Hours of brewing and relentless mana manipulation dragged on, each second stretching as exhaustion weighed down on them. Luckily Helina was a powerful mage in her own right and with her mana reserves they were quickly able to brew dozens of potions at a time. The fourth and final batch of potions was finally ready, the crimson liquid shimmering in the dim light. They were out of ingredients, their reserves utterly depleted.

  Freja, Helina, and Unn, the desperate alchemy crew were drained to their limits. Lesser health potions required constant vigilance, the infusion of mana at precise intervals, and the steady hand of experienced crafters. Freja handled directing them well as she was the only trained alchemist amongst them. The sheer volume they had produced demanded unbroken focus, their hands never idle.

  Freja wiped a hand across her brow, taking in the sight of their hard work lined up in neat rows. Twenty-four newly minted potions. She knew the Forest Father Had given her a tough trial and hoped she met the challenge. After all of this she had to have, right? There was no way to make more.

  She kept two of the lesser potions for herself and Bjorn. Though her familiar possessed a healing factor, she never wanted to risk him suffering if she could prevent it. She sat down in a chair they had moved to the wall to be out of the way during the mad dash to make as many potions as possible.

  Helina stretched, rolling the tension from her shoulders. She then jumped up onto the table near the cutting boards and other depleted supplies.

  “Good job, ladies,” Helina said, her voice rough with fatigue but laced with pride. “Especially you Sif, none of this would be possible without you. Please get some rest, and leave everything else to the adults. I’m going to check on things outside.”

  “No, I’ll come too,” Freja said, her legs aching as she forced herself to stand.

  The final potion was carefully sealed and placed into a basket. Unn, who had taken it upon herself to transport the batches, held it with reverence. Her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the weight of their collective effort.

  She turned to Freja and bowed deeply. “Thank you,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “You have saved lives today.” Unn turned to Helina next. “And you—thank you for risking your life to defend our home. You could have taken your family and fled, but you stayed. I will never forget that. I am eternally grateful.”

  Helina walked across the table and placed a steadying hand on Unn’s shoulder. “Yuhia is our home too, we are countrymen and we here in Yuhia protect our own.”

  She was right. The only other species accepted as full citizens of Yuhia were the goblins. The Hazin Noble family and their domain had been established alongside the founding noble houses of Yuhia, and they bore the same rights, privileges, and responsibilities as any wendigo. They were not outsiders; they were kin.

  Unn pressed her lips together and tears flowed freely as she nodded. She picked up the crate of potions and without another word, turned and disappeared into the night with the last of the potions.

  Freja exhaled deeply, fatigue settling into her bones. The battle wasn’t over, but for now, they had done all they could. With the last of the potions finally gone she could feel the weight of the day pressing down on her. The adrenaline and duty she felt faded and she just felt tired. She felt sad, confused and worried.

  Every small mistake gnawed at her. Every misstep, every moment of hesitation, every wasted ingredient flashed through her mind like an unforgiving tally. She could have set up the lab faster. She could have optimized the brewing process. If only she were a mage like Helina, she could have assisted more in the infusion, could have lessened the burden.

  She lowered her head and closed her eyes as tears welled up in her eyes as she clinched the fabric of her kvinskappe, the brown robe stained with potion and ingredients.Shame burned in her chest, an unbearable tightness constricting her throat.

  She felt a gentle hand gasp hers and opened her eyes. Helina was there, the goblin mother reached up and pulled Freja down, cradling her against her chest. She patted her head and just let her cry. Helina’s hand patted her head gently, her touch was soft, gentle and reassuring. It was a kindness she had never known from her own mother. She didn’t resist and instead opened her arms to hold on to the short woman.

  “It is okay, let it out.” Helina said softly.

  For the first time that day, Freja did.

  ***

  Bjorn stirred, his body still aching but intact. Soreness radiated through his muscles, but nothing felt broken. He lay nestled in a heap of blankets on the floor of a dimly lit room, not that the darkness mattered. His night vision pierced through the shadows with ease.

  Reaching through his familiar bond, he sensed Freja below him. He assumed he was on the second floor and not that she was in a basement. He surveyed his surroundings, a living space, likely belonging to a young man due to the decor. He wasn’t interested enough to investigate the room further.

  “Finally, you’re awake,” Failsafe’s voice echoed in his head, exasperated. “Could you, for once, pick a fight we can actually win without getting brutally ripped apart, bitten, clawed, or gutted? Higher Planes above, seriously.”

  Bjorn stood and let out a long chittering yawn from both his mouths. He stretched his limbs pleased that there was no longer any pain in his back right leg. He feared it was broken and he would have to set the bone there too but was pleasantly pleased that was not the case. He relinquished control of the right head to Failsafe which immediately started bobbing up and down.

  “You act like I have a choice,” Bjorn responded mentally. “And don’t even start with ‘you could’ve just run away.’ You know that’s not happening. Freja is my only connection to this world. Without her, I’m just another roaming beast, one that someone would kill on sight.”

  Failsafe hissed. “It still sucks. Can’t we fight something on our level just once?”

  Bjorn changed the subject. “The fact that we’re alive means the druid is dead. Did we gain any levels?”

  “No.” Failsafe said flatly.

  Bjorn frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because Freja didn’t kill them.”

  That gave Bjorn pause. “But all you do is absorb the lingering magic, right? Shouldn’t that work regardless of who lands the final blow?”

  Failsafe hesitated. “Magic is… complicated. That’s not how it works.”

  Bjorn narrowed his eyes. “Meaning you don’t actually know.”

  “I—I just need more data,” Failsafe muttered defensively.

  “Noted,” Bjorn exhaled, filing that information away. “At least now we know we can’t just camp outside a battlefield and siphon off everyone else’s kills.”

  Shaking off the lingering fatigue, he nudged the door open with a boop of his snout. The scents of potion brewing, Owen, Freja, Helina, and a few unfamiliar individuals flooded his senses, interwoven with faint traces of blood and death, likely from outside.

  Stepping into the hallway, he flicked his tongues to taste the air. A fallen plant lay overturned nearby, along with several crooked paintings that had been knocked from the walls. Signs of chaos, though the worst seemed to have passed.

  “Wait a moment, let me check on Bjorn,” Freja’s voice called from downstairs.

  Bjorn followed the sound, reaching the staircase just as she climbed the last step.

  “Bjorn,” she murmured, her voice weary yet relieved.

  Freja lowered herself onto the top step, patting her lap. He didn’t hesitate. With a quiet chirp, he curled up against her, draping his body across her legs. Freja’s hands moved over his injuries, her touch gentle yet hesitant. Though most of his wounds had faded to scars, his scales had yet to fully regrow. Her fingers lingered on the largest wound, the gash across his stomach that nearly gutted him in the brutal attack from the bird familiar. Through their bond, Bjorn felt the guilt festering inside Freja.

  “You did all the fighting again,” she whispered. “You keep getting hurt because of me. Because I’m weak. Because I’m not a good master. I can’t even protect you.” She picked him up from under his arms. “You’re only a few days old… barely over two weeks , and you’ve already suffered so much because of me.” Her voice shook, thick with emotion. “I swear this will never happen again. You will never have to fight alone because I’m weak. I will get stronger too, I promise you Bjorn.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Determination laced her words, a vow woven in steel.

  “Are you ready, Sif?” Helina’s voice called from below.

  She set Bjorn back down on his paws.

  Freja stood up. “I am going with Helina to see how everything is going in town. You wanna come?”

  Bjorn gave a sharp, affirming squawk.

  “We’re coming!” Freja called back, Bjorn at her side.

  ***

  Darkness did little to conceal the devastation. The town bore its wounds openly—scorched buildings, shattered homes, and the lingering scent of blood that clung to the earth. But the square… the square was where grief took form.

  Most of the survivors had gathered there, standing vigil over the pyres, their faces illuminated by flickering flames. One pyre for each fallen soul, their bodies wrapped in cloth and laid atop the wood. The fires had already begun their sacred work, embers spiraling into the night like whispered farewells.

  “Forest Father,” Someone spoke but Bjorn could not tell who. “Take them to your embrace. Let their ashes dance upon the wind, let them become the breath of the trees, the whisper of leaves, the warmth of sunlight on the forest floor. Let them roam free, not bound beneath cold earth, not lost in shadow. They are yours again—welcome them home.”

  The prayer wove through the crackling flames, a plea and a promise in the same breath. Not all the dead were honored. At the edge of the square was an open pit, its contents a stark contrast to the reverence of the pyres. The druids, who had led the attack, who had torn lives apart, had been denied the fire. Their bodies, hacked into pieces, had been tossed unceremoniously into the depths of the ground. No prayers were spoken for them. No rites would guide their souls.

  Bjorn would later find out that, to the wendigo, burial was a punishment. A prison. A denial of return to the forest and the Forest Father.

  Helina moved past the flickering light of the fires and led Freja and Bjorn away from the mass funeral. Bjorn followed, his tongues flicking out to taste the air, charred wood, burning fat, sorrow thick as smoke.

  Ahead, a house stood apart, a single guard stationed outside. The man was a villager, his posture steady, a sword strapped to his side. He was in his prime, though Bjorn, unfamiliar with wendigo aging, couldn’t tell if that meant thirty or seventy.

  The guard studied them as they approached, his gaze lingering on Helina before he dipped his head in acknowledgment. Without a word, he stepped aside, pushing the door open.

  Inside was not what Bjorn or Freja had expected. The air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat. It was a heavy example of the suffering that had taken place only a few long hours ago. The room had been stripped bare, its furniture removed to make space for the wounded. Nearly every available inch of the floor was occupied by people wrapped in bloodied rags. Some lay still, lost in exhausted sleep, while others stared at the ceiling, hollow-eyed, struggling to grasp the brutal new reality they had woken into.

  A handful of volunteers moved among them, tending to injuries with what little supplies remained. They whispered reassurances, pressing damp cloths to fevered brows, tightening bandages where they could. At the center of it all was Unn, her movements efficient yet weary, administering healing potions to only the worst cases. There would be no more coming. The rest, no matter how much they suffered, would have to heal on their own.

  “Lady Healer.” A man approached, his voice low but steady. He bowed his head. “My name is Oskar. I was told to lead you to Heir Tyr and Maiden Embla once you arrived.”

  At the sound of Freja’s name, heads turned. The wounded who could manage it inclined their heads in gratitude, murmuring her title, "Lady Healer" some even calling her a savior. Though she looked momentarily shaken by the reverence, she didn’t falter, only offering quiet words of comfort in return.

  Oskar led them up the stairs, where the gravely injured had been placed. As Bjorn’s tongues flicked he could taste that the air here was different, thicker, heavier. The scent of blood was stronger, and though the silence was punctuated by the occasional pained breath, most of the wounded were asleep, likely from the potions working through their systems. Bjorn noted the similarity, Freja herself had nearly collapsed from the strain of taking such potions to heal her own internal injuries not too long ago. Just like with her they were sustaining the life of those barely clinging to it.

  The wendigo here were missing limbs, their bodies wrapped head to toe in bloodied bandages. Some had fresh scars where flesh had been regrown, others bore wounds too severe for full recovery. Bjorn found himself wondering how any of them had lasted long enough to receive even the first round of healing potions. Wendigo were resilient if nothing else.

  “This is awful,” Freja whispered under her breath.

  Oskar nodded grimly. “Those druid bastards deserved far worse than what they got.” His voice carried the edge of raw fury. “But those here… they are alive for their families because of you.” They stopped in front of a door. Oskar knocked. “Sif and Helina are here.”

  The door opened immediately, and Bjorn caught a scent beyond just Tyr and Embla. The room was full. Tyr stood at the entrance, his usual commanding presence dimmed by exhaustion. Embla sat propped up on the bed, pale but awake. Inside, Owen, Joha, and Sabec were gathered alongside an elderly man and the second Isi member Bjorn had yet to know the name.

  Tyr dipped his head. “Sif, thank you.” His voice carried the weight of a leader who had seen too much loss. “Helina, thank you as well. Please, come in.”

  As they stepped inside, Embla offered her own quiet gratitude, as did the Isi man who Bjorn learned was named Inge.

  Then, the elder spoke. “My name is Kare Isi. I am the town’s alderman and, unfortunately, the only surviving member of the Council of Elders.”

  Kare bowed his head, his voice steady despite the grief behind it. He was easily the eldest wendigo Bjorn had ever seen. His frame, though slightly hunched, still carried the quiet dignity of someone who had led his people for many years. He leaned on a cane, dressed in an elegant yet modest sky-blue karlskjort, the male counterpart to Freja’s robes. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, his eyes shadowed by sorrow, but behind that grief, behind the quiet words and measured demeanor, there was something else Freja didn’t know how to put into words.

  The man was angry at the pain they had inflicted upon his people. Bjorn knew that Kare Isi was not a man ready to let this go. Bjorn could taste the elder’s aura and he knew he was powerful, nearly as powerful as Embla herself. However where Embla’s power was sharp and refined to a dangerous edge his was weathered by age and time. He must have been a warrior in his prime. One that would have fought tooth and nail for his people.

  “Now that everyone is here,” Tyr said, stepping into the center of the room. “We need to discuss what happens next. It’s too dangerous to leave árdyrholt’s people here while we don’t know if more attacks are coming. The druids who assaulted us were all mages. It’s highly unusual for them to send so many without some kind of backup.”

  “Is that really odd?” Joha asked, arms crossed.

  “Yes,” Embla answered, though her voice was hoarse from exhaustion. “Mages are strong but rare—far rarer than wizards. Typically, they act as officers, not scouts. A mage leading a detachment should have had wizards, footmen, and archers under their command.”

  “So, you’re saying we killed the commanders, but their soldiers might still be in the area?” Kare asked, his aged brow furrowing.

  Sabec’s voice cut in. “This one believes it would be… unfortunate if that is the case. Six units of druid soldiers without command may seek vengeance, yes?”

  “That’s our concern,” Tyr confirmed. “Which is why we’re evacuating árdyrholt and moving to the Isi stronghold. Alderman Kare, I need you to start preparing the people. We leave as soon as they’re ready.”

  Kare nodded solemnly. “Of course, Heir Tyr. It will be done.”

  The discussion turned to logistics, routes, supply distribution, defense formations. More people were called into the meeting as the last of the funerals concluded, until the room grew so crowded that Bjorn finally climbed onto Freja’s back, careful not to jab her with his claws.

  The evacuation would proceed in two waves. The hydrokinetic mage’s attack had destroyed most of the docked boats, but a few further downriver remained intact or could be patched quickly. The gravely injured and the elders would travel by boat, while the rest would form a caravan, moving with the Isi and the merchant convoy. Joha, Owen, and Sabec volunteered to serve as guards alongside the Isi warriors, should they encounter more druids along the way.

  “How long will the journey take?” Freja asked.

  “Normally, two days,” Embla replied, shifting slightly on the bed. “But with a large group, likely three.”

  Joha glanced at her with concern. “Which group will you be traveling with? You’re still unwell. You should go by river.”

  Embla shook her head, “I will remain at Heir Tyr’s side through his trial. The Forest Father has granted him this Rite, which means He expects great things. I would not dare miss His call. Hardship, death, and pain are blessings. They strengthen His people.”

  “I don’t think I like their religion,” Failsafe muttered in Bjorn’s mind.

  Bjorn exhaled through his nose. “Strength and trials seem to be all the Forest Father is about. He is not our True and it is not our faith. Even Ulfar said if Freja had killed that troll, he would’ve let her stay in the family. I think we had a pretty skewed idea of the wendigo from our time at the academy.”

  “What do you mean?” Failsafe asked.

  “I mean, back at the academy, Freja acted human,” Bjorn explained. “But the academy was multicultural. Her closest friends—”

  “Mat and Julie,” Failsafe interjected.

  “Yes, Mat and Julie were both human,” Bjorn continued with a low growl at the interruption. “The dorm mother was human-adjacent, and most of the staff and students came from different cultures. So, I think we saw a watered-down, friendlier version of wendigo culture. Her parents showed us the harsh side. Embla… she’s showing us the comforting side.”

  Failsafe scoffed. “You call talking about suffering and future struggles ‘comforting’?”

  “I don’t,” Bjorn admitted, resting his head against Freja’s shoulder. “But I think wendigo do, to some extent. To grow stronger, one has to push themselves. The Forest Father provides the opportunity to do that. A real True of survival of the fittest. So, I am worried.”

  “I mean that seems right.” Failsafe settled onto Freja’s other shoulder. “Then why are you worried?”

  Bjorn felt it through their bond. Freja’s quiet, burning desire. She had taken Embla’s words to heart. Trials and strength. Would she seek them out? Would she chase power, even if it led her into the same kind of danger that had nearly killed Embla today? He was worried what kind of trial would the Forest Father send her. Who would she be at the end?

  Bjorn’s tail flicked uneasily. “I was powerful once,” he murmured. “Look where it got me.”