla's jaw tightens. "There wasn't even ash left of him," she says quietly. "Or Brenna. Or Harv." Her voice thins.
Jorek's hands curl into fists. "Those witches didn't just kill them. They wiped them out. Like they were never here."
A hollow ache settles over the group — not the grief of loss, but the grief of absence. The kind that leaves a tribe feeling smaller in ways they can't measure.
Then Jorek jerks his chin toward Tormack. "And him," he says, voice rough. "I saw that axe of his catch fire… Not witch‑fire. Something else."
A murmur ripples through the group.
Shineah feels their eyes on her. She straightens, though her hands still tremble faintly. "It was His God's protection."
Rokan huffs, but it's not mocking — it's bewildered. "Protection like that? I've never seen magic fail so hard. It hit you like a hammer and just… died."
Jorek's gaze sharpens. "And the axe. Shineah… axes don't do that. Not even Direfang steel."
Shineah glances at Tormack's hand, still curled loosely as if gripping an invisible haft. "His God strengthens him," she says softly. "And those who stand with him."
The Direfangs exchange looks — not fearful, but unsettled in a way that means they're thinking hard.
Rokan rubs the back of his neck. "So this God of his… He gives warriors fire? And shields them from curses?"
Shineah hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "He gives what is needed. And today… we needed protection."
Talla's eyes flick to Tormack, then back to Shineah. "Is that why you follow Him now?"
Shineah takes a long breath. She nods. "Because I've seen His power. And because Tormack trusts Him with everything he is."
Jorek crouches beside the fire, staring into the flames as if they might hold answers. "If this God can break witchcraft… if He can burn corruption… then maybe…" He trails off, shaking his head. "Maybe we've been fighting the wrong way."
Rokan lets out a slow exhale. "Or maybe we finally have a weapon that can outmatch theirs."
The Direfangs fall quiet, the fire crackling between them, the pot beginning to steam.
For the first time since the attack, Shineah feels something shift, the beginning of respect. Not just for Tormack… but for the faith that surrounds him.
Shineah's eyes turn to Tormack. "He is a force of nature, Mother, when he stands against the darkness. A shield and a sword for those who believe."
"Just know, he is going to want to talk to you about his religion when he wakes up. We want the whole clan to have this immunity too! Speaking of our clan… where are all of the wolves? Did they all die?" Shineah's heart breaks at the thought of it. They have always been the pride of the clan! A wave of deep sorrow washes over her face, the weight of their loss on top of the others threatening to overwhelm her.
"They were captured, daughter, but we will find them." Shineah's mother declares, her voice cutting through the soft gloom of the hollow. Her eyes, sharp and accustomed to the wilderness, dart toward the dark canopy above. With a low, trilling whistle, she calls out, a sound that seems to ripple through the ancient trees.
Two large owls descend, silent as ghosts, landing on a nearby branch, their luminous eyes fixed on her. They aren't strangers — they're the same silent watchers who carried warnings through the forest, one of the owls is the same one that brought us the totem when the Direfangs first vanished. Their presence brings much needed hope.
"Find them, my swift ones," Shineah's mother murmurs, her voice taking on a melodic, commanding tone. "Follow the corruption, find the lost ones of our kin. Keep track of their movements. Do not interfere, but report back. The trail must not go cold."
The owls hoot softly in response, then launch themselves back into the night, disappearing as swiftly and silently as they appeared.
"They will follow," she assures Shineah, her gaze returning to Tormack's still form. "But we must make haste. Even with their keen sight, time is of the essence."
Shineah turns her attention back to Tormack, brushing a trembling hand across his cheek. "Get well soon, my love… we need you."
The moment her skin touches his face, she jerks slightly. "Mother— he's burning up."
And as if the world itself is listening, the pot over the fire gives a low, rolling boil.
Shineah's mother moves immediately. "Good. The water's ready. Rokan, bring the spare shirt."
The Direfangs tear away what's left of Tormack's shredded, blood‑stiffened shirt and something falls out and hits the ground. However, Shineah's attention is entirely on the sight of the wound. She flinches at the angry heat radiating from his forehead, panic setting in but her mother's hand lands lightly on her shoulder
"Well," her mother says, voice low and maddeningly casual in an effort to calm Shineah down, "at least he's built properly. Broad shoulders, strong chest… you chose well, daughter."
"Mother!" Shineah sputters, face going scarlet.
Her mother only shrugs, utterly unbothered. "What? I'm just saying — if you're going to drag a man halfway across the forest, it helps if he's sturdy. Your man is built. Look at these muscles. It'll take more than a dragon to break this one."
Rokan and Jorek flex their own muscles in quiet comparison. Then a couple of Direfangs cough into their hands to hide their grins. One fails.
Shineah glares at them all, mortified, but the panic in her breathing eases — exactly as her mother intended.
They dip the spare shirt into the boiling water, wring it out, and begin washing the wound. Steam curls around them, carrying the sharp scent of heated cloth and blood. Tormack doesn't stir, but the angry bubbling at the edges of the wound begins to ease.
When the washing is done, Shineah's mother reaches into Shineah's pack — the one she dumped out earlier — for something dry to dress the wound. She pulls out something soft. "This will do."
Shineah goes scarlet. "Mother—"
"It will do, that's all that matters." her mother smiles.
The Direfangs pretend not to notice. Mostly, but some snickers are heard.
As her mother works, Shineah kneels beside Tormack, gathering the scattered items from the ground. Her fingers brush something smooth and familiar — a small stone, warm to the touch despite the cold earth.
She lifts it, breath catching.
One of his holy stones. The ones he keeps close. The ones he prays with.
It glows faintly in her palm, as if remembering the fire of his conviction.
Shineah closes her fingers around it, holding it to her chest. "He didn't lose it," she whispers. "He kept it with him… even through all of this."
Her mother glances over, eyes softening. "Then hold onto it for him. Until he wakes."
Shineah turns to Tormack and places the stone on his injury. "These stones have healing properties," she says, "through the power of his God they help accelerate the healing process."
Shineah then closes her eyes, bowing her head, and offers a heartfelt, albeit slightly halting, prayer. "Heavenly Father, please, bless this man, my husband, Tormack. Heal him, for we need his strength." Then, a clear, pure note escapes her lips, and she begins to sing a hymn of worship, a melody she must have heard Tormack hum in quieter moments. "Heavenly Father, are you really there?" she sings, her voice gaining strength and conviction with each line.
As her words fill the hollow, the glowing stone resting on Tormack's chest begins to pulse with an ethereal, warm light, growing brighter with every note. The light spills across Tormack's still form, and a perceptible change comes over him, a visible easing of the tension in his face.
Around them, the other Direfang, including Shineah's mother, watch in awe, a silence falling over the area as the light from the sacred stone seems to respond to the raw, earnest power of Shineah's devotion.
Tormack's breathing deepens, and a flicker of color returns to his pale cheeks, a clear sign of the potent, divine healing at work.
Shineah lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, her shoulders sagging with relief. For a heartbeat, she just watches him — alive, warm, here.
When I come to, everything hurts, but I smile feeling the comforting spirit of Shineah's hymn. It is a quiet assurance that I will be alright. I feel the holy stone on my chest. I feel its warmth flowing through me, mending me, body and spirit, washing away the pain.
Shineah is kneeling beside me, hands on the holy stone on my chest.
"You're back," she whispers, voice cracking. "Thank the heavens."
I manage a smile. "I didn't go far." I shyly look up at all the people standing around watching me.
She lets out a shaky laugh, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. For a moment, despite the audience, it feels like it is just the two of us — her relief, my exhaustion, the fading glow of the stone.
Then I shift, trying to sit up. Shineah catches the stone as it slides off me then grabs my shoulder to keep me still. "Don't you dare!"
Rokan steps in too. "Lie still. You were half-dead a minute ago."
"I'm okay," I complain, trying to sit up anyway.
Three Direfangs shove me back down at once.
That's when I finally look down I see my bandages… I freeze.
I squint. "Is that…?"
Shineah's face goes scarlet. "It's absorbent," she snaps, voice tight with worry. "Hold still."
I try to laugh, but it comes out as a pained wheeze. "Shineah, are you—did you just—bandage me with—"
She ties the makeshift bandage in place with a strip of cloth torn from her shawl. Her hands are steady now, but her eyes keep flicking to my face like she's checking to make sure I'm still here."Yes," she hisses, pressing harder. "Be grateful. They're clean, they're padded, and they're literally designed to deal with blood. It won't hurt you, stop talking!"
"JUST MY PRIDE!" I grab at the bandage, ready to rip it off.
Shineah slaps her hand over it, eyes blazing, absolutely ready to punch me right in the wound if I don't behave. "Tormack, don't you dare."
I stare at the bandage, mortified. "Shineah… why would you—why would you put that on me?"
"It was clean!" she snaps, cheeks blazing. "And absorbent! And you were dying!"
"Then let me die with dignity!" I whimper.
"Tormack!" she hisses, scandalized.
The humiliation surges hotter than the wound ever did. "I'm taking it off."
Three Direfangs shout "NO!" at the same time.
But it's too late — I rip it free.
Silence crashes over the hollow.
Where there should be torn flesh and blood, there's only a faint, healed line glowing softly in the firelight.
Shineah's breath catches. "By the heavens…"
Rokan stares. "That… that wasn't like that before."
I blink down at myself, stunned, but nowhere near as stunned as everyone else.
Shineah smacks my shoulder — gently, but with all the leftover terror in her bones. "Idiot," she whispers, voice trembling. "You scared me."
I swallow, sheepish. "Still would've preferred literally anything else as a bandage."
Her face goes scarlet again. "Tormack!"