As a simmering fire burned in the middle of the seer’s hut, Aelif huddled over a bowl of burnt bones, trying to interpret the emerging cracks as the seer did, hoping to see the future of her clan. She saw, nor deciphered, nothing.

“You seers and your strange magicks always waste my time, Alma,” said King Joryck from behind her, bending over to grab a shard of bone to pick his teeth with. Seer Alma quickly snatched it out of his hand and placed it back.

“You’d be wise not to muddle the well of fate with your heavy-handed touch, King,” the seer urged. She was a thin woman, tall, and wise, Aelif thought. But her face had been marred with scars within her pale skin, as if melted by fire and sewn back together. She appeared blind—the pupils of her eyes milky and forlorn—and she was called such, but Aelif hardly believed it. The way she picked and examined each bone with precision made Aelif feel as though she could see better than any of them.

And it was no secret that seers had a peculiar way of viewing the world. From inside the seer’s hut, that much was clear. Aelif took note of the strange bone chimes hung from the ceiling, the smell of yarrow and incense, and the smoke from the brazier rising to the top. From behind her, the seer had shelves upon shelves of glass vials filled with unusual bubbling liquids, ardr stones that held souls of dead warriors, and crystals. Another shelf held skulls, bones, herbs, and minerals—all used in one ritual or another, but she knew little about that.

The king let out another annoyed huff. From underneath her gray hood, the seer scowled at him, her wrinkled eyes narrowing a bit further.

“The threat of the Seidha is still looming, no? There’s been three sightings of necromancers in our woods this past moon alone, two killings. Do you want to know how to keep your clan alive, or not?” the seer said.

Joryck leaned against the wall and waved his hand, urging her to move forward.

“It appears an alliance must be made.” The seer began to read the bones, picking them up one by one. “Alone, your clan of Wolves will stand no chance. But if a Raven is amongst your pack, you might yet live.”

“Is that all you have, seer? The Raven Clan docks their ships in our port today, and you tell me what I already know?”

“An alliance that must be successful, king.”

Joryck grumbled. “Yes, yes. I will form an alliance with the raven-shit king and his raven-shit clan, seer.”

“Father,” Aelif scolded. “You’d be wise to not call our potential allies raven-shit at the meeting.”

At this, her father’s face turned red.

“You.” Her father stepped forward, pointing his finger. “You do not tell me how to be wise, child!” His voice boomed, echoing between the walls of the hut. The seer did not flinch, nor did Aelif. Instead, she looked at him with stony eyes.

“There is no other clan in Isjord more worthy to be our allies. You know that.”

She spoke with a type of hardened maturity, her voice smoky and rough. Aelif was hardly a child at twenty. She’d seen, and won, many battles. If that was not proof of her bravery enough, her wolf and companion, Thorn—a gray-furred beast four times her size—was just as savage as Joryck’s. He had ripped out the throats of more enemies than any of their warriors. In her clan, that meant everything.

Straightening up, Aelif walked to the entrance of the hut, and Thorn rose from his resting spot near the fire to follow her.

“I’ll see you in the meeting hall, father. Don’t be late.”

Joryck grumbled in response as Aelif left. Outside the hut, the afternoon sun against fresh snow blinded her, and she raised her hand up to shield her eyes. Inside, she heard her father and the seer resume their argument.

She squinted, peering through the trees to look at the vast sea that was visible from the high hill the hut was on, hidden away from the rest of the clan.

In the distance, longboats bearing the flag of the Raven Clan grew closer and closer. If this alliance was not forged—and only the Old Gods knew if it could with her father’s disagreeable manner—their clan of Wolves may as well be doomed to spend their afterlives as undead thralls to a wicked sorcerer. She sighed and turned to Thorn, patting his head.

“I need a drink, Thorn,” she muttered. “How about you?”

~~~

Some time later, after the Ravens had docked at the port, Aelif entered the meeting hall on the other side of her village—Avald—to the scent of mead and smoked meat filling her nose. Many of the villagers had poured in early, excited for the festivities of an alliance meeting. Most were already drunk, dressed in their best cotton clothes, dancing and swaying to the bard’s songs.

“And here’s the tale of the black-feathered archer, the silent protector and legendary watcher...” the bard sang through the hall as Aelif found a seat at one of the long wooden tables, grabbing a mug of mead.

“What in nine realms is the bard singing about?” she asked a drunken man across from her.

“Haven’t you heard? Someone spotted the black-feathered archer hunting in our woods,” the drunken man replied with wide eyes.

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Aelif asked.

Another man chimed in, “He’s a legendary archer from the Raven Clan. They say his arrows always strike true, from unknown lengths, unknown heights.

“Aye,” another added. “I’ve heard from Horind that he’s shot an arrow from the top of a mountain, piercing a distant draug through the eye.”

“Ah,” Aelif spat, taking another swig. “Sounds like horse shit.”

“Could be. But in the name of the good God Odingr, I’m not getting on his bad side. Not with him, not with his clan.”

As Aelif rolled her eyes, she noticed a small black-haired boy pass. For a brief moment, she could see poor-hidden animosity in his eyes, and then he was gone within the mingling crowd. A little Raven?

At that moment, the doors to the meeting hall swung open, the little Raven passing through to the outside, as a man dressed in a sable fur-lined cloak and heavy iron armor strode past him. His hair was wiry and gray, but his disposition was strong, pale blue eyes peering below a silver circlet. Aelif examined him closely—tall, squared jaw, slightly wrinkled skin, aged with wisdom and battle. A proper King—and it was.

King Samas of the Ravens had entered.

And her bastard father was late.