The tundra stretched out in all directions, its summer greenery a brief reflection of a land usually buried in snow and hoarfrost. Moisture had already begun to form dew on the grass and glittered under the silvery glow of the full moon. The western winds chased unseen prey, whispering its secrets to those who knew how to listen. Hrafun enjoyed the woody yet earthy flavor of his pipe as he eyed the fragrant smoke that spiraled into the night. The moon hung low on the horizon, its light casting an ethereal glow across the land and illuminating the weathered lines of his face.

  Tonight was the first full moon since he had taken Kharg as his apprentice. It marked his first opportunity to share this decision with the other shamans, to declare it openly and address any doubts or challenges before they could fester. An outsider had never been taken as an apprentice, and Hrafun knew the council’s skepticism would be sharp. But he trusted the spirits that had guided him to this path, even if others might not.

  Before rising, he murmured an old phrase, one that had been passed down among shamans for longer than any could remember, “By the wind and wave, by the path of the lost, may the spirits guide my steps.”

  It was a saying as old as the stones, whispered before great decisions, though few now understood its full meaning. The words had been spoken by their forebears when they had first come to this land, when their ships had sailed their last voyage and the memory of their homeland was fading into legend. Hrafun did not dwell on it, for there were more immediate matters at hand. Yet as he let his spirit drift into the dreamworld, he wondered for a moment if the spirits still carried the echoes of those lost shores.

  Closing his eyes, he allowed his spirit to wander, leaving his body behind. The transition came as naturally as breathing. The dreamworld emerged around him in swirling mists and mystical energies. The ethereal echoed the waking world, yet it pulsed with an ancient vitality, a reflection of nature’s raw essence.

  A figure emerged from the mists, walking with the steady confidence of someone who belonged in this realm. Tall and muscular, with a white beard and hair that contrasted against his opal blue eyes, the spectral image of Arathur, his great-grandfather and teacher, was imposing. Like Hrafun, he wore the wolf headdress atop his head as a stark symbol of his shamanic authority. His staff was adorned with feathers and carved tokens, and glowed dimly in the dreamlight.

  “This is the one?” Arathur’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, carrying both curiosity and caution.

  Hrafun inclined his head in deference. “Yes, great one. His spirit resonates with a strength I have never before encountered. Even before training, his connection to the elements is undeniable. I could not turn him away.”

  The elder spirit studied him with penetrating eyes, his silence weighted with meaning. “The council will not approve easily.”

  “I know,” Hrafun admitted, a trace of unease in his voice. “But I feel the truth in my bones. If we deny this opportunity, the future may hold only ruin. His presence could mean survival for us all.”

  Arathur studied him for a moment, assessing. “You have always trusted the spirits and I trust in you. Go to the council, stand firm in your conviction. But tread carefully, this apprentice will be both a blessing and a trial.”

  With a solemn nod, Hrafun began to chant softly, his deep voice resonating in the mists. The world shifted around him as his incantation rose, the ethereal fog rose to obscure his surroundings. When the mists cleared, he stood in the heart of the Great Standing Stones.

  The ancient circle loomed before him. Thirty towering monoliths, each thrice the height of a man. The runes that were carved into the stones in the prime world could be seen here also, glowing faintly with the power of the full moon. These were no ordinary stones, they had stood for generations beyond memory, their origins shrouded in mystery. Some said the spirits themselves had raised them. Others whispered that they predated even the ancestors who arrived at the northern shores.

  Hrafun’s gaze lingered on the weathered surfaces, tracing the ancient carvings with his eyes. The power that emanated from the stones was palpable, a steady hum that resonated through his spirit. These monoliths formed the nexus of their shamanic magic, the heart of the tribes’ connection to the spirits. There were several similar circles scattered throughout the tundra, though they were pale imitations of this grand structure. Those lesser stones still held significance, acting as conduits for the spirits’ power and maintaining the balance between the tribes and the land.

  This place, however, was sacred beyond measure. It was here that the shamans met each month under the full moon, a tradition that served more than ceremonial purposes. The gathering provided a means of resolving disputes, mediating feuds, and adjudicating affronts before they spiraled into bloodshed. Shamans were sacrosanct among the tribes, their presence respected and their wisdom sought after. But this gathering allowed them to meet on neutral ground, away from the tensions and rivalries of their people. Here, amidst the ancient stones, they could act as mediators and arbiters, fostering unity where division threatened to take hold.

  As Hrafun stepped toward the center of the circle, his fur-lined cloak swaying with the ethereal currents of this realm, he counted the figures already present. Five shamans, their forms radiating a distinct energy that marked them as keepers of the spirits. There were twenty great tribes, but not all shamans attended every meeting. Yet, most would come, drawn by the pull of the full moon and the weight of their shared responsibility.

  Hrafun’s heart was steady, but the enormity of what lay ahead pressed on him. This was his chance to declare Kharg’s apprenticeship, to weave the outsider into the tapestry of their traditions. The challenge would not be small, but neither was the promise he saw in his apprentice. As he stepped closer to the gathering, he murmured a silent prayer to the spirits, trusting that their guidance would see him through.

  The reflection of the Moon Spirit made the monoliths cast long, ghostly shadows in the dreamworld’s swirling mist. One by one, the other shamans emerged, their presence materializing from the silvery haze. Each arrival bore a distinct aura, an imprint of their power and connection to their totems. Dream-traveling allowed shamans to manifest in the forms they desired and some arrived as humans, others as their totemic animals, fluid and graceful. A falcon swooped down, its wings trailing radiant sparks before morphing into the form of Arnulf the Dreamwalker. Moments later, a great white bear lumbered through the mist, rising to reveal the imposing figure of Biorn Whitebeard.

  Hrafun watched each arrival with a reserved nod, his emotions kept tightly under control. His sharp eyes narrowed as Alvon, from the Tribe of the Lynx, stepped through the mist. Alvon’s silent, predatory grace as he strode toward the circle brought an unwelcome tension to the gathering. Hrafun and Alvon’s tribes had been locked in a feud for generations, and despite Hrafun’s attempts to broker peace, Alvon had remained aloof and disinterested. Tonight, as always, the man’s demeanor was one of quiet arrogance, his eyes cold and unreadable.

  By the time Biorn Whitebeard raised his voice to call the session to order, nearly all the shamans had gathered. Only the representatives of the Tribe of the Elk and the Tribe of the Snowfox were absent—a troubling sign, given the recent rumors of unrest in their territories.

  “Welcome, brothers and sisters,” the hulking old man began, his baritone resonating with authority. Half his head was covered by an ice-bear headdress. “We meet here beneath the full moon, as our ancestors have done for countless generations. Let us share our knowledge, resolve disputes, and seek harmony among the tribes.”

  The shamans murmured greetings and exchanged nods of acknowledgment. Hrafun took a moment to meet the eyes of a few allies, Gorm the Wise of the Tribe of the Eagle, and Vidar the Animalist of the Tribe of the Wolverine, seeking silent affirmation of their support.

  “First, we will share news,” Biorn continued. “Speak, and let all know what transpires across the tundra.”

  Arnulf the Dreamwalker broke the silence first. “The frost giants are on the move again,” he said, voice calm but threaded with unease. “They’ve been spotted in the northeast. They’re moving farther than normal, edging dangerously close to our borders. If they keep pushing south, there’ll be more than just worry.”

  Gorm the Wise followed, choosing his words with care. “Scouts from the Eagle Tribe spotted dark folk slipping down from the Towering Spires, moving southward. We cannot yet discern their intentions, they may be headed for the southern ridges or they may seek something else. Though they haven’t massed in full strength, they are traveling in bigger packs than we’ve seen until now. Not raids like they used to, only movement. And that change worries me more.”

  A murmur of unease rippled through the gathering, but it was Alvon who drew the most attention. He spoke sparingly, his voice a soft hiss. “In the southeastern tundra, a tower has appeared. A strange stone edifice where there was none before. It stands within the territories of the Tribe of the Elk and the Tribe of the Snowfox. I suspect their absence tonight is no coincidence.”

  A chill passed through them all—not from the ethereal winds, but from the news of the tower. A structure, rising here in the heart of a land so barren, could not be dismissed. It spoke of southern magic, of a mage with impressive powers to raise something like that so fast. Hrafun said nothing, but his thoughts turned to the other shamans. If there was a way to reach them, he would. Whatever this was, it needed to be understood.

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  The session shifted to the resolution of affronts once the news was shared. A dispute between the Tribe of the Falcon and the Tribe of the Caribou was brought forth, stemming from an incident involving hunting rights near a shared boundary. Arnulf and Ingolf debated heatedly but civilly, and with Biorn’s mediation, a temporary agreement was reached to allow shared use of the area until the next moot.

  As the discussions moved to trade agreements and other tribal concerns, Hrafun waited for the opportune moment. Finally, when the air was calmer, he stepped forward.

  “I have taken on an apprentice,” Hrafun announced, his voice steady but firm. “A young man of great promise, though not of the north. He comes from the south, and his spirit resonates with a power unlike any I have encountered.”

  The reaction was immediate and divided. Vidar’s eyes widened in surprise, while Gorm tilted his head in curiosity. Alvon’s lips curled into an ugly sneer, and murmurs broke out among the gathered shamans.

  “A southerner?” Jarl the Alchemist, from the Tribe of the Owl, asked, his voice skeptical. “What does he know of our ways, our spirits?”

  “Enough to begin,” Hrafun replied evenly. “His potential is undeniable. The spirits themselves have guided me to this decision.”

  “This is unprecedented,” Alvon said, his tone cold. “To bring an outsider into our fold risks exposing our secrets. It invites chaos.”

  Hrafun’s jaw tightened, but he met Alvon’s gaze without flinching. “It is not for us to deny the will of the spirits. The resonance he carries is a sign, one I trust more than the fears of tradition.”

  The voices rose, a clamor of arguments and accusations echoing through the circle like distant thunder. Some stood with Hrafun, drawn by the possibility of seeing their craft through new eyes. Alvon was the chief among those who spoke. They talked of tradition, of secrecy, and of dangers that lay ahead.

  Through it all, Hrafun held his ground. This was only the start and he knew the road ahead would be long. Kharg’s place among them would be tested again and again, but he also knew that Kharg’s presence was no accident. The spirits had led the boy north for a reason. As the moonlight bathed the ancient stones, he resolved to protect his apprentice’s place among them, no matter the cost.

  When the debate over Kharg's apprenticeship subsided, Biorn Whitebeard raised his hand for silence. His voice, calm yet commanding, cut through the lingering murmurs.

  “Enough,” Biorn said firmly. “Hrafun has spoken of the spirits’ guidance, and their will is not for us to question lightly. The circle has heard, and though there is dissent, it is not our place to deny him this path. Let us trust that Hrafun will act wisely, as he has always done.”

  A few shamans exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing more. Even Alvon, though clearly displeased, held his tongue, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  Biorn continued, “We have addressed the pressing matters of this night, the frost giants, the dark folk, and the mysterious tower. Let us be vigilant in the coming days. May the ancestral spirits aid you in maintaining the balance within your tribes, and let the circle reconvene at the next full moon.”

  The gathered shamans nodded in silence. Then, one after another, they retreated, their shapes dissolving into the dreamworld’s mist. Some exchanged brief words or nods of acknowledgment with their allies before departing, their figures dissolving like shadows into the void.

  Hrafun lingered, pondering his course as he admired the sight of the ancient standing stones. As often before, he thought about their origins. They had likely been here before the ancestors arrived, but that begged the question. Why had they not seen any other remains of them? The great monoliths stood resolute, a testament to the power of the ancients, as he had come to think about them. His thoughts turned to the smaller circles scattered across the tundra, their stones less grand but no less significant. Those circles were where most disputes were mediated, where new shamans took their oaths, and where the daily work of maintaining harmony was done. They were the lifeblood of the tribes, and the great circle was their heart.

  In this sacred place, beneath the light of the full moon and surrounded by the echoes of his ancestors, Hrafun felt the weight of his duty. The meeting was more than a gathering of shamans. It was a bulwark against the chaos that could so easily consume the tribes. It was here the feuds were tempered before they erupted into war, affronts were adjudicated with fairness, and the ties of tradition and kinship were strengthened.

  After some time Hrafun felt his resolve firming, strengthening his spirit and he let out a slow breath. He raised his hands and began to chant softly, the incantation calling forth the mists once more. They rose around him, thick and enveloping, obscuring the standing stones and the pale moonlight.

  When he opened them again, he saw the familiar surroundings of his tent. The woody scent of herbs burning in the braziers filled his nostrils, grounding him in the physical world. He stretched his fingers, feeling the stiffness of his body after the long session in the spirit realm. Outside, the faint rustle of the tundra wind carried the whispers of the spirits, a gentle reminder of the ever-present connection between the two realms.

  Hrafun exhaled deeply, the burden of the night’s discussions still lingering in his chest. He glanced at Kharg, who was sleeping soundly under the thick furs on the other side of the tent and a spark of hope flickered within him. His apprentice’s journey was just beginning and the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty. But Hrafun felt a deep conviction that Kharg would rise to the challenges before him.

  The shaman leaned back against the furs and closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of rest. The spirits had spoken, and the seeds of change had been sown. Now, all that remained was to see how they would grow.

  * * *

  Days turned into weeks. Kharg’s frustration dulled into quiet determination. Yet, little by little, something changed.

  The flames, which had once been nothing more than heat and light, began to feel different. At first, only a flicker—barely more than a fleeting impression at the edge of his senses. But as the days passed, he began to see it. Something alive moved in the fire. Something more than just burning wood and heat.

  At the academy, he had been taught that magic followed laws. These were strict formulas and rules that, once mastered, yielded predictable results. But this magic was different. It defied calculation. It demanded intuition over intellect, instinct over structure. He was no longer shaping fire, he was listening to it and communicating with it.

  The evenings were spent with Hrafun, learning the shaman’s ways. The old man demonstrated how spirits responded to his voice. They could be compelled or persuaded into action, sometimes through brute force, but often by will and negotiation with the spirits. Some nights, their lessons shifted to alchemy, where Hrafun taught him how to extract the spiritual essence from plants and minerals to create potions, salves, and pastes with effects that defied reason.

  Some of them healed. Others granted fleeting bursts of strength or sharpened the senses. A few, however, were deeply unsettling, revealing just how much the world around him was shaped by forces he had never understood, such as one that transformed a man into a beast.

  Kharg still could not call to the spirits as Hrafun did. But for the first time, he believed they were there. Watching. Waiting. And perhaps, one day, they would listen.

  Hrafun had been watching this slow change in silence. When he finally saw that Kharg’s focus no longer wavered and that he could sense even the faintest flicker of presence within the flames, the old shaman decided that the time had come for the next step and told Kharg that he would now fashion his first totem.

  From what Kharg had gathered, a totem resembled an elemental stone in that it could lessen the strain of magic, yet its purpose was far broader. All shamanic magic required totems, whereas simple elemental spells could still be worked without stones. Totems were usually crafted for a single purpose, and while some shamans managed to fashion more general ones, such efforts were far more difficult.

  At Hrafun’s bidding, Kharg searched the nearby stream until he found a white, flat stone with rounded sides, about half the size of his palm. When he returned, Hrafun laid the stone in his hands and murmured an old chant. The surface softened under Kharg’s fingers as if the rock had turned to dense clay.

  “Now,” Hrafun said, “you must carve the rune yourself.”

  Guided by his teacher’s steady presence, Kharg used a bone awl to etch the totemic rune for fire into the pliable surface. The lines glowed faintly as he worked, hardening again as the final strokes were finished.

  That night, when the preparations were complete, he joined Hrafun outside the tent to awaken the totem beneath the stars. The crisp night air of the tundra brushed against Kharg’s skin, a stark contrast to the searing heat radiating from the fire before him. Yet, his attention was fixed solely on the smooth, white stone nestled amid the shifting embers. The flames curled and flickered around it, their glow casting restless shadows over the carefully carved rune of fire etched into its surface. This was the moment he had prepared for, weeks of effort distilled into a single test. The weight of expectation settled on him, heavy but not unwelcome.

  Hrafun sat across the fire and observed in silence, his face unreadable. Kharg’s pulse quickened, a rush of anticipation laced with the edge of uncertainty. The half-moon above bathed them in a spectral glow. The crackling of the fire formed a symphony of sound that blended with the soft whisper of the tundra breeze. It felt as though the very elements were holding their breath, waiting for him to take the next step. Taking a deep breath, Kharg glanced sideways at Hrafun, whose sharp eyes were filled with a combination of pride and sternness. “You must trust in the spirits,” Hrafun urged, his voice low and steady. “They seek passion and purpose. Show them your intent.”

  Kharg swallowed the lump of anxiety in his throat and unsheathed his dagger. His grip firming with resolve, he slashed his palm and offered his life-force to the stone through the dripping blood. The act of offering his life-force was both humbling and empowering. He incanted a summons to the fire spirits as he dripped the warm crimson liquid onto the stone, asking for their guidance and strength. The essence of his spirit mingled with the rune, binding them together in a sacred pact. Kharg felt a sudden surge of warmth emanating from the fire when the blood soaked into the white stone. It was as if the flames were embracing the totem, igniting it with a hunger for the spirits of fire.

  He focused intently, visualizing the fiery beings he hoped to summon. Would they accept him? Would they recognize his determination and purpose? The flames crackled louder, and for a fleeting moment, Kharg thought he saw flickering movements dancing just beyond the firelight, the silhouettes of the fire spirits, perhaps drawn by the energy of the totem. A thrill ran through him, igniting a spark of hope.

  “Now, Kharg,” Hrafun said, his voice a calm and unwavering bulwark that calmed the surge of anxiety rising within Kharg. “Call them! Bind the fire spirits into the totem!”

  Kharg took a steady breath and leaned forward, the weight of the moment pressing against him. He let the words flow, chanting the ancient invocation passed down through generations of shamans. His voice was firm and commanding, carrying across the tundra, and with each syllable, he felt the world around him shift. The air thickened, pulsing with unseen energy, and the fire flared in response, its heat licking at his skin.

  Something stirred. A presence, faint but growing, drawn by his call. Then the totem flared up, and he could suddenly feel a resonance within the stone.