Frey’s heart races and she unthinkingly reaches for Morwen’s hand, completing the circle between them. Morwen gives her an encouraging squeeze back, though she doesn’t fully understand, she senses something momentous is happening for her new friend. 

Runa glances between them, first at Frey, then at Morwen. 

“Morwen of the North, I cannot answer your questions, but I can see; I can feel. Magic swirls around you, power follows your shadow, and though I know not what manner of power it is, I may know where you can find some answers.” Morwen feels her own heart skip a beat. 

“Frey of the Kuunafolk, if you choose to walk this Path, it may yet lead you home, to take your place here, by my side. My knowledge will be your knowledge, my blood, your blood… but be warned child… no Volya has ever been asked to walk such a hard Path before, or one that travels so far.” 

The old woman gives their hands a gentle squeeze and her expression turns grave. 

“You will have questions, and I will do my best to answer them. There are things I must teach you before you begin. Do not answer now, for this decision will change your lives forever, and there are other paths you might follow.” 

She looks into Morwen’s eyes and her expression softens.

“You could remain here, and become one with our people. Though you will always be different from us, we would accept you Morwen. Together you and I could explore your gifts, in time perhaps even be safe from the Pale with your help, but you will never know who you truly are.”

Morwen drops her gaze to the floor. The too-knowing, too-bright eyes turn to Frey next. 

“You too, could remain. I would still teach you, and you would become the next Volya, to replace me when my time comes. You would have a Path, but.... “

Runa gently places Morwen’s hands into Frey’s, holding her hands one beneath and one above. 

“The threads of fate have sewn you together, Frey and Morwen. They brought you to each other, and I would not willingly undo their weaving. The Path revealed to me is long, and perilous, and neither of you can walk it alone. This decision you must make as one.” 

Morwen looks up to find Frey’s amber eyes staring back, but before either can speak, Runa stands, breaking their little circle. 

“Do not decide now. We will talk more tomorrow.” that same gently commanding tone. She rolls the map up and sets it on a table full of oddities, much like Frey’s little shelf, yet still neat. Organized. 

“Walk with me a while?” 

Though the afternoon is still young, the sun has already begun its descent behind the trees, casting a soft grey hush across the rooftops. The Volya walks an unhurried path through the village, her steps light but purposeful. She greets her people by name as they pass, asking after an ailing mother, praising a well-made bow, gently ruffling the hair of a staring child who forgets to tap his ear until after she smiles at him. 

Curiosity trails behind Morwen and Frey like a breeze, whispering from doorway to doorway, but the way the villagers lower their heads and speak with quiet poise, makes clear how profoundly they revere their leader. Runa’s respect here is not demanded. It has been well earned and runs deep. 

The falling light draws a different rhythm over the village, not weary, but unhurried, as if the village is collectively letting out a deep, satisfied breath. Afternoon settles with an easy, laconic calm. Yet with more time to see them clearly, Morwen notices details that she missed before.

Most of the men wear an axe or sword at their belt. Several women do as well. The shields above their doorways, which she had taken for ornament, are scarred, dented, bitten deep by real edges. There is a tension here, not spoken but ever-present, just beneath the stillness. Their eyes are always in motion. It dawns on Morwen that these are not peaceful people. They are only practiced at peace.

They linger at the blacksmith’s shop. The man who looks up from the anvil is towering, one great black horn covered in soot, though the other is cut short, or broken about halfway up. His long black beard braided to keep it out of the way of his work. He beams at the Volya with unabashed affection and greets her with a kiss to the cheek, which she only barely chides him for, but behind him on a workbench lie a dozen spears awaiting the grindstone. 

“Welcome Frey, and well met, Morwen, I’ve heard much about you.” The man taps an ear with fingers like granite. “I am Ubbe Half-horn.” Morwen finds his cheer infectious.

“What’s this?” The man rumbles to Runa. “You’ve gathered an entourage, mother Volya.” He gestures broadly behind them and they turn to see a small flood of children trailing in their wake like ducklings. Runa arches a single eyebrow. The children freeze at once. Frey turns to hide a soft snort, she knows full well Runa’s sternness is pure theater when it comes to the Kuunlings. 

Hands on her hips, Runa surveys them.
“I suppose you came here in hopes… of a story?” 

Their restraint nearly snaps. They tap their ears, not quite in unison, and chime out a chorus of, “Yes, Volya,” eyes bright and pleading. Frey laughs openly; Morwen can’t help but smile. The blacksmith receives a glance that is somehow both affectionate and withering as he provides a great stump already hollowed and lined with furs, perfect for sitting.

Runa settles onto it with ceremonial comfort. The blacksmith drags up a small bench for Morwen and Frey and sits beside them. The children, only one with the first faint nubs of horns pressing through his hair, gather cross-legged at her feet. Before she begins, the Volya gives Morwen a cryptic and mischievous glance.

"Hear me, my children” she intones, her voice transforming into the born storyteller. “And listen well, for the tale I am about to tell you is older than the mountain, and as true as the sky.”

The forge’s heat laps gently over them.