Chapter 4: Drakkensund

“Drakkensund Gates” colour pencil drawing by Chaiga T. Cheska

Snow lay thick upon the track, crusted where the wind had hardened it, soft where the trees had sheltered the fall. Tavik led the way in measured silence, the watchfulness in his eyes as constant as the steam of his breath. Bran kept beside him, steps brisk, but his head turned often to glance back down the line, back towards the deeper forest they'd left behind. Each backward glance brushed against Nix's nerves like a burr, a small thing, made sharp by the knowledge it reflected.

Nix held to the narrow way, boots biting into the snow, the air cold enough to sting his teeth when he drew breath deep. He measured each step with quiet resolve, refusing to fall behind. Oren followed close, near enough that Nix could sense the warmth of him, far enough that he would not feel herded. The unspoken readiness in that spacing was both comfort and wound.

Around them, the forest deepened into something older than the season. Black-barked oaks rose in tall ranks, their limbs veiled with frost-stiff lichen, the high forks cupping snow until the wind shook it loose in slow cascades. The pines stood straight and sombre, resin scenting the cold like a sharp memory. Between the trunks, undergrowth lay bowed and silvered, the paths of hares and foxes stitched delicately across the drifts.

Somewhere above, a jay called once, bright and fleeting. Elsewhere, ice cracked on a hidden stream.

Bran's unease grew with each step, a prickling at the base of his skull that made his shoulders tighten. Something behind them. Something watching. He couldn't name it, but the forest itself felt wrong, the silence too heavy, the shadows too attentive. He glanced back again, searching the dark colonnade of sentinel trees they'd passed beneath.

A little further on, Bran halted without warning, one hand shooting out to grip Tavik's arm. His face drained of colour. "Something's..."

Tavik stopped mid-stride, turning. "What..."

Bran's gaze fixed on the way they'd come on the towering sentinel oaks that rose like ancient wardens in the distance. High in those dark crowns, something moved, too broad, too deliberate. A shadow that didn't belong.

Nix nearly collided with Bran's back. Oren closed the gap from behind, hand moving to his knife hilt, following Bran's stare back along their path. The very canopy seemed to listen.

Then, from the depths of the forest behind them, a shriek tore through the stillness. Inhuman, raw, so wild it seemed to rip the warmth from their blood.

In answer, the forest erupted. Birds exploded from the canopy in screaming flocks, their shapes scattering against the slate grey sky, feathers tumbling like ash on the wind. The thunder of wings was deafening.

"Run." Oren's voice cut low and urgent through the chaos.

They ran. Tavik crashed through the undergrowth ahead, choosing speed over stealth. Bran kept pace at his shoulder, breath harsh. Nix stumbled once over a hidden root, caught himself, Oren's hand steadying his arm before falling away.

Then the sudden, dizzying freedom of open ground.

The slope before them fell away to the Emaris river, a breadth of living water part frozen in glassy stillness, part breaking wild over its own hidden rocky bed. Mist blurred the far bank. To the right, sentinel trees leaned far over the current, roots knotted into the earth, veined with faint crystal where MirMarnian magic had once touched them.

They slowed, fear loosening in the grip of such sight. Ice sheets knocked hollow music from one another; the current carried pine needles and glittering shards of bark into the low winter light. Above, the sentient sky folded its clouds into curling runes of beasts and ancient glyphs, whispers of favour in their shapes.

Snow began to fall in earnest now, great, slanting flakes that blurred the line between earth and sky, settling damp and heavy upon cloaks already sodden. The noon light was brittle, fractured by cloud, yet it spilt in wavering shafts upon their path, gilding the glimmer of ice along the Emaris's bank. Each breath clouded before them, mingling with the river mist, their cheeks raw with wind and the slow, numbing wet.

The relief of sighting Drakkensund's gates was immediate, nearly physical, a slackening of invisible threads that had bound them since the forest's deepening gloom. Behind them, the Sentinel trees stood like ancient wardens, their trunks black as iron, their burden of snow shaken loose by the wild flurries. The air smelled of river smoke and something sharper, sap bleeding from wounds in the bark. The metallic scent of their own exhaustion mingled with it all.

Nix walked with the steadiness of habit, though every fibre of him ached. His tunic, caked stiff with blood at the seams, rasped against his skin, and the runic glyphs limned across his hands and neck flickered between pallid green and a sickly gold. A calm, sculpted mask lay over his face, but his eyes darted too quickly, reading the wind, the trees, the watchful sky.

Oren trudged close on his left, cloak dragging, the look of a youth who had tramped half the known world and would do so again. Tavik and Bran came behind, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of worry, their voices stilled, too tired for argument, too wary for laughter.

A quiet had fallen, deceptive in its gentleness, the roar of the river tempered to a silvered lull, the song of ice sheets on water echoing back and forth. Yet at their backs, the tension lingered, as palpable as the winter air.

Nix's gaze drifted, unbidden, to the forest's velvet shadows. For a brief, arresting moment, the gloom parted, and in the pale light beneath the pines, a shape lingered where none should. An Isramaith, tall and spectral, its coat silvery-grey, its great antlers arching overhead in a crown of ice, each tine catching stray fragments of light. Its eyes, or the absence thereof, were deep sockets rimmed with frost, watching with a patience older than any season.

A shudder passed through Nix, the runes flaring across his knuckles.

Tavik's hand moved to his knife before he'd finished the thought. "You see it?"

"Aye."

Oren sensed it too, a prickle at the nape. His voice dropped low. "Keep moving. Don't look back."

Bran, eyes wide, managed only: "Gods."

Nix pressed forward, not quickening but refusing to slow, his every step a denial of whatever threatened from the world behind. The Isramaith did not advance, but its antlers twitched, attuned to the unstable thrum of magic bleeding from Nix's skin. There was no malice in its bearing, only the ancient, unyielding curiosity of the wild, the sense that, were the boys to falter, the forest might reclaim them without regret.

By the time the gates loomed tall above them, timbers braced in iron and marked with flood-carved runes, relief mingled with awe and fatigue in equal measure. The walls of Drakkensund rose from the snowy bank, half-shrouded in mist, their outlines blurred by the thick, wet flakes still falling.

Nix paused, drawing a slow, centring breath, his hands trembling with chill and something unnamed.

Oren nudged his arm, eyes soft with worry. "Alright?"

"Aye." Nix found his voice amongst the clangour of river and the bashful hiss of snow. "Just tired. The cold bites harder than I remember."

Tavik's gaze caught on the fresh stain spreading at Nix's side. "You're bleeding again."

"It's nothing." But the runes on Nix's throat pulsed, betraying his lie.

The river sang on, endless, and behind them the Isramaith faded into the wood, satisfied, for now, to watch.

The gates stood before them: Grimward Oak braced in Riversteel, the ancient wood dark as old river silt, every grain marked with flood-forged runes that shimmered faintly as though remembering the hands that once carved them beneath storm and moon. Snow began to pile against the lower panels, whilst the mist, the river's breath, swelled and thickened, veiling all in an uncertain dream before receding at last to reveal the guardians of the threshold.

Two Mistguards stood sentinel, their cloaks the colour of a winter dawn and trimmed with ice fur, Breathstones at their throats glowing a pale, glacial blue. Their faces were steady, unreadable as the river in thaw, yet as Nix approached, his tunic sodden and dark with blood, the runes at his throat and wrists flickering with unquenched magic, the guards' shoulders shifted, wary and unwilling to look away.

One stepped forward, boots pressing into the snow with the silence of one accustomed to listening. He pressed a gloved hand to the rune-panel at the gate. The wood tremored beneath his touch, a subtle tone passing through stone and timber. The guard's voice was a thread of river-mist. "The boy carries stormlight. Who speaks for him?"

Oren drew himself up. "Nix. From the Sentinel Forest. He's wounded but he's walking. We need Yilda."

Bran stepped forward. "Yilda knows me. I've been learning from her. The wound... it's not healing as it should."

A stillness stretched between the Mistguards; their eyes searched the faces before them, saw the truth in the boys' fatigue, in the shadow of pain etched across Nix's features. At length, one gestured towards the latch, the other bent close and spoke a brief phrase in the old Breathtone. The mechanism responded with a weary sigh, the timbers parting slowly, letting through a spill of mist and river light.

As they stepped through, the mist closed in for a moment, so thick it was as though they walked in a pocket of the drowned past. Then, with a shiver, it peeled away, unveiling Drakkensund proper. The settlement curved in a crescent shape, Miststone huts aglow with their soft, living luminescence, hearth-smoke curling upwards to vanish in the wintry pale. Settlers paused in their work, faces half-shrouded in mufflers, eyes bright and curious. Somewhere, a child darted close, cheeks scarlet from the cold, and placed a Froststone carefully on the path before Nix, a silent welcome, fragile and luminous.

A wind chime, strung high for the season, caught a stray current and sang, a pure, crystalline note that echoed the flickering light of Nix's runes.

Bran moved at their head, his eyes alight with memories, lips curving into small, familiar greetings as he caught the gaze of a potter, a tanner, a knot-haired girl wrapped in smoke-blue wool. Recognition flickered across faces, but the usual murmurs of welcome died before they found voice. Instead, the townsfolk paused in their labours, hands stilled on baskets of split willow, on the smooth arc of a finished paddle, watching, waiting, as though the river itself had drawn them to the banks to witness this moment.

Nix, drawn up as tall as his battered frame allowed, pressed forward with unsteady resolve. This place was unlike any he had imagined, the crescent sweep of the dwellings, the river-stone huts glowing like scattered moons. And always, the mist, shifting and curling, parted gently before him, as if recognising something in the shifting lattice of runes beneath his skin.

Tavik's hand never strayed far from his knife, his gaze sweeping rooftops and doorways in the old patterns. Oren walked steady at Nix's shoulder, close enough to steady him if he stumbled.

The air itself seemed taut, a bowstring not yet loosed. Bran felt it too; the settlement had never been so still. Where once laughter and the clangour of tools spun freely through the lanes, now silence hovered, thick, not with suspicion, but with expectancy, as if Drakkensund was holding its breath.

A gust drew snow in looping eddies. Chimes rang out suddenly where the wind found them, their notes threading the cold. Nix's runes shimmered in the uncertain light, gratitude sparking gold, fear a dull blue, hope a living green, each pulse betraying his tangled heart. He hunched his shoulders, tugging his hair forward to hide the tips of his ears.

"Bran," he whispered, voice raw with exhaustion, "are they always so… quiet?"

Bran managed a thin smile, his voice pitched low. "No. Not for me, at least. You're something new to them."

A child, bundled in moss-wool, crept close, eyes wide as river pearls. The little one lingered on the edge of courage, only to dart away when Nix turned to look, laughter bright and fleeting.

Tavik's jaw tightened. "Let them stare."

Oren's voice was gentler. "They watch because they fear what they do not know. That is all."

Nix's hand twisted at the hem of his tunic, attempting to mask the sodden stains. His knuckles brushed the wound beneath. A sharp breath escaped him. "I've never been in a place like this."

The faint aroma of acorn coffee mingled with the sharper tang of Skythread smoke curling from a clay bowl at a doorway. A weaver leaned forward from her loom for a better look. The growing procession moved with them, curious faces glimmering in the lamplight, yet none drew closer than a pace or two, a silent fellowship of concern and boundary.

As they approached the river's edge, the mist pressed colder about their ankles, its breath heavy with the scent of silt and wild peppermint, and the ceaseless undertone of water tumbling over stone. Here, the snow thickened, swirling in fat, languorous flakes. The mist deflected each descent, creating a dome of unnatural stillness around the healer's hut.

The river sang. Its low, melodic grumble seemed to swell and fade with each flicker of Nix's runes, their colours dappling his skin in rhythm with the river's pulse. The hut was built from wind-burnished driftwood and panels of Frostglass, shimmering beneath its roof of braided Skythread. Wind chimes, tuned to ancient healing tones, hung beneath the eaves; their notes sounded soft and steady, deep as heartbeats, whilst a Mistbowl by the threshold released slow coils of steam into the dome of stillness.

Walls of river reed wattle, daubed with pale clay powdered fine with shell, gave the hut a subtle lustre, pearlescent in the meagre light. Over the lintel, a carving of the Emaris River spooled in knotwork, river pebbles pressed into the curves, each stone catching and holding the winter's gleam.

Yilda sat upon a driftwood stool as they neared, her back straight, age mapped in the set of her shoulders and the grace of her fingers. Her hair, white as frost, was braided and piled high upon her head, threaded with beads, sigils, and slender sticks. Her skirts, thick and woollen, released the scent of crushed Wintermint and dried Yarrow each time she shifted. Her eyes, wide and watchful, held the hue and mystery of the shifting river, and as she looked up, the lamplight in her gaze shifted too, sometimes blue as ice, sometimes the pebble-grey of a stormed tide.

Her hands worked deftly, knotting Tidelace into dreamweaver patterns, her fingers dancing with an ease that belied the years she wore. Yet as Bran drew close, she paused, her lips curling into a brief smile. Tavik and Oren drew nearer into the dim-lit quiet, whilst Nix remained, hesitant, a pace behind, his posture confounded by pain and concealment.

Yilda's gaze lingered a moment on Nix, his awkward half-bow, the dark blood blooming at the hem of his tunic, the way he tried to hide the pattern of his ears and the tremor in his stance. She set aside her knotwork, silks pooling in her lap, and regarded them each in turn, her eyes resting at last on Nix. "The river brings what is needed, if one knows how to ask," she murmured.

Tavik glanced to the snow-stilled world beyond, his shoulders squared against whatever might come. "The mist bends around your door, Healer. Will you help him?"

Yilda rose, movements fluid and ageless, and opened her arms in tacit welcome, gesturing them closer. "There is healing here for those who seek it truly. Come, bring your wounds and your stories alike." She ushered them inside, her presence a gentle current guiding them from frost and shadow towards the warmth and scent of herbs within.

The chimes thrummed softly as the door closed behind them, and the river's song was left to linger outside, mingling with the stillness of snow and the promise of old magic, waiting.

Within the healer's hut, the syrup-thick glow of oil lamps seeped from alcoves along the walls, pooling in golden puddles upon reed mats dyed storm-silver and deepest pine green. The hearth's embrace, rich and tangible, drew the day's chill from bones and breath alike. Smoke coiled from the fire, braided with the scent of roasting river fish, whilst the salt-sweet tang of pickled Moonberries and the nut-brown promise of pine-seed bread drifted over all. From a simmering pot, herbs gave up their secrets: resinous pine, wintermint sharp as new ice, the bitter shadow of dried yew bark. Above, bundles of reed and pouches swung lightly from knotted string, casting wavering shadows across shelves bowed with their bounty, of jars of curled leaves, cloudy liquids that glimmered like captive opals, and bottles of tinctures bright as fallen petals.

Yilda's voice rippled through the quiet. "Sit, if you would like," she said, gesturing Oren and Tavik towards the two sturdy, low-backed chairs drawn near the hearth's glow. Her gaze swept to Bran, and she beckoned him close, her fingers resting lightly upon the driftwood table's edge.

Turning, she fixed her attention upon Nix, who, with shoulders set and chin lifted, still bore the stiffness of pride and pain. His tunic, rusted dark where blood had dried, clung stubbornly to his side, and his runes flickered with a restless, unquiet gleam. He obeyed her silent command, seating himself upon a little stool beside a wall lined with shelves. He kept his eyes low, fingers restless in his lap.

"I am well enough," he ventured, the words clipped. "It is only a scratch."

Yilda offered nothing in reply save a raised brow and a soft clatter as she set a cup beside him, steam rising in delicate coils. Her silence was an anchor.

Oren settled into the nearest chair, his broad back to the fire. After a moment, he spoke, his voice gentle, carrying with it the surety of snowmelt carving its way through stone. "You do not need to hide, Nix. We accept how you look, and you should, too. The river does not carve only one path."

The words hovered, effortless and unexpected, and in their wake, something eased, tension unspooling from shoulders, weight lifting from wary breaths. Nix's jaw worked, and for a heartbeat the runes upon his skin flared, bright with startled feeling, before subsiding into a steadier, softer glow.

Tavik's hands unclenched. Bran's shoulders dropped. Even Yilda's lips curved with rare satisfaction.

Bran knelt beside Nix, his hands adept from seasons spent with thorn and blade alike. Yilda moved to his shoulder, wordless, her countenance composed. Together they worked the blood-caked tunic upwards, each thread relinquishing its hold with a brittle crackle, flakes of dried carmine drifting to the reed mat like winter's last leaves.

Oren stood at the hearth's edge; one hand braced against the stone mantel. Tavik had frozen mid-step between table and door, whatever errand he'd intended forgotten.

The fabric peeled away.

The wound beneath stole the breath from the room. The left side of Nix's chest was hollowed, a cruel dent where the pectoral muscle should have been. The skin was drawn thin as parchment, stretched over the stark rise of ribs, the faint geometry of bone visible beneath.

Oren's knuckles went white against the stone. Tavik's hand moved unconsciously to his sword hilt, that old reflex seeking something to fight, finding nothing. Bran's breath caught, the tunic slack in his hands.

Nix looked down at himself briefly. When he lifted his gaze again, his expression held neither shame nor fear, only a quiet acceptance that sat strangely on a fourteen-year-old face.

Yilda's eyes lingered on him, something like recognition moving behind them. She stepped closer, movements water-smooth and raised her hand. Without touching, she traced the air above the wound, her fingers reading what others could only see.

"Brave lad," she murmured, so softly only Bran heard. Then, louder: "Pine resin, Frostroot tincture, yew bark salve, and narrow cloth for binding."

Bran rose at once, crossing to the shelves. Glass and clay clinked softly as he gathered the jars and bottles, she had named.

Tavik's voice broke the quiet. "Are you in pain?"

Nix's gaze turned inward, as though searching himself for the answer. "Not pain. A weakness. All-consuming, from behind the wound."

Yilda paused in her work, listening, her eyes narrowing slightly. She lifted her chin towards Bran. "The pale blue bottle. Top shelf."

Bran fetched it and passed it to her. Nix sat still upon the stool, his gaze drifting over the room, the fire's glow breathing across the walls, the sway of drying herbs from the rafters, the faint glint of frost around the windows, as Yilda and Bran cleaned and bound the wound. The scent of resin and Frostroot rose between them, sharp and clean. When the last knot was tied, Yilda crossed to a low trunk, lifted the lid, and drew out a plain brown tunic. She tossed it lightly to Bran, who caught it and helped Nix thread his arms through the sleeves.

Nix sat a little straighter once dressed, the set of his shoulders easier.

Yilda's hand swept towards the driftwood table. "Come."

Together, they moved towards it, the air between them warmer now, though the shadow of what they had seen still clung like a second skin.

The driftwood table at which they gathered was worn smooth by the slow caress of years, its pale surface softly etched with knotwork patterns that caught the fire's glow. Along its grain, the stories of the clan seemed to ripple. At one end, clay bowls and wooden plates were stacked with neat precision. The low, sunk fire cast gentle radiance about the chamber, its warmth weaving with the rich aromas that hung in the air, an alchemy of roasted herbs, woodsmoke, and the faint tang of river fish.

Yilda moved with practised grace. With a knife honed by use and care, she sliced thick portions of Pineseed bread, the crust nut-brown and fragrant, each piece still holding the memory of the oven's embrace. She set the slices on a carved wooden board. Then, with a deft hand, she lifted the lid of a waiting clay pot. Steam billowed upward in a fragrant cloud, bearing the promise of rich broth, dark with herbs, flecked with tender morsels of river fish, golden with drops of rendered fat. With a steady ladle she portioned the soup into earthenware bowls, setting each before the boys in turn, arranging the bread alongside.

"Eat," Yilda instructed. "I will bring some of the clan to meet you." She drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, then stepped to the door. The gloom of midday pressed close beyond the threshold, silver mist curling against the lintel. She slipped into it, and the gentle thud of the door's closing left peacefulness within.

Silence settled, an attentive, grateful pause broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the gentle clink of spoons against bowls. The boys ate, hunger quickening their motions at first, then slowing as the warmth of the meal sank in.

Oren was first to speak, his gaze sober yet kind as he looked to Nix. "That wound… most would not have borne it so quietly."

Tavik nodded. "Didn't even flinch. Half the lads in the village would've fainted."

Bran eyed him with frank admiration. "How do you do it? Sit so still, I mean."

Nix, spoon paused midair, offered a wry half-smile. "You forget, I have lived worse days in the forest. Broken bones, winter nights without fire, the sting of old snares… This was only a new shape for hardship." His tone was light, but his eyes, shaded by the fire's flicker, bore the gravity of memory.

Silence stretched as they ate, the bread and broth vanishing with steady diligence. At length, Tavik broke it. "Who do you suppose she'll bring?"

"Not just anyone," Bran replied, pushing his empty bowl aside. "Yilda doesn't gather people without good reason."

Oren's brow furrowed. "Perhaps for advice. Or to offer some warning. There is much about this place, and about you, Nix, that we do not yet understand."

Nix looked down at his fresh tunic, thinking. "If it is warning we are to receive, perhaps it is best that I go on alone. If there is danger to come, it is I they seek."

Bran shook his head, fierce in his loyalty. "You are not going anywhere alone, not whilst I have breath. We have come this far together, and together we shall continue."

"We are your friends, Nix," Oren said, his hand coming to rest on Nix's shoulder. "Whatever path lies ahead, we walk it as one."

Tavik simply nodded, resolute.

The words settled softly upon them, as reassuring as the fire's warmth. Outside, the wind shifted, but within, the bonds of kinship held them steady.

The door swung open, cutting a blade of chill across the warmth of the room. Yilda entered and held the door wide for those who followed. First to cross the threshold were four Drakkensund sailors, each carved by years of river wind and water into the very likeness of the land itself. Their faces were burnished bronze and etched deep with lines, eyes bright beneath wind-roughened brows. Tall as sentinels, shoulders broad and boots crusted with frost, they wore thick woollen tunics belted at the waist over sturdy breeches, with fur wraps secured by wide leather belts.

Their speech, when it came, hummed low and unrushed, the cadence of tide and current stitched into every syllable. As they entered, their gazes found Nix at once: pale blue skin alive with flickering runes, shock of storm-tossed red hair, sharp ears pricked for every sound. Curiosity danced in their eyes, mingling with a guarded respect born of river wisdom, yet not one offered a word, only the briefest exchange of glances amongst themselves.

Bran, halfway to the washing bucket, paused with a plate in hand, meeting Oren's steady look as the procession continued. The boys sat straighter.

Next to enter was the revered captain. He stood well over six feet, lean yet strong, the sinews of his frame honed by decades at the helm. Light brown hair, greying at the temples, was tied back in the river knot, a mark of command, whilst his beard, neatly trimmed and touched with silver, framed a weathered face that bore the deep-bronzed hue of one who had bartered with storms and sun alike. His coat, long and dark, was seal hide fastened with bone toggles, worn over a sturdy tunic belted at the waist and thick breeches tucked into fur-lined boots. At his throat hung a carved driftwood talisman.

He paused, gaze unhurried, and regarded Nix with the contemplation of one who had measured the river's moods and found them wanting or wise. Each word, when he spoke, would carry the weight of deep water.

Nix met the captain's scrutiny with quiet fortitude; his own features composed beneath the dancing runes. The moment stretched, a silent exchange between river and storm, before the captain inclined his head in a slow, single nod: acknowledgement, acceptance, understanding.

In the silence that followed, the captain stepped aside with deliberate grace. Behind him, framed in the amber lantern-glow, a girl appeared, her figure slender yet sure-footed, the line of her shoulders proud beneath the fall of her cloak. Her hair, long and the subtle gold of sunlit sand, was plaited with meticulous care and threaded with silver beads that caught the light in quiet flashes. Her eyes, startling, unguarded green, swept the room, quick and keen as a hawk's, missing little.

She wore a fitted tunic of deep teal wool, cinched at the waist by a belt of plaited leather over dark breeches, her boots, lined thickly with fur, reaching almost to the knee and bearing the faint spatter of snow. At her hip swung a small knife, the handle carved and worn smooth.

As she entered, she checked the door latch behind her with practised efficiency, a sailor's attention to small details, before turning her bright gaze to the gathering.

Bran, in the act of arranging spoons beside the broth pot, froze mid-motion. A flush rose bright upon his cheeks, visible even in the flickering half-shadows, and he found himself caught between mortification and the irrepressible urge to steal a glance.

Oren caught Tavik's gaze across the hearth, and in that silent exchange a knowing mirth was kindled. Tavik's grin was wolfish but good-natured, and both leant back, folding arms as though to better witness the spectacle. Bran's ears grew redder still.

The girl, surveying the gathering with open curiosity, rested her gaze last on Nix. She offered him a small, conspiratorial smile, innocent yet speaking of kind intent. Nix, at once relieved and slightly bewildered, returned it with the faintest upturn of his lips.

Into the charged stillness stepped another, broad of shoulder, with a cloak of grey wolf fur sweeping the floor behind him. His tunic of dark green wool was belted at the waist over thick breeches, wide leather hung with a short sword, and his boots were bound with strips of hide against the cold. His beard, thick and streaked with white, matched the singular braid of his hair, bound and heavy down his back. The air seemed to weigh itself in his presence, a stillness, deep and certain as the river at midwinter.

He regarded Nix with a gaze both thoughtful and unwavering, study and welcome mingling beneath his heavy brows. When he spoke, his voice was the river's own: slow, measured, carrying in its depths the histories of many winters. "The river speaks of you."

Yilda, bustling with quiet efficiency, moved to the centre. With a sweep of her hand, she drew all eyes. "Captain Sten, his daughter Ingrid, and their Drakkensund crew, Bo, Eirik, Leif, and Torren, and our honoured chieftain, Haldor."

One by one, the Drakkensund guests claimed seats around the table, boots thudding softly against the floorboards. Bran sat stricken, shoulders drawn and eyes wide as Captain Sten, with gentle gravity, settled beside him. Oren and Tavik, unable to contain themselves, bowed their heads and shook with suppressed laughter. Nix looked from face to face, utterly at sea in the private amusements of his friends but comforted by the good humour that bound the room.

Yilda attended to the newcomers with the attentiveness of a seasoned matron, filling bowls with steaming stew and offering the last heel of bread to the captain, who accepted it with a nod of thanks.

Silence, thick as winter's first snow, settled over the table as the last spoon struck an empty bowl. The candles guttered and steadied in their holders, casting wavering halos upon faces both grim and thoughtful. Yilda waited until not a crumb remained. When she spoke, it was with the calm of deep water: "The boy must leave Drakkensund this night when the moon is high. The question is how." Each syllable fell with the weight of stone upon velvet, inescapable, deliberate, stilling all talk, drawing every glance.

Captain Sten leaned forward, elbows planted broad upon the table, his eyes shadowed beneath the slope of his brow. "Take the river south to the Ravines, and from there travel on foot to the Eldertree Woods, then to the Burrowbacks. The scribe Olis will know what to do." As he spoke, his gaze lingered on Nix, measuring not just strength but resolve.

Chieftain Haldor's reply was a shake of his greying head, slow as the river's thaw in spring. "The Ravines are treacherous, and the grasslands beyond worse, creatures seen and unseen. It is a dangerous path." His eyes, dark as peat, flicked from Nix to Oren, assessing, perhaps, where courage might outweigh caution.

Oren leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowed. Each route weighed in his mind like stones upon a scale: speed against safety, exposure against concealment. He said nothing yet, but his fingers drummed once against the table's edge.

Bo, who had kept his hands folded quietly, now spoke, his broad fingers spreading flat upon the table. "The river south runs fast this season. One wrong move and the current will have you." His voice was rough-edged, earnest, a man who knew the river's moods intimately.

Tavik's hand drifted to his knife hilt, an old habit reasserting itself. His jaw tightened as each danger was named, his gaze flickering between speakers, cataloguing threats as though planning a defence.

Eirik leaned forward, his expression wary, the lamplight catching the deep grooves beside his mouth. "The Ravines… the wind there carries voices. Not all of them are human." The words hovered, uneasy, above the table. Nix looked sharply at him, aware of his own inhumanness.

Torren, the youngest of the crew, barely older than Oren, could not help but add, "Shadow stalkers haunt the ravines and grasslands." His voice held the tremor of one who had seen something he wished he hadn't.

Leif, older and weathered as driftwood, shot Torren a sharp glance before adding with the gravity of experience, "If they scent magic, they will follow for days. I have seen it."

Bran's healer's mind began spinning through possibilities, his fingers twitching as though already reaching for bandages and tinctures he might need. Each named danger was a potential injury, a crisis to prepare for. His gaze kept returning to Nix, measuring the boy's pallor, the way his runes flickered with fatigue.

Nix himself sat still as a stone amidst the rising swirl of doubt, the runes across his brow flickering with silver and green. His eyes, bright and searching, travelled from speaker to speaker. He said nothing, but his slender fingers twitched upon his knee, betraying an urge to summon, to spark, to answer trepidation with the certainty of thunder. The wind outside began to rise.

The room began to fracture into murmurs, doubts pressing in like a closing tide, until Yilda raised her hand, her simple gesture slicing the air, arresting every voice. "Enough," she commanded, her tone cutting clear as a bell. "You speak as though the boy is not here. Fear is a poor mapmaker."

Stillness poured in, heavy and absolute. Nix's gaze found hers, steady now, his chin lifting a fraction in silent acknowledgement.

Chieftain Haldor, his fingers laced thoughtfully upon the table's scarred surface, cleared his throat at length. "There is another way. You could take the northern bend; you might skirt the Ravines altogether. It is longer, yes, but the waters are calmer, the banks less watched. You would avoid the worst of the rapids and perhaps elude those that hunt the river's south."

Captain Sten's reply was swift. "Too slow. The northern bend draws out the journey by two days at least. And what you gain in calm, you lose in concealment. The slow current attracts greater predators, river drakes and Duskhaunters that would notice a craft such as ours, especially with Nix aboard."

Bo leaned forward, his gaze thoughtful, fingers also tracing idle patterns upon the grain. "Then perhaps east, across the ice flats. The snow's hard crust might bear you swift and quiet. There are shepherd paths if one knows where to look."

Yilda's lips pressed to a thin line, her head shaking with gentle finality. "Too exposed. The wind scours those flats without mercy. There is no shelter for half a league, not a bush nor stone. If the weather turns, or if eyes are already searching, they would be seen before they could vanish."

Eirik, who had been silent, his gaze fixed upon the guttering flame, spoke up with a hint of reluctant hope. "There's the overland trail through the low hills. The old hunters' path, winding through the birch and holly. The snow lies thinner there, and the undergrowth would hide them well."

Haldor's response was weighted with regret. "Not this winter. The hills crawl with wolves, packs lean and restless, bold enough to shadow armed men. You would trade one peril for another and be no closer to safety."

One by one, each alternative path faded like mist at dawn, until the stillness settled once again, colder now, more final.

Captain Sten leaned back, broad hands steepled before him. "The Ravines, for all their dangers, are the fastest road to the Burrowbacks. If you linger elsewhere, you only court fresh hazards. The river's teeth are sharp, but it is the swiftest way to safety. Hope lies with the Burrowbacks and with Olis."

A slow breath escaped Haldor, his shoulders drawing down as though the weight of command pressed upon bone and sinew. He nodded once, the gesture solemn, irrevocable. "So be it."

Yilda's gaze lingered upon Nix, searching, steady, profoundly kind. "Then it is decided. You will take the river south when the moon tonight is high in the sky."

Nix returned her look, the green of his runes settling into a tranquil glow, his nod small but sure, a single leaf borne on a surging current.

Oren, Tavik, and Bran exchanged glances, each one shadowed by the twin lights of relief and apprehension. The future pressed in around them: a journey mapped by peril yet lit faintly by the promise of escape and hope.

Beyond the hut's thick walls, the wind rose suddenly, rattling the old wind chimes until they sang a mournful, tremulous song. Nix closed his eyes briefly, feeling the tide of emotions, fear, hope, longing, surge, and swirl, only to be drawn back in, carefully checked, as he prepared to face what the night would bring.