Troíde and Górin ran over to where Jynge stood within the circle, and stopped only just outside its border. Seeing the witch up close, they now saw her expression in full, rapturous and wracked in anguish. Calling words of incantation and power, she performed her spells, and tears lay dried upon her face. Dirt lay in heavy streaks upon her dress, seemingly from where she had tripped and landed on her knees, and where she had wiped her hands free of grime. Traces of blood stained her bare hands, and a dark line trailed along her forearm where a long gash had dried and clotted. About the crown her head, the seat of the soul, was laid a wreath of woven roots, wires, and many of her witchcraft, all hastily tied in loops and patterns. From the soul’s throne itself, fire raged like a forest stricken by lightning.

Troíde had never seen the witch engulfed in so much daír-fire before. From the shining lines of the letters about the circle, the flames danced high and wide. Like the flame of a candle, the brightest of these came from the circle’s center, wherein the witch stood and performed her magic. Beside her were set the tools of her crafts, and spilling from her pack that lay at her feet, a multitude of ingredients littered the dusty stone ground.

The witch raised her hands high above her head and in them, she wove wide circles with her remaining brand of Stékkr. Even in the motion of the fire about her, a shimmering wave of gaseous tension could be clearly seen quavering within the ritual grounds. The brand itself was finally lit, and from it burned a ferocious and wild flame even hotter and brighter than that which emanated from its bearer. Many patterns and gesticulations were traced into the air as she held it high and upon the ground as she cast it low. Every motion left a hundred glowing embers that trailed on for a brief instant before disappearing. All the while, she murmured forth verses in tongues ancient as well as known to her companions. In a final gesticulation, she wove the brand around her head thrice in a circle, and lowered it. She opened her eyes and beheld the two in front of her. No sign of surprise lay upon her face, and when she looked at each in turn, it seemed as though she had gone many days without sleep. The blaze around her diminished to little flames that slowly flickered about as the last vestiges.

“I am sorry,” she said at last. “I wish that things had not come to this. There is no other way for me to make this place safe. Perhaps if my skill were greater, I might be able to employ some other means to stop this twilight, but such is the misfortune of things.”

Troíde made a sound that seemed like a word, but could not be understood. She raised her arm slowly, and made to take a step forward into the circle. She did not make it halfway over the ember lines upon the ground before Jynge spoke out.

“Do not come closer,” she stated without fear or anger or sadness, but only fatigue, “Please forgive me.”

“Jynge,” Troíde said breathlessly, “Please, finish your duties and...let us find a place to take refuge for a while...I would forego what remains of...the night and all of the day that follows if it meant we are to...make for a safe place...far away from here.” She took many breaths as she spoke, and stumbled over many of her words.

Jynge was not swift to answer. She looked down from her friend and it was long before she returned her gaze upward. When she did, her eyes were deeply red and tears had begun to form. “I shall commit a terrible blasphemy, here. About me here, I have collected and woven dense threads of might and potency. Each lays as a pile of dry kindling, stacked atop and beneath many others.” She gestured towards the ember-lit signs written throughout the circle. “Like a dry forest awaiting the strike of lightning. So much death and misery and blight. There is no salvation to be had here without first destruction.”

She made to hold the flickering brand in both hands, and looked down to a small circle, hardly more than palm-sized, in the exact middle of the ritual site. From it trailed many lines, and about it simmered the wavering mists of a great heat.

“I’ve made sure that you will not be harmed,” she continued, “But you must make your return to Elbregn on your own, I fear.”

When it became clear that Troíde was unable to find the words to reply, Górin spoke up and said what she could not. “We swore oaths to you, Witch Jynge. Whatever should come upon us, we shall keep you from harm and death.

A forlorn look covered the witch’s face. “For that, I am sorry to you, Górin of Dormedon. Those who came here before could not have known about what I have since learned. The hearts of the elders were true when they thought it a mission of much less danger and urgency. It required one of higher greater sensitivity to see what foul deeds had occurred here in recent days. The shadow here is no ordinary blight, brought on by disease and poison, but a dark reflection of some twisted sorcery.

“In Kaðrosedd, an attempt was made to create a bridge between Vilgen and the land where the necromancer’s weakened spirit has lain hidden in obscurity. That I pieced together from their writings and tools at the camp. The state of this town, however, is proof that something else happened which they likely did not intend. A failure, yet not a failure without effect. Rather than a gate their lord could pass through, a part of some other black land had become intertwined with Vilgen upon these grounds. Like a stretch of thin cloth held over your eyes, you can see what lays beyond, but the cloth darkens and obscures your gaze. Yet unlike the tearing of a cloth, this dark shadow only grows greater in each day that passes. When I am done here, the region should be safe enough for others to traverse it without fear of that which we have hitherto been subject.

“Go, return to my elder witch and tell her of what you found. Tell her that the necromancer Tawirragh has likely returned to Vilgen, and his adherents had doings in Kaðrosedd within the past year. Tell her this without lie or lenience.”

“No.” Troíde said firmly, “I will not leave you here. I shall stay by your side, and if your demise is within your plan, then I shall stop you and drag you by my side until we are both safe...At whatever the cost to myself.”

Jynge looked taken aback, and turned her head to the side. “The blight that has consumed Þérge is bit a trifle compared to what will come of it should this shadow spread. The more it grows, the more resilient it will become to the power of the Stékkr. Should we turn to seek our homes, it would one day come for us as we cowered within. If I were to depart from Kaðrosedd without putting an end to it, no forgiveness could ever be had for me, nor would there be any grace to be had by my restless spirit.”

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“Jynge…” Troíde said.

“I will not be joining you,” the witch said, and she now wept openly, “I am sorry, my friend...Go back...Please.”

Troíde set aside her hesitations and stepped forward into the circle. Yet as she did so, the tiny flames from the ward closest to her rose high, and a forceful compulsion fell over Troíde, weighing down her limbs and slackening her movement. It felt as though she were attempting to run through a pit of thick mud. For a moment, she struggled against it, but no effort on her part could bring her more than a hand span inside the barrier. Bowing her head in resignation, she wept alongside her friend.

Looking guiltily at the sight, Jynge took a step towards the edge of the circle. She looked quickly from Troíde to Górin and back, as though making certain neither would attempt to pull her out of the ritual site. Then, slowly reaching out of the boundaries, she placed her hands upon Troíde’s shoulders and embraced her tightly. Troíde held her long, and cried many regrets to her. Jynge did the same.

The two stood there in sorrowful farewell until a strange sound came to Troíde’s ears, and she suddenly loosened her hold to move back and look behind her towards the origin. From the great gateway whence she and Górin had come, there came again the sounds of distant rustling and disconnected voices.

“No,” she said, the weeping tones gone from her voice. “Whatever end you should come to, upon these grounds or elsewhere, I will not have you fall alone. Nor will I allow suffering or fear or death be a part of it.” She took up her spear and held it aloft. Beside her, Górin readied his sword, and in his eyes was a dreadful conviction.

“I hear it too,” Jynge said, “But it is not a sound that comes to us from Vilgen as we know. Hearken your ears, behold the ill memories of that which echoes within the twilight world. As I draw the potency into this circle, I must bring this place ever so close to that dreadful land. Hearken and behold that dreadful cadence, for you must know the foulness if you are to give truth to my elder witch.”

The sounds grew louder, and they soon found that it came not from behind, nor from ahead, nor even from high or low. Like a swirling storm of voices, it swam in the space around them, close and yet far away. In that place upon the summit of Kaðrosedd, little remained that outwardly revealed the site of where the adherents of the necromancer Tawirragh had performed their own rituals. Only nine days prior, upon the night of Brannaht, they had gathered here and laid a bridge between Vilgen and the horrible domain to which their lord had secreted away. Above the ruined crumbling stone of a long-forgotten keep, standing above a long-crumbled town, the devotees of the necromancer had met their doom. When the terrible shaking of the land brought them back and forth into and out of that world, memory too surged back and forth. Górin and Troíde heard their voices on the eve of Brannaht, they heard the voices as they screamed in terror at the failure of their ritual, they heard the storm of chaos that centuries of every sound, no matter how small, had accumulated in that little space atop the hill.

Though they were subject to sounds terrible and not, none came to their ears, for all echoed throughout their minds and spirits. Only when the witch spoke again did their focus return, and the terrible echoes seemed to diminish as they looked to her. She did not speak in the Þérgic tongue, but called forth another incantation. In her hands, she bore a little iron rod, and this she twisted in the air in a repeating pattern.

Jynge’s companions did not stay in the same solemn posture for long, for as she began a new spell, they turned again and drew up their weapons, ready for whatever might approach her. Whether assaulted by trace memory or not, if any other assailant were to dare enter from the gateway of the keep, Górin and Troíde were resolute to make a final stand that would be sung long about for years to come, if ever the story reached the ears of others. They stepped forward to the gate beyond the corner and slowly moved away from Jynge. Yet they did not make it far.

As Jynge completed her whispered verses, she concluded on a final syllable which she called out a sudden force and conviction. As the word rang out, it echoed once, then ceased as it pervaded through the minds and bodies of her companions. A great sluggishness began to pull at them from within, drawing their limbs down with a terrible exhaustion, and slowing their breaths. Górin fell to his knees, bleary-eyed and struggling to remain awake. For a brief moment, his mind left him and as he fell forward a few inches to the dirt ground, the motion suddenly drew him back to waking, once again, but it was not enough to shake off the tiredness.

“I fear this unleash of holy fire upon you moreso than any foe which might approach,” the voice of the witch sounded out as though from far away. Even as she spoke, Górin felt as though he needed to give every bit of strength in his body simply to remain awake. “I have formed this torrent in such a way that should keep you from harm, but I would still have the assurance you both were protected. Within the Dark World, you should be safe enough. Farewell, my friends!”

At this, the witch began a new spell, chanting forth and bearing the brand high. After a moment, she braced it tightly in her palms, and drove it down into the ground before her. Her words echoed and resounded with a mighty timbre, and a mighty crack rang forth from where she had stricken the glowing spell lines with the brand. The fires dancing along its splintered surface grew high and mighty, and crackled like a hundred coals.

Jynge rose up from where she knelt, extending herself high, and the flames followed her. As though drawn to she who had called them forth, the fires leaped up to her head, and there, they only blazed all the more. A great pillar of flame rose high and illuminated the night in a stunning brilliance. Shadows trembled and faltered, and the fog about the edges of their vision began to burn.

All at once, every piece of energy packed into the circle was released. From the body of the witch, a great flame came forth and enveloped all. The light burnt their eyes, and for a moment, all was as bright as midday beneath a sun of fire and death.

The last sight that Górin beheld before his consciousness failed him was a great blazing inferno in the place where the witch had once stood. A force that spread out from where she had stood, reaching out into whatever place overlapped the summit of Kaðrosedd. Just as the body and mind of Jynge were consumed beneath the terrible power of her spirit’s inferno, so too was the blight and the overlapping of the twilight world upon the town of Kaðrosedd.