The afternoon sun had begun to set over the saw-toothed mountains that surrounded Avald, but with the last fading light, Featherless had managed to find her prey. A deer, large and meaty, gnawed at a sliver of grass peeking through the thick snow at the base of the mountain. Crouched behind the treeline, with a quick nock of her arrow and a whip of wind, the deer was dead. Featherless pulled out a dagger, skinned her catch, and brought it back to her makeshift campfire within the snow-covered forest to eat.

Halfway through her meal, slouched over a bit of plain cooked venison, her ears perked to a rustle along the shrubbery a stone’s throw away. She grabbed her bow and quickly nocked an arrow, pulling the string back taut.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

“It’s just me, bird-brain,” Gilly raised his hands, exiting from his hiding place behind the bushes. “If you shoot me, Samas will never forgive you.”

Featherless sighed and lowered her bow, turning back to sit at her fire. “Samas can stick his pretty little circlet up his...” She peered at Gilly—his mouth wide with an expectant grin—and silenced her tongue with a bite of venison. “What are you here for, Gilly? How did you find me?”

“I smelled the smoked meat all the way from Avald.” He smiled, taking a seat next to her by the fire. “You should be careful, or their giant wolves will come for you.”

Gilly giggled, flashing his teeth as if he were a wolf.

“I hope they do, Gilly.” She laughed. “I could use a new cloak.” She paused for a moment and then her face hardened as she took another bite. “No really, Gilly, why are you here? You should be at the meeting.”

“Samas wanted me to warn you,” Gilly said, furrowing his brows. “He said you shouldn’t show your face at the meeting, or else Joryck will think him weak.”

“And why would it appear weak?” she asked, confusion murking her face.

“Well, he heard that the Wolf Clan feeds their outcasts to the wolves.”

“Ah.” She chuckled. “I see. By showing a half-blood babe mercy, he’s a coward.”

“You’re not a half-blood,” muttered Gilly. “Don’t call yourself that. You’re just as much a Raven as any of us.”

Featherless smiled. “I thank you, Gilly, truly. But a bastard is considered less than nothing in the eyes of the clan. I will never be a Raven.” She picked up her bow, running her finger along the string. “It doesn’t matter how many draugar I kill.”

“You’re still my sister,” Gilly said. “Bastard or not.”

“Aye,” she replied, turning to ruffle his hair. “But don’t you dare let Samas hear you say that.”

Although Featherless was born to a different mother than Gilly, they couldn’t have looked more alike. Both had the same ink-black hair—common within their clan—the same snow-white skin, the same ice-blue eyes, but their differences lay in their skills.

While Featherless was a natural in archery, Gilly was a talented healer and runemaster. He could be sent to any part of Isjord and find medicinal herbs and minerals within the hour. His runes were accurate and efficient, his body covered with them at the young age of thirteen years. Featherless’ own body, in its nineteenth year, was only runed on her right hand, crafted to pull back her bowstring with strength, and to never tire.

Still, despite being six years younger, he’d saved her life plenty of times, as she’d saved his. But there was a threat looming along the horizon that not even she could protect him from—not on her own.

Necromancers and their undead horde.

In recent months, the Seidhan necromancers had amassed an army of draugar, and their attacks had grown bolder—all in an act of vengeance for the slaughter of their clan at the hands of Joryck and his men ten years prior. But after the draugar had attacked the Raven Clan and killed dozens two moons ago—including King Samas’ own firstborn son—an alliance with the root of their problem was the last solution they had. Samas wasn’t happy about it, and according to whispers, neither was Joryck. Both were stubborn and old, and Featherless feared for Gilly. For her clan.

And, in truth, for all of Isjord.

“You should head back then,” Featherless continued, standing to kick out her fire with snow. “A little prince should be there to hear the talks. I’ve no doubt it’ll be an entertaining one.”

“Will I see you for the celebratory feast, then? Samas won’t notice you amongst all the hoods.”

“If there is one, Gilly, I will be there. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.” Featherless stuck her fingers in her mouth to whistle, the distant hoofbeats of her horse, Gray Cat, closing near. “I’ve heard tales of Joryck’s stubbornness, and his tongue,” she sighed.

“Aye,” Gilly muttered under his breath, nodding. “I’ll see you in the evening, then. Travel safe, sister.”

“You as well, Gilly.”

With that, Gilly took off, trudging through the thick snow. As he disappeared into the shrubbery, Gray Cat arrived, his black mane freckled with snowdust, his gray spotted coat painting the scene in black and white. Featherless mounted the horse and rode along the perimeter of the woods.

“Where’s Fox and Svari, Gray Cat?” Featherless asked, patting him gently on his neck as they strode closer to the mountains.

“Fox!” she called out into the trees. “Svari!”

She whistled. Nothing. She tried a whistle once more. Again, nothing. That was strange, her companions never liked to stray far from her. Trying for a third time, she whistled, louder this time, echoing throughout the mountain range like a sharp, shrill cry.

Kraaa!

At last, a raven crested the mountaintop, diving toward her. As the raven dove and arced, her wings illuminated into dark purples and blues, like oil.

“There you are, Svari!” She held her arm out for the raven to land, but she didn’t. Instead, Svari dropped something in her lap and took off again. She looked down, furrowing her brows. It was a nail, long, the length of a finger, the metal dull and rusted.

She picked it up and threaded it through her fingers. At the top was a small rune, barely noticeable. And as she examined closer, she could see it wasn’t just any rune.

It was Seidhan. A Galdr rune. A necromancer’s rune.

“Oh, Old Gods.” She groaned. “Please do not allow me to become an undead thrall...”

Kicking her heels, Gray Cat took off into a gallop, following the treeline. She scanned the area for evidence of necromancers—blood, footprints, bile, anything.

Not far from Avald, along the shore of the sea, she found a body. She dismounted and stepped closer, the limp shape hunched over and mangled. When she grew close enough, she could see it was a young girl, barely fifteen and dead for days, with dozens of runed nails stuck in her face and skull. Her eyes were hollowed out, as if someone had taken them. Her skin was half-rotten, green and putrid, and appeared partially eaten. But, the important part was that she wasn’t moving.

Featherless sighed in relief. “Thank the Old Gods, it’s not a draug.”

She turned back to Gray Cat, sheathing her bow. But as she took a step, her horse whinnied and bucked, dashing away. Her nerves went icy, every muscle in her body tensed. And then there was pain. She felt the heat before the sting, a sharp nail stabbing through her abdomen.

When she turned around, her face was inches away from rotting flesh, hollowed spaces staring back at her.

The draug opened its mouth, and screeched.