Runa’s door had hardly closed that morning before she found herself beset by concerned and curious members of the village. She was not surprised. The arrival of a stranger would upset the daily flow of life even at the best of times, and with winter approaching this was not the best of times. Nor had there ever been such a mysterious stranger to grace their village. 

Most of them she turned away. She had nursed the girl for three days, but Morwen had been awake mere hours. Far too soon for questioning.  She walks among you now, Runa had told them, if you must gawk at her go, but do not hound her steps. The villagers all remembered well the sharp sting of her tongue as children, so like children, they obeyed. 

After the tenth polite knock on her door however, Runa needed to escape.

So while Morwen and Frey explore the village below, the Volya walks the rocky slopes above it, as she often has when the weight of her duties pressed too hard. There were countless musings about the pale girl, but Runa’s mind is fixed on one.

The girl had done magic.

Whether she knows it or not, whether she had meant to or not, there was no other explanation. Knowledge had passed from Frey’s mind into Morwen’s with a single touch. It sets the old woman’s mind to spinning like nothing in her long life ever has before. If her magic is what protected Frey from the Pale… 

She will change our whole world.

The thought hollows Runa’s chest. The weight of guiding something this important....  She sinks onto a stone and weeps. Then she lifts her voice, a raw, impromptu song, calling out to the foremothers, begging for guidance with a fervor she has not felt in decades. She beats the stone with her fists like a drum and sings until her voice fails. 

The answer comes in the form of a raven.

It descends silently from the trees above and lands upon her antlers, light as smoke. Runa doesn’t dare breathe. The raven fixes her with one obsidian eye, and though no words are spoken, she understands.

With a single beat of its wings, the raven vanishes, save for a single feather, drifting down to the stone between her fists. Runa takes the feather and holds it to her chest, saying a silent prayer of thanks before she rises.

At the overlook, where the whole village sprawls beneath her, she lifts her hands to the wide, bright sky and lets loose a long, ululating cry of pure exultation. 

She knows what to do.