The caravan creaked to life, the wagons rumbling over the uneven dirt path as the journey began. The Isi had split up leaving several of their members going ahead. Only Tyr, Embla and one other warrior remained with the convoy. Bjorn lay curled in the cargo hold of Sabec’s wagon, his body resting lazily atop crates of supplies. The lizard’s eyes flicked toward the open curtain, giving him a clear view of Freja sitting rigidly next to Sabec on the box seat. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the reins, and the gnoll’s jovial laugh drifted back to him.
Bjorn couldn’t help but find the scene amusing. Freja’s shoulders were stiff as a board, and her expression was a mixture of determination and terror, though mostly terror. The wagon was barely moving faster than a walking pace, but Freja looked like they were racing downhill at breakneck speed.
“This one is impressed,” Sabec said, his voice light with amusement as he gestured to the reins. “You hold them as if they might bite you! Relax, Miss Sif. Horses are friends, yes?”
Freja’s voice wavered. “I—I don’t think they like me very much.”
“Oh, nonsense. Horses love Miss Sif, this one is sure, but they also sense fear. You must show them you are the boss, yes? Like so.” Sabec reached over, taking the reins briefly and guiding them with practiced ease.
Freja inhaled sharply as the wagon jolted slightly. “Sabec, I don’t think I can do this.”
“Breathe, breathe,” Sabec said. “Miss Sif will not crash. Sabec would not let such a thing happen.” He released the reins back to her with an encouraging nod. “Now, give a gentle tug—yes, just so. Good, good! You are a natural.”
Bjorn suppressed an amused hiss. A natural? He doubted that. Freja’s every movement screamed hesitation, and her wide eyes darted nervously between the horses and the path ahead.
“Why are they going so fast?” Freja blurted out as the wagon bumped slightly over a rock.
“Fast?” Sabec’s ears perked. “Miss Sif, this is no gallop! This is a crawl, yes? If you can walk, you can drive. Sabec promises. See? Even Bjorn watches and laughs.”
Freja glanced back toward him, her expression skeptical. Her face red from embarrassment as she must have felt amusement through the bond. He turned his head, looking away as she pouted. If he could speak, he might have teased her about being scared of such a leisurely pace.
“Not you too Bjorn,” She whined. “You are supposed to support me, not laugh!” As Bjorn continued to look away one of his heads gave her a side eye. “I know you hear me young man!”
Sabec gestured ahead with enthusiasm. “Now, look at the path. Do not stare at the horses’ backs—this is how one drives poorly, yes? Always look ahead, like you are guiding the sun to its bed.”
Freja blinked, “Guiding the sun… I don’t think I understand.”
Sabec grinned, “Ah, Miss Sif, forgive this one, it is a gnoll saying. She only needs to trust Sabec. Trust is key to good driving. Trust horses, trust Sabec, trust yourself, yes?”
Bjorn smirked internally. If she keeps this up, maybe she’ll trust herself not to faint. He shifted his weight, letting out a low, contented growl. Whatever Freja lacked in confidence, Sabec had more than enough for the both of them. She felt good though and despite her panic right now he knew that Freja needed this, she needed to just be a teenager again.
***
The first village they came to was a sprawling farming community nestled amid vast, golden fields that stretched as far as the eye could see. The dense forest of their earlier journey had long since given way to open countryside, the air filled with the earthy scent of soil and the rustling sound of crops swaying in the breeze. As Bjorn would later find out, the kingdom of Yuhia, renowned for its fertile land, was in full harvest mode.
Farmers, farmhands, and sturdy work animals were scattered across the fields, their movements choreographed in the timeless rhythm of reaping, bundling, and loading. For the wendigo, farming meant cash crops—grains, fruits, and vegetables destined for trade and barter, as their kind ate none of it. Instead, animal husbandry and textiles were the backbone of their sustenance, but the lush fields were evidence of the kingdom’s wealth and prosperity.
Sabec was practically buzzing with excitement as the caravan slowed. These farmers were his main clientele, and he was eager to sell his wares. The gnoll’s tail wagged behind him as he perched on the driver’s seat, giving Freja a toothy grin.
“Miss Sif, now we stop,” he said, his clawed hands guiding hers on the reins. “Pull back gently, like asking a stubborn mule to listen. Yes, yes, just so!” Sabec beamed as the wagon rolled to a smooth halt. “Good, good. This one thinks you are becoming quite the driver.”
Freja exhaled slowly, trying not to let her nerves show. Sabec barked a laugh, hopping over Bjorn with the agility of a cat. Bjorn grumbled as Sabec nearly collided with him in his haste while he rummaged through the cargo hold. The gnoll's claws clinked against the metal and wood of his goods.
“Patience, little one,” Sabec said with a chuckle, pulling out a bundle of polished harvesting tools. “Ah, see? This one must earn his keep!”
With that, Sabec leapt down from the wagon and strode off toward the nearest cluster of farmers, his arms full of wares and his voice already calling out in his usual cheerful sales pitch. Bjorn decided to join Freja on the box seat.
Joha and the goblins continued onward, their wagons rolling steadily toward the heart of the village. Helina waved as their wagon passed bye. Bjorn’s heads tracked them warily, his eyes narrowing as the goblins chattered and cackled among themselves.
His suspicion was interrupted by a light thump on one of his snouts. He turned to Freja who was pointing the offending finger at him.
“Stop it,” she said softly. “They’re not doing anything wrong.”
Bjorn exhaled a grumbling huff, a small plume of warm air escaping his nostrils. Deciding he preferred the safety and quiet of the cargo hold, he made a leap to retreat, but Freja was faster. She caught him mid-air with surprising ease, laughing softly as she adjusted his squirming form across her lap.
“Come on, don’t be mister grumpy,” she teased, scratching the scales along one of his necks. “You’re still a good boy. I know you are looking out for me.”
Bjorn gave a half-hearted hiss, his noses turning up in exaggerated indignation, but he didn’t resist further. Freja’s touch was soothing, and though he pretended to sulk, his heads slowly relaxed, draping over her lap. She smirked, clearly aware of his mock resistance.
For a moment, the bustle of the harvest faded into the background. The crisp air, the distant rustle of wheat fields, and the faint hum of Sabec’s voice melded into a tranquil rhythm. Bjorn allowed himself to enjoy the calm. Maybe he needed this too.
Their attention soon turned to Sabec, now surrounded by an eager crowd. The gnoll held up an orichalcum hand scythe, demonstrating its sharpness by slicing cleanly through a bundle of wheat. The farmers murmured their approval, visibly impressed, as Sabec transitioned seamlessly into showcasing other tools, each met with equal enthusiasm.
After a few minutes, Sabec bounded back toward the wagon, his grin as wide as ever. “Sabec thinks today is a good day for business! This one will set up for a few hours, yes?”
***
The village of Vatnaby lay nestled by a serene lake, its tranquil waters reflecting the soft hues of the late midday sun. The village square, a modest expanse of packed dirt with a sturdy stone well at its center, bustled with activity as curious villagers gathered around Joha and the goblins. The group was busy setting up stalls, their wares already drawing a growing crowd.
Sabec maneuvered the wagon into a convenient spot and quickly sprang into action. Freja followed close behind, summoning her wind hands to lift and carry as much as possible. Before either could step down, a group of farmers approached, their sun-weathered faces alight with curiosity and interest. Sabec flashed his friendliest grin, deftly directing Freja toward the boxes he needed while hefting a crate of his own.
Freja retrieved the necessary boxes, her wind hands carrying more than her arms could manage on their own. She stepped down carefully, setting the load beside Sabec, who had already begun his pitch which saw several farmers excited to see his goods. Bjorn, meanwhile, stayed in the wagon, perched comfortably among the remaining supplies. There was little he could contribute to the setup.
As the others worked, Bjorn’s focus turned inward.
“Failsafe,” he muttered.
The voice responded, defensively. “I haven’t forgotten anything. I double-checked.”
Bjorn huffed slightly. “Not that. The dream, did you notice anything I didn’t?”
Failsafe’s tone shifted to intrigue. “Oh, plenty, I’m sure. Are you ready to talk about it?”
Bjorn hesitated, his thoughts swirling like a fog. “Just one thing really. What was the gate?”
Failsafe paused as he processed. “Ah, tricky. It was higher-plane magic, something called aether. I can’t make out much more than that. Some beings, ‘divine sky people,’ created it as a safeguard, by the looks of it.”
“You don’t think they mean True Humans, do you?” Bjorn said.
“Your guess is as good as mine. We don’t even know what True Humans are,” Failsafe replied evenly. “But if you grew up in a dome, it’d make sense that you wouldn’t know what wendigo are…”
A sick feeling coiled in Bjorn’s stomach. “I’m pretty sure we saw the end of my life in that place.”
Failsafe’s voice softened. “Right, the dome vanished.” He paused for a moment and seemed to have decided on another topic, “but I’ve been wondering about your magic. It’s… peculiar.”
Bjorn took the life line. “What about it?”
“You might not have an answer, but here’s the thing: your magic is unusually potent. A spell requiring one point of magic does far more than it should in your hands. At first, I thought it was because of what you are now. But if you could manipulate aether in your past life, that would explain a lot.”
Bjorn's brows furrowed. “So, can I manipulate aether now?”
Failsafe took a moment. “Not yet. But your magic remembers what aether felt like and is trying to replicate it. You have a long way to go before you could use aether again, if at all.”
Bjorn straightened. “Wait, my magic remembers?”
“Exactly. You have the same magic core, just… younger. And here’s where it gets interesting: Freja’s core is copying your magic. With this new Delta bond, I can feel her core more clearly now. Honestly, it’s chaotic, a complete mess. I’m amazed she can use magic at all, but it seems to be stabilizing by using your core as a blueprint.”
Bjorn’s voice grew thoughtful. “So, eventually, one or both of us might be able to use aether?”
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Failsafe chuckled, a hint of pride in his tone. “Wishful thinking. At the very least, she’s going to be one Infernal Planes of a powerful mage someday. The Salstars really missed out on that girl.”
“All based on observation,” Bjorn said wryly.
Failsafe didn’t deny it, and Bjorn allowed himself a faint smirk before something pulled at his awareness. Freja’s unease bled through the bond like a low hum of distress. Glancing toward her, he saw her standing awkwardly beside Sabec, who was enthusiastically demonstrating a tool to a group of farmers. Freja, however, looked out of place and nervous.
Bjorn didn’t hesitate. Leaping down from the wagon, he padded toward her, drawing curious glances from the villagers as his imposing form moved through the square. Freja glanced down at him, her tension visibly easing as he settled at her side. A wave of gratitude rippled through their bond.
***
Freja let out a sigh of relief as the last of the villagers completed their purchases, giving her a moment to catch her breath. She hadn’t expected traveling as a merchant to be so exhausting. Perched on the tailgate of the wagon, she swung her legs back and forth, savoring the fleeting respite while Sabec finished tending to his remaining customers. Nearby, Bjorn lay sprawled across a sunlit rock, utterly at ease.
He’s not cold-blooded… so why does he love sunbathing so much? Freja mused, her eyes drifting to the other merchants before landing on Embla, who stood across the square watching her. The moment their eyes met, Freja quickly looked away, focusing on her swinging feet instead.
Ever since Embla had laid eyes on the druidic war staff, her demeanor had shifted. She wasn’t openly hostile, but her earlier warmth had turned to suspicion. Freja couldn’t blame her, who wouldn’t doubt a young girl claiming to have taken down a treant?
Even if the one she killed had not fully turned it was still a daunting foe. It did kill a village of people before she found it. So for someone like her to have not only survived but also killed it would certainly require a meracle. Embla, as a fr?eikona, would have firsthand experience with the battlefield. She’d likely fought treants herself and knew better than anyone how dangerous they were.
Freja wasn’t sure how she had survived either. The wolves, the treant, even the troll—all of it felt like a fever dream. The memories were hers, but they carried a strange detachment, like she was remembering someone else’s life rather than her own. The surreal nature of it all left her unsettled.
A man’s voice suddenly cut through her thoughts, sharp and filled with anguish.
“No, no, that can’t be true!” he shouted, drawing the attention of everyone in the square.
Freja turned toward the commotion, her gaze falling on the Isi group surrounded by several villagers and was quickly growing. At the center of the gathering was Tyr, the young heir, who was clearly trying to calm the distraught crowd. Freja couldn’t make out his words over the rising murmur of voices, but their despair was evident.
“Someone had to have survived, right,” one villager pleaded. “My daughter was in Vellir! Did you see her?”
The crowd grew louder, emotions spiraling out of control as more voices joined in. Tyr’s attempts at deescalation were increasingly drowned out.
That was when Embla stepped forward. The shift in the air was immediate and suffocating. Her aura, heavy with darkness magic, radiated outward, blanketing the square. At Freja’s distance and given the fact she was a magic caster, the pressure was oppressive but not unbearable. To the untrained villagers, however, it was paralyzing. One by one, they fell to their knees, silenced by the sheer weight of Embla’s darkness infused aura.
Tyr turned away, his expression unreadable. Though Embla’s actions were well within her rights as a fr?eikona, Freja could sense the heir’s unease. It was odd, she thought. In Yuhia, strength ruled. Why would someone like Tyr hesitate to wield power?
Embla’s voice rang out, her tone commanding and unyielding. “Have you all forgotten who you stand before? Heir Tyr brings you tidings of trials and conquest. He has granted you the will of the Forest Father.” She paused, her eyes swept over the subdued crowd. “As the V?lva Astrid Thorrsdóttir proclaimed, ‘Life and death are no serene cycle. They are weapons forged in the fires of will. Death is not the end, but a beginning we can control, just as life is not a gift, but a conquest. The weak accept both as inevitable; the strong tear open the veil, seize the reins, and bend these forces to their will.’ Mourn your losses, but celebrate their vengeance. Rejoice that their souls have now joined the Forest Father as all His children will one day.”
The villagers remained still, the weight of her words settling over them like the dark magic in her aura. She released her aura but the people dared not move. There was a long contemplative silence as Tyr and the Isi walked off leaving the group shaken.
Freja watched the scene unfold, her heart heavy with unease as she let out a long breath. What Embla did was what Tyr should have done. She couldn’t help but watch the young man as he walked away. Why did he hesitate so much? Would she have done the same if she was in his place as heir of this land? She looked over to Embla then to Tyr. Two different styles of leadership Freja guessed.
Sabec leaned casually against the tailgate beside her, his sharp eyes glinting with his characteristic cheer.
“This one is happy to have sold goods before the young lord’s confrontation,” Sabec remarked, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Everyone seems scared now, yes?”
“It was good timing,” Freja admitted, her gaze lingering on Tyr’s distant figure. “Still, he should have been the one to take control. Maiden Embla was within her rights, of course, but Tyr is the Heir. It should’ve been his moment to lead.”
“You question the young heir’s approach, yes?” Sabec tilted his head thoughtfully, his long fingers brushing his chin. “Wendigo respect strength, but Sabec has seen that Tyr is… different. Too kind, perhaps. The Isi have traveled with this caravan for some time now, and Sabec has noticed he prefers diplomacy first. Displays of strength? Rarely his way.”
Freja nodded slowly. “He’s on a Rite, maybe it is to gain leadership experience,” she murmured, more to herself than to Sabec. Before the conversation could turn too introspective, she shifted gears. “What’s next for us? Are we staying in this village for a while?”
“No,” Sabec replied. “This one could sell more, perhaps, but the others have not had such luck. It would not be fair to linger. We will have lunch, pack up, and leave by afternoon.”
Freja winced at the mention of food, a pang of guilt twisting in her stomach. She’d forgotten to send Bjorn out to hunt, leaving her without supplies for the next meal. The thought of asking Sabec for food crossed her mind, but she hesitated. Before she could voice her concern, Sabec spoke up.
“This one has plenty of meat,” he said with a knowing smile. “You helped Sabec, so do not worry about food.”
Relief washed over Freja, her gratitude plain on her face. “Thank you, Sabec.”
He waved a hand dismissively, his grin widening. “No need for thanks. Sabec takes care of those who take care of Sabec.”
Freja glanced at Bjorn, still lounging lazily on his rock. She would have to send him out later, but for now, she allowed herself and him to rest.
***
A few hours west of Vatnaby, Freja finally allowed herself to relax as the wagon rolled along the dirt road. For once, she wasn’t in the driver’s seat, and though she had grown more comfortable with driving over time, her emotional exhaustion from the morning’s events left her grateful for the break. She leaned back in her seat, watching the trees slowly past, and glanced up at the towering gnoll at the reins.
Sabec seemed in good spirits, his tail flicking with satisfaction. The sales in the village had gone well, and Freja had even helped with some of the transactions, a feat she was proud of despite how physically draining it had been.
“So, Sabec,” she began, her voice cutting through the rhythmic creak of the wagon. “What brought you to Yuhia, anyway?”
The hyena man let out a hearty chuckle, his sharp teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun. “Ah, Sabec is here because of his mate, Losi. She is a mercenary, yes, a strong and powerful warrior. Her company was hired by your king to assist in the war. Sabec is very proud of her, indeed.”
“Can you fight?” Freja asked.
“Of course,” Sabec replied. “All gnolls can fight, but none like our females.” His chest puffed slightly with pride. “Have you ever seen our women, hmm?”
Freja shook her head. “You’re the first gnoll I’ve ever met in person.”
“Ah, then Sabec must explain!” He chuckled again, “Our females are bigger, stronger, and fiercer than males. They love battle and war, yes? Some males enjoy it too, but none are as skilled or ferocious as the females. My mate, Losi, is no exception. She is taller than Sabec, stronger than Sabec—and Sabec is very proud of this!”
Freja blinked in surprise. “Taller than you?”
“Oh, yes,” Sabec laughed, his hyena-like cackle echoing across the open road. “Wendigo are different, yes? Your men are big, and your women are small. Sabec finds this very funny.” He gestured at Freja, pointing at her slender arms. “With your tiny arms and frame, how will you attract a mate, hmm? Men like strong women, stronger than themselves, yes?”
Freja thought about it and found it funny. While wendigo men and women did indeed have those differences strength wise they were near equals. Mana Muscle Saturation meant that they were far closer in strength than many other species. Despite Freja’s size she was already physically stronger than most non-magical humans and likely those of the same level as her.
Freja smirked and flexed her arm playfully, though it wasn’t much of a display. “I think that’s more of a gnoll thing, Sabec,” she said with a chuckle. “But I’ll keep it in mind when it’s time for me to find a mate.”
“Good, good! Sabec approves of this plan,” he said. “You will tell your mate Sabec taught you, yes?”
Freja laughed with him, as she nodded along.
***
Night settled over the camp a few hours west of Vatnaby, and the shadows of the surrounding forest deepened. Freja felt the weight of both physical and emotional exhaustion pressing down on her. Traveling in a merchant convoy was far more demanding than she had anticipated. Though she’d helped with some tasks like unpacking tools and driving the wagon, she couldn’t shake the feeling she wasn’t pulling her weight. Even so, Sabec had been patient with her clumsy driving; she assumed that it would get better as she adjusted.
As she struggled to set up her tent, the piercing whinny of a horse broke the quiet, followed by a blood-curdling scream. The sound cut through the camp like a knife, freezing everyone in their tracks.
Freja’s heart jumped. She dropped the tent pole in her hands and bolted toward the commotion, adrenaline surging. Others were already moving, lanterns swinging as they ran toward the distressed cries.
By the time Freja arrived, Sabec was gripping the reins of a panicked horse, his broad frame barely containing its thrashing. Nearby, goblins were clustered around Wyatt, who lay motionless on the ground. Blood seeped from his head and mouth, pooling beneath him in the dirt. Helina’s wails tore through the camp, while Owen stood frozen, his face pale as the moonlight.
“What happened?” Tyr demanded, his voice sharp as he strode into the scene with the Isi close behind, their every movement taut with readiness.
“Looks like he startled the horse,” Joha replied grimly, holding up a garden snake he had just plucked from the underbrush. “It must’ve spooked the animal, and it kicked him.”
“This is quite unfortunate,” Embla murmured as she knelt beside the boy. “The Forest Father provides trials for us all.”
Her words did nothing to soothe Helina, who collapsed to her knees, held back by Owen so that Embla could inspect the boy. The dark magic of Embla’s aura pulsed ominously as she placed her hand on Wyatt’s chest, eyes closing in concentration. The tension was unbearable. Freja felt like the world itself was holding its breath.
Embla opened her eyes, her face grim. “He’s slipping. There is not much we can do without a potion.”
“No!” Helina screamed, her voice raw and desperate. “Please, there has to be something, anything!”
Embla closed her eyes and whispered solemnly, “May the Forest Father guide him to peace—”
“Wait!” Freja shouted, cutting her off. She shot to her feet, her sudden movement drawing every eye in the camp. “I have a potion! I’ll get it!”
She didn’t wait for a response. Her Mana Muscle Saturation surged through her legs, propelling her toward her belongings like an arrow loosed from a bow. She tore through her bag, panic rising with every second.
“Where is it? Damn it, where did I—oh, here it is!” Her fingers closed around the small vial.
She found the lesser health potion. On a wendigo she would need more for a brain injury but on a goblin it would be more than enough to heal him completely. Assured in the effectiveness of the potion she bolted back to the group.
Owen had to physically pull Helina away, her cries wrenching Freja’s gut. Kneeling beside Wyatt, Freja uncorked the potion with shaking hands, but Joha stopped her with a firm gesture.
“He’ll choke if you try to make him drink,” the tiger man said in a low, commanding voice. “Give it to me.”
Freja handed it over, her chest tight as Joha worked. The liquid inside the vial transformed into a shimmering mist that he directed toward Wyatt’s nose and mouth. The boy’s shallow breaths grew steadier, stronger, as the potion’s magic coursed through him.
Finally, Wyatt’s eyes fluttered open. His gaze was unfocused at first, but as he took deep breaths, color returned to his cheeks.
Helina surged forward, nearly tackling her son in a sobbing embrace. Freja exhaled a shaky breath, relief washing over her as her legs gave way and she sat back on her heels.
Joha rose, tossing the dead snake toward Bjorn, who caught it mid-air with a snap of his jaws. The tiger man glanced at Freja and winked, but his calm demeanor left her with more questions than relief. How had he used magic without a single ripple of mana? It was as if the rules of magic bent around him.
As Joha turned and strode away into the darkness, Freja stared after him, her mind racing. Her thoughts were interrupted when Helina clung to her, crying hysterically and pouring out her thanks.
“You saved him! Oh, thank you—thank you!”
“Well done,” Tyr said, resting a reassuring hand on Freja’s shoulder. “We ran out of potions a while back. Glad you had one, things could have turned out very differently.”
“May the Forest Father guide you, sister,” Embla said with a respectful nod before she turned to Owen. “Potion’s heal the body but don’t replace blood, be sure he rests.” With that she and the Isi moved back to their camp.
Freja, overwhelmed by the goblin mother’s tearful gratitude, could barely process the events. Yet the camp slowly returned to normalcy. Freja looked at the young goblin then at the empty potion bottle that saved his life. She saved his life with something she made. She did it, she saved someone because she was here she was the difference.
