Bjorn woke to darkness, his body screamed in pain, the sharp tang of blood heavy in his mouths. His thoughts were sluggish, and confused. One moment he had been breathing fire at the druid hydrokinetic mage, and the next, he was here, battered and broken. His heart pounded in his chest as a deafening rhythm which beat like hammers in his skulls.

  He tried to rise, but agony flared through his body. His rear right leg throbbed, barely able to support his weight, and a deep pain lanced through his side. His breaths came as ragged gasps as he collapsed back into the churned earth. He didn't know how long he lay there, waiting for the weakness to fade.

  In time his vision flickered back in his left head, though his right remained unresponsive. The first thing he registered was the sensation of damp grass against his scales. There was the press of bloodied earth where he had writhed in agony. Sound crept back into his awareness next, wind through the branches above.

  He tried to scent the air, to get a read on his surroundings, but the thick, metallic taste of his own blood coated his tongues, dulling his senses. His sight was still limited and the high grass made it impossible to see beyond his own form and the canopy of the trees above offered no hints.

  Slowly he turned his left head to look at his right and what he saw shocked him. His other neck was bent at an unnatural angle, fractured and useless. He could barely move it, but the damage was severe. His gut twisted. He knew what he had to do, his healing factor could only do so much on its own.

  Bracing himself, Bjorn reached up with his claws, gripping his broken head. He held his breath as he pulled, fighting through the blinding agony. With a sickening "pop", the vertebrae realigned. His stomach lurched, bile rising. His left head retched violently, spewing onto the grass, while his right foamed at the mouth from the sheer trauma.

  The pain was unbearable, but already, he could feel his healing factor at work. As he thought he needed to realign the bones first. Healing started to knit him back together, but the worst of it was over.

  He forced himself to take stock of the rest of his injuries. His side, where he had nearly been gutted, had stopped bleeding. A thin, raw scar marked the wound, but fresh scales had already begun to grow over it. What had once been fatal was now just another battle scar.

  “Bjorn…” Failsafe’s voice was strained. “Shit, I am not used to all this pain yet. Your body is still recovering.”

  Bjorn let out a dry, wheezing chuckle. “I forget you can feel my pain.”

  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” Failsafe groaned. “Trues above, when this is over, you owe us a damn spa day or something. I feel everything you do, and I swear, if I have to suffer through another one of these beatdowns, I better get pampered for once.”

  “Fine, fine,” Bjorn managed a weak grin, his aching muscles barely allowing it. "Next time, less death, more massages.”

  “Damn right,” Failsafe muttered. “Now, can we please not die again?”

  Bjorn exhaled sharply, bracing himself as he forced his battered body to move. He wasn’t done yet. He felt for the bond to Freja and was pleased she was okay or at least not dead. Her emotions were all over the place and she was definitely not okay, but where terror once gripped her there was a resignation. Bjorn hoped that meant the threat was over.

  Bjorn limped towards the direction the bond told him Freja was. He was unable to put weight on his back right leg and his right head hung so low it dragged the ground. Soon Bjorn found the break in the grass that led to the river bank. He saw Joha standing near Freja and was happy to see she was alive, he slinked into the water. His body acts far more freely in it than walking.

  Guess I really am amphibious. He thought to himself as he closed back into the shore.

  “It’s okay, breathe.” Joha knelt down beside Freja “Sif, you are okay, it is safe now.”

  Freja shot to her feet panic in her voice. “I'm fine... but Bjorn and Embla. We have to check on them.”

  Bjorn squawked one of the few sounds he could make and Freja's eyes snapped to him. She got up and ran as he made it to the shore and collapsed. In moments he was in Freja’s arms. Things got a little fuzzy after that.

  ***

  Freja ran along the riverbank, cradling Bjorn against her chest. She was careful but could still feel him flinch from pain as she shifted. The scent of blood clung to the air, mixing with the muddy ground beneath her feet. She pushed forward, her mind fixed on one goal, getting to Embla.

  “Bjorn, baby, it’ll be okay,” Freja murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine. You’ll be fine, okay?”

  “He’s strong. He’ll make it,” Joha said firmly. “We can take him back to the village. We’ve already dealt with the other attackers.” His sharp eyes flicked toward her. “Is Embla alive?”

  Freja nodded, chest heaving. “I left her up ahead. She was in bad shape, but… she’s a mage. If she held on this long, she might still be alive.”

  As they neared the spot where Freja had last seen her, evident by the line of blood on the ground. Freja’s wind magic had dragged the woman out of harm’s way, but whether it had been enough, she couldn’t say.

  They found her a short distance from the riverbank, slumped in a pool of her own blood. Her body trembled as she raised a shaking hand, dark magic swirling into a sphere, ready to strike. Her half-lidded eyes burned with defiance until recognition dawned.

  “It’s us,” Joha said, lifting his hands in a placating gesture.

  The shadowy magic dissipated in an instant. Embla let out a ragged cough, her lips stained crimson.

  “Sif… Joha…” Embla's gaze wavered. “What of the mage?”

  Freja knelt beside her, setting Bjorn down with careful hands. Her fingers worked fast, rummaging through her bag.

  “Dead,” Joha said, his deep voice rumbling with certainty. “We took out all of them; except one. Tyr wants him alive. We need answers.”

  A faint, bloody smile ghosted over Embla’s lips. Her focus became unsteady as her eyes glazed over.

  “Then Hier Tyr still lives… good,” Embla said.

  “Joha, hold her up, she’s fading,” Freja ordered, urgency sharpening her voice. She pulled out her last lesser healing potion, unstoppered it, and pressed it to Embla’s lips. “Drink. Slowly, okay? You can’t die here. Tyr needs you.”

  It took agonizing minutes for Embla to sip down the potion, but as the liquid worked through her system, clarity returned to her gaze. Mages were notoriously hard to kill, but even their resilience had limits. The potion would close wounds to keep her from bleeding out, but it could not replace the blood she already lost. The gaping wound in her abdomen still bled but slower and her missing arm had already sealed itself.

  “She needs a healer,” Freja said.

  Joha scooped Embla into his arms with careful strength. “You did well. Can you make more health potions? A lot of people were injured. The village healer was targeted first.”

  Freja exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay focused. Questions swirled in her mind, but they would have to wait. For now, people needed help. Bjorn needed help.

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  “I need fleron root,” she said, straightening her spine with renewed resolve. “I have everything else, but a single dose will take hours to brew. If the village has an alchemy setup, I can work faster.”

  Joha nodded. “I’ll take Embla first, then come back for Bjorn. I’ll have Owen and Helina prepare what you need.”

  Without another word, he vanished into a swirling cloud of red smoke. Freja sat beside Bjorn, stroking the sleeping hydra’s scales as she gathered her thoughts. She had fought, nearly died, and now she had to save lives. There was no room for hesitation.

  True to his word, Joha returned within minutes. He crouched, scooping Bjorn up carefully. The hydra let out a weak, pained chirp but didn’t resist. Freja swallowed hard and rose to her feet.

  Time to work. She thought to herself.

  A few minutes later, Joha returned again, this time with three villagers, two young, one older. Their eyes glistened with unshed tears, shock still written on their faces, but their hands were steady. They understood. They knew that action, not grief, would save lives.

  It didn’t take long to find the first cluster of fleron root. Freja showed them how to harvest it, guiding their shaking hands with firm, patient instruction. Time was short but if they collected the plants wrong it could ruin the effectiveness of the plant so there were no shortcuts in her explanation.Before long, she passed her book to Joha, showing him the three plants she needed.

  “These are key.” Freja said. “Find as many as you can. The village needs them.”

  Joha met her gaze, then nodded. “I’ll get them.”

  ***

  Freja had seen more death in the past few days than in her entire life. She was a student, a mere sixteen-year-old girl, forced to fight tooth and nail to survive. The troll, the wolves, the treant, and now the druids. Each battle had torn away another layer of innocence, leaving behind raw instinct and a resilience she hadn’t known she possessed, but nothing had prepared her for this.

  The village was a slaughterhouse. Corpses lay where they had fallen, some covered with blood stained sheets, others left exposed, their final moments frozen in expressions of terror and agony. Most weren’t whole, their limbs torn apart by withering roots, bodies impaled on jagged ice that still thrummed with cursed druidic magic. The air reeked of death and burned wood, the ground marred by craters where destructive spells had detonated.

  Freja’s stomach churned even as the smoke threatened to make her cough.

  “Why would they do this?” she whispered, the words barely escaping her lips.

  A voice called out to her, “Sif, over here!”

  She was so stunned that it took a moment for her to recognize Owen’s voice. It cut through the dreadful sound of grief and agony from the survivors. She turned to the village square. The wagons seemed intact, but two of the horses had fled.

  Sabec was speaking with Tyr and one of the few survivors, his large and imposing form silhouetted against the ruin. The gnoll’s bardiche, engraved with runes along its shaft and gleaming orichalcum blade, rested against the throat of a bound druid captive. Sabec, Tyr and the other man all bore injuries, superficial cuts, nothing serious, but their stances were rigid, their gazes hard.

  Freja tore her eyes away and hurried toward Owen, who beckoned her inside one of the few standing buildings. It had once been a home, its warmth now stripped away by violence.

  Helina ran to her, pulling her into a tight embrace before murmuring a spell. Freja could feel the magic surrounding her as her clothing and body that had been dirty by rolling around in the mud was cleaned and dried. It had been the last thing on her mind but it helped to ease her even if just a little.

  “I’m glad you are alright, dear,” Helina said, relief in her voice. “Bjorn is here, he’s sleeping upstairs.”

  Freja exhaled, following her into the interior. The house bore the hallmarks of wendigo design: brick walls, hardwood floors, muted earth tones. Glowstone lights lined the walls, casting a steady, unyielding glow over the destruction. The living room, once the most opulent space, had suffered dearly. One wall had been blasted apart, its contents strewn outside in a broken heap.

  Amid the wreckage, Freja spotted the dark stain of blood. She swallowed. The owner was likely dead.

  “What about you? Where are Wyatt and Caleb?” she asked, forcing herself to focus on something else.

  “Everyone’s fine. A few scrapes, nothing serious,” Helina reassured her.

  “We’re tougher than we look,” Owen added with a wry grin. “We got out of this better than most though.”

  Freja glanced at the goblins’ weapons, machetes at their hips, spears propped against the corner of the room. It was easy to forget sometimes, that goblins were elves, just as magically and martially capable as their taller kin. It didn’t matter how much the two groups denied their shared ancestry.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, reaching out through the familiar bond. Bjorn’s presence pulsed gently in her mind, steady and calm. He was still asleep and recovering. She didn’t know if he could feel her emotions while he slept but she tried her hardest to send him as good of feelings as possible to ease him even more. He deserved to rest for everything he had done for her.

  “I’m glad to hear that. I need to get started right away,” Freja said, urgency sharpening her tone. “Did you get my alchemy case from Sabec’s wagon?”

  “He brought it over, but we did you one better,” Owen replied, motioning her toward the kitchen. “Luckily, we hadn’t sold all of this yet.”

  Freja stepped inside and froze. The kitchen had been fully converted into an alchemy lab, but it was an uncoordinated mess. Equipment was scattered across every available surface, cutting boards stacked haphazardly, mortars and pestles misplaced, glass beakers crammed together on a single rickety shelf.

  The goblins had clearly hauled in everything they could find, but without any understanding of how an alchemy lab should function. Still, it was more than she had dared to hope for. If she could fix this mess, she could work faster, producing multiple potions at once.

  To her surprise, the same woman who had mentioned having a son at the academy stood by the stove, boiling water. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow. She looked as if she wanted to cry but refused to let herself break. Freja noticed grimly that her small daughter was not with her. She didn’t mean to but she could not help but turn around and glance at the blood that was present around the blown out wall.

  “I’m glad you’re alright, dear,” the snowfallen woman said softly. “How long will it take?”

  “To make the potions?” Freja asked. She did a quick mental calculation. “Probably three hours per batch.”

  The woman hesitated, then swallowed hard. “Let's try to make as many as possible. T-they killed… they killed Brynhild.” Her voice cracked. “She was our only healer.” She took a trembling breath, forcing herself to continue. “We have twenty-six seriously injured. A few will need more than one potion. They are the priority, others have minor wounds.”

  Freja’s chest tightened. “What about your daughter?”

  Her eyes followed Freja to the blood in the rubble. “This isn’t my house, my daughter is fine, she is fine, thank the Forest Father she was with me and not playing in the square like…” Tears came to her eyes and she quickly wiped them. “Please we have to hurry, what do you need?”

  “Okay, okay. We’ll get started right away,” she said, forcing determination into her voice.

  Helina and the woman, Unn, as Freja later learned, were immediately set to work. Their hands moving in tense efficiency over the mortars and pestles. Owen took up position outside, spear in hand, standing guard.

  Meanwhile, Freja assessed the lab’s chaotic state. The setup was inefficient; if they worked like this, they’d waste time searching for tools, knocking over equipment, and misplacing ingredients. She needed order. Now.

  “Clear this table,” she ordered, sweeping aside a misplaced ladle and an unnecessary stack of mismatched bowls. “We’ll use it as the main prep station.”

  Helina hurried to wipe down the surface, and Unn quickly moved the beakers to another counter.

  Freja lined up the core ingredients fleron root, dorma Bulbs, and shade caps, in separate bowls, placing them within easy reach. She set the cutting board and enchanted knife at the front, where she would prepare the roots. To the right, she arranged the mortars and pestles for grinding the dorma bulbs.

  Next, she restructured the brewing station. The goblins had dumped beakers, Bunsen burners, and strainers in a jumble, with no sense of workflow. Freja methodically adjusted their placement. The largest cauldron went over the central stove, where Unn had already started boiling water. Around it, she set up bunsen burners powered by flare crystals, ensuring she had multiple heat sources for batch brewing.

  Finally, she moved the distillation equipment to a side table near the cooling racks. Empty vials and corks were stacked neatly beside them. Everything had a place. Now they could work efficiently.

  She had never attempted a batch this large but she knew exactly what she needed to do. She had to make this potion while bleeding and starving in a cave. She honestly didn’t think there was a single potion recipe that he knew better than this one after that experience. Freja exhaled and flexed her fingers.

  Her mind raced through the process. First, she needed to prepare the fleron root, chop it finely while channeling magic into the blade to soften its tough fibers and release its healing properties. Next, the dorma bulbs, remove the stems, crush them in the enchanted mortar, and infuse them with mana. Shade caps, measure them precisely; too little and the potion would weaken, too much and it could become toxic.

  Then came the potion base, boiling water infused with magic, heated carefully with flare crystals to ensure consistency. The potion had to be blended, strained, and distilled. Mana had to be infused at controlled intervals and then the final step. Refinement.

  Freja glanced at stations she set up and the women helping her. She nodded knowing every second counted. Her hands hovered over the ingredients. Her heart pounded. She only hoped her skills were enough.