A few days after they returned from their trek across the tundra, Kharg had settled back into his routines. His days were divided between meditation, practice, and the steady work of learning. Hrafun kept him occupied with brewing exercises, pushing him to refine his sense for the subtleties of each herb and mineral, while the evenings were often spent in brief excursions into the Dreamworld. There, Kharg grew more attuned to the quiet presence of the spirits, slowly learning that Spiritism was less about force and more about alignment with the unseen.

  It was on one such evening, as the wind howled faintly beyond the hide walls, that Hrafun called him to sit across the fire. The old shaman leaned back slightly, the embers painting deep lines across his weathered face as he regarded his apprentice in silence for a long moment.

  “You have come far,” Hrafun said at last. “Farther than many would in such a short time. And so, it is time for you to learn of the first bond, how to link with your first familiar.”

  Kharg tilted his head, intrigued. “Familiar?”

  Hrafun nodded slowly and gestured toward one of the ravens that usually followed him, perched on a carved branch at the top of the tent. Its eyes were half-lidded, but they glimmered in the firelight. “The bond eases the strain of shamanic spells when the animal is nigh. But that is not all. Each bond is unique, and the gifts vary from animal to animal. My ravens grants me wisdom and sharper senses—my sight and hearing are keener for his presence.”

  Kharg stared at the raven in quiet amazement. “You mean… these bonds can change what you’re capable of?”

  A small smile tugged at Hrafun’s lips. “Yes. The spirits grant more than companionship. Mice and rats, for instance—weak animals, yes, but easy to keep close. They grant a strong sense for danger, a prickle at the edge of your mind when harm approaches. Deer offer that same danger sense, but they also make your movements quicker, your reflexes sharper, your speed greater when you run. Owls are often also favored among us shamans, grating both wisdom and a very keen nightvision.”

  Kharg’s brows rose. He had imagined that a bond might grant a sense of kinship, perhaps some ability to speak with the animal—but not this. “I never thought… it could make someone stronger.”

  Hrafun chuckled softly. “Each creature has its own gifts. Predators—wolves, wolverine, lynx—often lend strength, speed, or agility. I know that mages in the south also use familiars, choosing an animal they deem suitable to bind. But in my experience, it is better to let nature decide. When the spirits guide the choosing, the bond is deeper, and the needs of the future are met in ways we cannot yet foresee.”

  Kharg leaned forward, his eyes alight with wonder. “And we can do this now?”

  “Soon,” Hrafun said, his expression sobering. “The rite is not one to rush. It must be done with care, for it binds two lives together. A bond is not broken lightly, nor without cost. But you are ready to learn.”

  The old shaman shifted closer to the fire, drawing a pouch from his belt. He opened it and spilled a few carved bone tokens into his palm, each etched with runes of Spiritism and Animalism. “These are the marks of the bond. The ritual calls upon both fields together. You will invoke the ancient compacts, and the spirits will choose which animal answers. You may wish for wolf, owl, or bear… but the spirits care nothing for wishes.”

  Kharg nodded slowly, his mind racing at the thought. He had imagined many paths of shamanism, but never that the spirits might grant such tangible gifts. “I understand,” he said quietly.

  Hrafun’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “Good. But this is not a rite to be rushed. It will take days for you to learn the invocations and the preparations, and even then, we will wait. The ritual will be far stronger if we perform it on Beltane, when the veil between our world and the spirits is thinnest. We will use the time wisely so that, when the night comes, you are ready.”

  The following days were devoted to the ritual. Kharg repeated the ancient invocation over and over, the syllables heavy and strange on his tongue. The chant was long, its cadence shifting in ways that resisted easy memorization. More than once, Hrafun stopped him mid-word to correct a tone or a pause.

  It was during one of these sessions, as Kharg stumbled again over a particularly difficult sequence, that his mind wandered. He looked up at Hrafun and asked, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the tattoos most of the warriors have. Why have we never spoken of them?”

  Hrafun regarded him in silence, the firelight glinting in his pale eyes. Kharg had grown accustomed to these pauses, moments when the old shaman weighed his words carefully. At length, Hrafun said, “Those markings you’ve seen, some of them protect the wearer from cold.”

  “I suspected as much when I first saw the warriors who met the caravan, thinking how lightly they dressed for the biting cold.” Kharg’s lips curled into a faint smile.

  Hrafun gave a single nod. “You are not wrong. But the art of such markings, what most call tattoo magic, takes time to master. There have always been other matters to teach you first. Still…” His gaze lingered on Kharg for a moment. “Perhaps the time has come to show you the basics.”

  He gestured to his own arm, tracing the faint spirals that curled along his skin. “The symbols do not always need to be tattooed. They can be painted on instead, though their power fades within half a day. That, however, would give you a way to ward others from the cold and not have to refresh the ward every so often, and it is a safer place to begin than the permanent markings.”

  Interest stirred in Kharg as he leaned forward. “There are other uses for these markings, aren’t there?”

  “Many,” Hrafun said, his voice low. “Some allow the wearer to channel shamanic powers—cold, fire, spirit wards. Others grant the strength or swiftness of a beast, or sharpen the senses like a hawk’s. Each pattern is its own formula, and each ink must be prepared with care.”

  “What do you mean by its own formula?”

  “The ink is made much like an alchemical draught,” Hrafun explained. “Its power is drawn from the ingredients, from the way they are ground, mixed, and prepared. Without the right ink, the symbol is meaningless.”

  Kharg nodded slowly, the connection to his alchemy lessons clear in his mind.

  “Good,” Hrafun said, leaning back. “Now, return to the invocation. Once you have mastered it, we will look at a simple cold-warding symbol that can be painted on the skin. That will tell us if this is a craft you should pursue further, or if your path should continue toward healing or something else entirely.”

  He took a slow breath and pushed his questions aside. There would be time for the markings later, but for now the words of the invocation still waited to be mastered.

  In the days that followed, Kharg finally mastered the long invocation. Once Hrafun was satisfied, they turned to the craft of markings. Kharg learned to paint the first cold-warding symbol, tracing the spirals with careful strokes of ink he had ground and prepared himself. The first time the magic took hold, a faint warmth spread over his skin despite the chill of the tent. It was a simple application, but a powerful one, and it gave him a taste of what such symbols could achieve.

  Yet the lessons soon shifted again. Hrafun reminded him that tattoo magic was only one path among many. There were countless spells still to learn, and many of the ones he already knew had stronger, more intricate variants—spells of greater range, duration, and potency. Kharg realized that he had only begun to scratch the surface of shamanic magic’s wealth. The months ahead stretched before him like an endless horizon of discovery, each day another step along a road that had no clear end.

  * * *

  Spring was nearly spent, the long days of light already stretching toward summer. Kharg’s days brimmed with study, practice, and labor. From dawn’s first light until long after nightfall, Hrafun kept him busy, drilling incantations, guiding meditations, overseeing carving and alchemical work, and urging him to refine every spell he had learned. When he was not with Hrafun, the warriors claimed his time, eager to test him with the quarterstaff and watch him struggle against their practiced skill. They tried to introduce him to axe throwing as well, but there he drew the line, unwilling to picture himself walking around with throwing axes. He did, however, join them in a contest, the warriors hurling axes while he threw daggers at a target. Silently he thanked Beren for the lessons of his youth. His aim with throwing knives was accurate enough to hold his own. The warriors soon decided staff training suited the shaman’s apprentice better when Kharg beat some of them. By the time Kharg lay down each night, exhaustion took him the instant his head touched the bedroll.

  On one such evening, as the pale light of spring faded beyond the hide walls, Kharg sat cross-legged across from Hrafun in the warm glow of the firepit. The old shaman regarded him in silence for a time, the crackle of the flames filling the space between them.

  “The spirits have told me that the caravan will arrive in a few days and even though you yet have much to learn, I sense that you must leave when they depart,” Hrafun said. “I have never seen a more gifted apprentice and I will be sad to see you leave soon.”

  He paused, studying Kharg with the same piercing gaze he had when they first met. “You fought against your own mind more than once this past year,” he said, his tone heavy with meaning. “I have seen many apprentices struggle with the spirits. But you… your struggle was different. You wrestled with who you were and who you feared you might become. That is rare among your kind.”

  Kharg hesitated, absorbing the words. He had never spoken of his internal conflict, of the quiet fears that gnawed at him in the long, cold nights, that he was losing himself to something he barely understood. That one day, he would look in the mirror and not recognize the man staring back.

  Hrafun gave a rare, knowing smile. “Yet you listened when the spirits spoke. That is rarer still.”

  He shifted his weight, as if considering something, then finally added, “I never told you this, but your arrival had been foreseen by the spirit of my great-grandfather, and your path will bring you here again when the time is right.”

  “I will always be grateful for your teachings. You've shown me a world I never imagined,” Kharg replied.

  Hrafun’s faint smile lingered as he regarded Kharg in the firelight. “Beltyne is two days hence,” he said at last, his voice steady. “It is a night of power, when the veil between worlds is thinner, and the spirits walk closer to us.”

  Kharg straightened slightly, sensing the weight in Hrafun’s tone.

  “My teachings have come to an end for now,” the old shaman continued. “But there is one thing left to do. You shall summon your familiar. This bond will shape you in ways neither of us can yet foresee, and it is better to let the spirits guide the choosing. The bond is strongest when nature decides.”

  Hrafun leaned forward, the firelight casting deep lines across his weathered face. “Take tomorrow for yourself. Do nothing but rest and reflect. Empty your mind, think on what you have learned, and walk quietly among the spirits of this land. When Beltyne comes, you will be ready.”

  Kharg nodded, his heart already pounding with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.

  The first light of dawn spread across the tundra as Kharg tightened his grip on the heavy furs wrapped around him. He had woken early, taking Hrafun’s advice to rest and center himself. The morning air was sharp and cold, biting at his exposed skin. He sat up reluctantly, pushing away the weight of exhaustion that clung to him after another restless night. Today marked a year since he began his apprenticeship under Hrafun. It had been a year of challenges that reshaped his understanding of the world and himself, which forced him to grow in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

  The year had been a tapestry of growth, each thread woven with lessons of humility, respect, and connection. Kharg had endured trials that stripped away his old beliefs and forced him to reshape his understanding of magic, spirit, and self. Yet, through each hardship, he emerged stronger, the embers of his spirit now a steady flame.

  As he stood at the edge of the tundra, staring toward the horizon, he felt the weight of destiny settle upon his shoulders, no longer an observer of this world but a part of its vast, untamed force. With a heart full of fire and a spirit attuned to the winds of change, Kharg knew that his apprenticeship was only the beginning. The whispers of the elements called to him and urged him to step forward into the unknown and embrace the magic that lay ahead. But he had not only learned shamanic magic. He had earned the respect of the Tribe of the Wolf. As he endured the hardships they put him through, their appreciation for him grew. Over time, he began to see their culture in a new light, one that he had never expected to admire.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  * * *

  The moon had climbed high in the midnight-blue sky, letting its pale rays dance on the surface of the small pond. The occasional movements from small fish made ripples that caused the pale light to waver on the otherwise still surface. Kharg knelt at the water’s edge, encircled by ancient stones that had borne witness to an untold number of shamanic rites conducted here. Hrafun stood behind him, his presence a steadying force, though Kharg’s heart was a tempest of emotions.

  The old shaman had watched Kharg grow into his role as an apprentice. He had been more naturally gifted than anyone Hrafun had ever heard about before, but he had been young and immature. In these short months all that had changed and if he had been from the northlands, he would have been ready to take his test and pass beyond apprenticeship. Something that normally took years. Now that the time for the ritual had come his heart was filled with a mix of pride and apprehension. He spoke softly to guide Kharg into a deep trance. “Let your spirit reach beyond the veil, my apprentice. Call forth your Totem, and embrace what comes.”

  A cold prickle ran down Kharg’s spine. What if nothing came? What if he called, and the spirits did not answer?

  He swallowed his doubt and reached outward, casting himself into the unseen. He let go of reason, of control, of expectation. Instead, he simply listened.

  Kharg focused on his surroundings. He heard the gentle lap of water, the leaves rustling in the night wind, and felt the solid earth beneath his knees. He closed his eyes and took a long breath, letting the natural world settle into him. The moment stretched, unmeasured, as he made a small cut on his forearm, letting the blood trickle forth as he let his life-force empower the summons. He sensed how the magic quested outwards, reaching for something. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted but otherwise everything was still around him. He lost track of time as he let the magic work, his body slowly relaxing and his mind becoming more and more attuned to the surroundings.

  A sudden flicker of movement drew Hrafun’s gaze. Shadows flitted among the trees, a creature of grace and mischief darting closer to the sacred site. The silvery scales reflecting the moon beams as it slipped between shadow and moonlight. Hrafun's breath caught in his throat as it neared, the creature was unlike any he had encountered before.

  A small faerie dragon emerged from the shadows with a sudden flourish, its delicate wings glistening like moonlight itself. It moved with fluid precision, spiraling once around the sacred circle before darting toward Kharg, its luminous eyes locked on his. Something clicked into place the moment their eyes met. A tether, unseen but unbreakable, wove itself between them. A sudden warmth filled Kharg’s chest, radiating outward like fire in his veins, but it did not burn, it illuminated. It completed.

  The faerie dragon let out a soft, musical chitter, its slender body winding around his shoulders, tail curling against his neck with an almost possessive touch. Its presence filled his mind, not in words, but in a cascade of impressions. Amusement. Recognition. Belonging.

  Kharg released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. This was no accident. No random selection. This was fate.

  Behind him, Hrafun let out a rare, breathless chuckle. “Spirits preserve us…” he murmured. “A faerie dragon.” His voice carried both awe and caution. “I have not seen such a bond in my lifetime.”

  It twirled around Kharg’s neck, its body coiling possessively around him. In that instant time seemed to freeze. A sense of wholeness filled Kharg as a presence emerged in his mind, calling itself Fafne. A quiet companionship settling into a space he had never realized was empty. Their spirits intertwined and formed a connection as natural as breath, bound by an unspoken trust. Their bond was undeniable, a silent promise of loyalty and understanding.

  Hrafun's mind raced, the implications of this union were profound. An outsider bonding with a faerie dragon would undoubtedly stir the hearts and minds of the other shamans at the upcoming moot. Opposition would be fierce. Traditions were ingrained, but perhaps this was the very change that could breathe new life into their ways. He watched as Kharg laughed with delight, eyes sparkling with newfound wonder. As the moonlight bathed them in silvery light, Hrafun took a deep breath, knowing that the journey for both Kharg and his familiar was just beginning. In the delicate balance of nature and magic, destinies intertwined, and the whisper of the past met the promise of the future, heralding a new era for the shamans and their sacred arts.

  Hrafun let the moment linger before turning away from the sacred stones. Kharg rose to follow, still unable to tear his gaze from the small creature wound warmly around his shoulders. The moonlight trailed them as they began the slow walk back toward the distant glow of the village fires. The night was quiet and the tundra lay still around them, as if the land itself listened. For several steps, Hrafun said nothing. His breath formed faint wisps in the cold air while his thoughts churned in heavy currents. At last he spoke.

  “You do not understand the depth of what has happened tonight.”

  Kharg glanced at him, uncertain. Fafne stirred and pressed closer against his neck, a soft vibration running through his tiny frame.

  “A bond like this is far beyond what I had expected,” Hrafun said. “It is an omen in itself. A mark of paths hidden from us. The spirits grant such companions only when something greater moves beneath the surface of our world. There are implications in this that I cannot yet see.”

  Kharg swallowed a knot in his throat. “Is it dangerous?”

  “Anything touched by fate carries danger,” Hrafun answered. “But it also carries purpose. And this bond proves what I felt the first day you came north. You are not simply fit to walk the apprentice path. Tonight you stepped firmly onto it.”

  Kharg opened his mouth to speak, but Hrafun lifted a hand to silence him.

  “There is something more. Something I have not spoken of before. Shaman is the name we have taken to use, colored by the traditions of the shamanic magic we have grown into. But our heritage is far older, and named differently. From the time before we left the western shores.”

  Kharg slowed his pace. The wind pressed softly at his cloak and the distant fires flickered like watchful eyes.

  “Our ancestors had another name for those who formed the ancient magic,” Hrafun continued. “Only those judged worthy ever hear it. Only those who have proven they can carry it. It is not spoken lightly and not among those who do not walk this path in truth.”

  Kharg felt Fafne’s tail curl with quiet tension, as if the little creature sensed the moment. Hrafun stopped and faced him. His voice dropped to a tone rarely heard from him.

  “The old word is Seiemaer. It is the name for those who bridge the worlds. Those who call the spirits and carry their will. Tonight you have taken your first true step toward that name.”

  Kharg felt the words settle over him like winter snow, cold at first, then sinking deeper. The significance pressed against his thoughts until he found it hard to breathe.

  “Why tell me this now?” he asked softly.

  “Because after tonight there can be no turning back,” Hrafun said. “The spirits have claimed you. The bond you forged was not chance. It was recognition. And from this point onward you walk beside us, not behind us.”

  They resumed their path toward the village. The glow from the fires brightened, and the quiet murmur of distant voices drifted through the night air. The land felt changed somehow, as if it had taken note of him. Hrafun spoke again before they reached the first tents.

  “When the others see your familiar, there will be fear. There will be reverence. Questions will follow and so will doubt. But remember this. The spirits chose. Not the shamans, not the tribes. And certainly not fate-blind men.”

  Kharg nodded, the weight of the new word echoing within him. Seiemaer. The syllables carried both promise and burden. And as Fafne settled more securely against him, Kharg understood that nothing in his life would ever again be simple.

  * * *

  Spring was coming, marked by patches of green that were sprouting. Chilly morning air carried the lingering scent of dying embers from the night’s fires. The village stirred awake in its unhurried rhythm, a people who knew no haste, yet no idleness either. Women and men alike emerged from the tents and let the rising morning sun warm them. Children came out to play and soon the village was buzzing with life. The daily chores needed tending and soon everyone was busy.

  Warriors sat on low wooden stools, sharpening their spears and mending worn leather straps with adept hands, their knuckles scarred from years of hard life. Women moved between the tents, hauling fresh water from the stream, their voices sharp with laughter as they exchanged morning gossip. Near the great fire pit at the village’s heart, elders sat in a quiet circle. Their murmurs wove through the cold air, whispers of omens, of past hunts, of stories older than the mountains.

  Kharg stepped from Hrafun’s tent, pulling his cloak tight against the morning chill. The air bit at his skin, but it was not the cold that unsettled him. He had not yet adjusted to the silence in his mind, the space where his thoughts had once been solely his own now shared with another. The weight on his shoulder was slight, yet the presence was immense.

  Fafne stirred, his silvery scales glinting in the slanted morning light, his wings flicking open briefly as if testing the air. His tail curled idly around Kharg’s neck, and his iridescent eyes swept over the waking village with something between amusement and curiosity.

  And the village noticed him.

  A boy fetching wood for the fire froze mid-step, the bundle slipping from his hands with a soft thump onto the cold ground. A warrior, broad-shouldered and grizzled from countless battles, halted mid-stride, his usual stoic expression cracking as he openly stared. A group of hunters returning from the early morning’s trail, bows slung across their backs, stood frozen, exchanging uneasy glances as if the mere act of speaking might shatter the reality before them.

  A faerie dragon.

  The realization rippled through the village like a stone cast into still water. A woman dropped the clay bowl she had been washing, the vessel shattering at her feet as she made a hasty warding gesture against unseen forces. A younger warrior, barely past his rites, took a cautious step back, his hand brushing the knife at his belt, not in hostility but in instinctive reverence. The murmurs began—soft at first, then swelling into something that filled the cold morning air with a weight it had not carried before.

  “A spirit beast?”

  “A totem animal?”

  “An omen.”

  Hushed voices twisted around interpretations, fear mingling with awe. Some whispered of past stories, of ancient warriors whose fates had been altered by spirits that walked the earth. Others glanced at one another, waiting for someone, anyone, to make sense of what they were witnessing.

  Then Haarek, the chieftain, rose from his place outside the longhouse. He did not move quickly, but when he stepped forward, the gathered villagers instinctively made way. His attention focused on Kharg, not with suspicion, but with something heavier. Calculation. Judgment. The measured consideration of a man who had seen many things in his years, but perhaps never this.

  “A faerie dragon,” he said at last. His voice was steady, but edged with something rare, something a war-hardened man like him would seldom allow to slip through.

  Reverence.

  An elder leaned forward on his staff, his weathered fingers tightening around the wood. His eyes, milky with age, narrowed. “A sign,” he rasped.

  “A claim,” a warrior muttered darkly. “The spirits do not grant such bonds lightly.”

  Some of the younger men shifted uneasily, glancing toward Hrafun, as if seeking guidance. No outsider had ever been given a gift like this. It was unheard of. Unnatural, even. A disruption of the old ways.

  Fafne gave a soft, amused chitter—oblivious, or perhaps perfectly aware. He stretched his wings before settling back down, curling more securely around Kharg’s shoulder. A few villagers flinched, as if expecting the little creature to vanish in a puff of mist or summon a storm with his presence.

  The murmuring swelled, voices rising in curiosity, wariness, and unease.

  “What does it mean?”

  “Why him?”

  “Is this a blessing or a curse?”

  “Enough.” Hrafun’s voice cut through the noise like a blade.

  The crowd fell silent.

  The old shaman stepped forward, his weathered face unreadable, his scrutiny sweeping over the assembled warriors and villagers before resting on Kharg, not with doubt but with expectation.

  “The spirits have spoken,” he declared, his voice steady, carrying the weight of undeniable truth. “And they have chosen.”

  A hush fell over the village, but the tension did not ease. It lingered, thick as the coming winter’s first frost. Some in the crowd nodded in acceptance, recognizing the will of the spirits. Others exchanged uncertain glances, unable to shake the deep-seated instinct that such things did not happen without consequence.

  Kharg felt the weight of their stares pressing down on him, the silent, unspoken questions lingering in the cold air.

  What did this mean for him?

  For them?

  And for the first time, he realized this was not just his burden, it was theirs too.

  * * *

  The caravan, once again led by Halfur, arrived by noon that day. The village stirred with anticipation, warriors and traders gathering at the outskirts to welcome the southerners. The scent of damp leather, horses, and the crisp mountain air mingled as greetings were exchanged, rough voices blending with the occasional laughter of familiarity.

  Kharg remained in the background beside Hrafun, watching the scene unfold. Though he had spent a year among the Tribe of the Wolf, this moment carried an unexpected weight. These men, this caravan, they were his past. The world he had left behind. And yet, as he stood among the northerners, clad in furs, a spirit-bonded creature perched on his shoulder, he knew he had become something else. Something in between.

  The initial commotion gradually faded, and only then did Kharg make his way toward Halfur. The caravan leader, speaking with one of the warriors, caught sight of him and visibly relaxed. The expression that flickered across Halfur’s face, a mixture of relief, disbelief, and something like quiet approval, told Kharg all he needed to know.

  He hadn’t been sure Kharg would be here at all.

  That thought struck Kharg with an odd sense of detachment. Had his father given Halfur orders in case he was not found? Would Akgun have sent riders deeper into the tundra? Would he have assumed his son lost to the wilds? Or worse, dead?

  Shoving the thoughts aside, he closed the distance and offered a half-smile. “I trust your journey was uneventful?”

  Halfur sighed, shaking his head. “Nothing worse than some heavy rains and lightning.” He glanced over Kharg, noting the subtle changes, the broader shoulders, the keener expression, the way he moved. “You’ve grown, sir.”

  Kharg smiled, about to respond when Halfur’s breath hitched, his expression changing in an instant.

  A flicker of silver. A sudden movement.

  Before Halfur could react, Fafne landed lightly on Kharg’s shoulder, his scales shimmering in the midday sun. The little dragon tilted his head, his iridescent eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the older man with a piercing look far too intelligent for something so small.

  Halfur stiffened.

  Kharg fought the urge to laugh. Instead, he said smoothly, “Please meet Fafne, my soul-bonded companion.”

  Halfur’s mouth opened, then shut. There were no words. The seasoned caravan leader, who had spent his life navigating trade routes, bargaining with cutthroats and lords alike, and facing all manner of dangers, was at a loss.

  After a beat of silence, he simply nodded. Slowly. Carefully. As if acknowledging something far greater than what he understood.

  Kharg’s grin widened. “I hope my father wasn’t too hard on you when you returned.”

  Halfur let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Angry, yes. But in the end, he said there was little I could do and left it at that.” A pause. Then, with a slight smirk, “Though I sure hope you’ll be returning with us this time.”

  Kharg glanced at the horizon. The rolling tundra, the towering peaks beyond, the vast emptiness that had somehow become familiar.

  “I planned to,” he said, though the words felt heavier than he expected. He sent one last wistful look at the village, the people who had accepted him, the land that had tested him. “But I will miss this place. The open vistas… there’s a beauty here you don’t see in the south. Life is simpler. Harder, yes, but more… real.”

  Halfur studied him for a moment, then gave a knowing nod. “Aye. I can see that.”

  And though nothing more was said, the weight of departure lingered between them.