Fawkes did not wait to see how the scene at the longhouse played out. A hundred different places, a hundred different times, she'd watched it unfold. There would be some thinking to do, come morning, once the dust had settled.

She and Hunter left the gathering from the back of the crowd, quiet like church mice. There were guards posted around, holding torches, leaning on long spears. Apart from a couple suspicious glances, they paid the two foreigners little attention.

Just as well, Fawkes thought.

Back at her tent, the stray direwolf pup Hunter insisted on keeping around was restless. She was surprised he hadn’t made a run for the trees. Direwolves weren’t of a domesticated stock. Even the largest, boldest ones were wise enough to steer clear of human settlements. Hunter’s ravens had probably kept him from making a run for it. The two spirit-birds were perched on the mutt like sentries. Silly chatterboxes that they were, they still had their uses.

“What now?” Hunter asked as he went to pet the mutt’s head. The direwolf, despite its size, leaned into the touch, its tail thumping against the ground with surprising force. It nudged its snout against Hunter's chest, seeking more affection, a low whine rumbling in its throat.

“Go over to your side of things. Get some rest. Be back by first light. I’ll see if I can meet with the medicine woman.”

Hunter didn’t object. He told his ravens to keep an eye on things, bid Fawkes goodnight, and ducked into the tent. That was smart. When he’d return to the world come morning, he’d appear in the same spot where he’d left it. Better to do so away from prying eyes.

A couple of minutes later, Fawkes slipped into the now-empty tent, settling in the shadows near the entrance. From there, she could monitor the comings and goings of the Brennai without drawing attention. The mutt plopped down beside her with a heavy sigh, resting its massive head in her lap. Fawkes absently scratched behind its ears, lost in thought. If she was right, Hallara would send for her before the moon reached its zenith.

And right she was. Throngs of Brennai left the longhouse, the gathering finally over. They spread through the village in twos and threes and fours, their hushed conversations and uneasy glances betraying the unrest that now hung heavy in the cool night air. A young guard came calling for her, a boy around the same age as Hunter.

He stood a few paces away from the tent, shifting nervously and leaning on his spear like a walking staff.

"Um... Honored far-wanderer?" he stammered. The direwolf perked his ears, eyeing the man wearily.

“In here,” said Fawkes. “What is it?”

“Hile. The... the wise woman requests your presence. If, uh, if you would be so kind?"

“Coming.”

Fawkes rose to her feet.

“You stay in here,” she told the mutt. “Last thing I need is half the village chasing you off into the Weald.”

Outside, the two ravens were perched at the top of the tend, staring the young guard down. One cawed, the sound echoing through the night like a challenge. Startled, the man instinctively took a step back and made a hasty warding gesture against evil.

Fawkes offered the young guard a curt nod.

"Lead the way, then."

She followed him out into the night, the ravens launching from the tent and spiraling into the sky above her. The village was a labyrinth of flickering torches and hushed voices, the air thick with a nervous energy that prickled at the back of Fawkes's neck. She kept her hand close to the hilt of her sword, her senses alert as she walked towards Hallara's tent. She didn’t expect trouble, not yet. But once prepared was twice safe, as the old adage went.

The guard led her across the village to the medicine woman's tent. He held the flap open for Fawkes, then took his place outside. The wise woman was alone this time, unlike their previous meeting. She looked old and fragile, clad in furs as bright as her snow-white plaits. Fawkes wasn’t fooled. The woman’s eyes burned like twin jade flames, intelligent and calculating.

“Hile, Fawkes of the Sword. “May the spirits guide your path and bless your days.”

“May the ancestors will it,” Fawkes answered as it was customary. “Yours and mine both.”

Hallara's gaze held Fawkes's, her voice soft yet steady. "I am glad to see your safe return. My thoughts have been with you night and day. Come, sit with me. Let us palaver."

Fawkes sat down on the quilt-covered ground, then cut straight to the chase. She was far too tired to mince words and dance around the subject of their meeting.

"We found the Ghost Nation, or what's left of it. They are not to blame for the troubles plaguing your village."

She went on to recount the main points of their journey to the Vale of Ghosts, their meeting with the two Brethren of the Cor, and their descent into the depths of the Halls of the Cor Ancestors. About the latter, she left a fair piece out. Not only had she sworn to secrecy, but revealing what she saw would go against her Creed as a Lodgewoman. Some things were better left forgotten.

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Hallara listened carefully, then nodded, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. "This I feared. The whispering has been silenced, thank the ancestors. Thank you. But the darkness that stirs here in the Weald is of a different nature, after all."

A heavy silence settled between them for a moment, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the tent's center.

"You witnessed the gathering," Hallara said finally.

“I did.”

"That man’s words... they stirred something in our people, something I had hoped to keep dormant. Did the other Brethren of the Cor mention him at all?"

“No. Do you believe him an interloper?”

Hallara shook her head slowly, her expression troubled. "I cannot say for certain. His spirit is strong. But the way he speaks suggests he knows the Old Ways in ways that have faded from the memories of all but very few among the folken. This... concerns me. There is a fervor in his words, a hunger that makes me question his intentions.”

Her expression turned dark, and for a moment Fawkes was certain. The wise woman was about to make her ask. She could almost hear her old master’s words, dripping vitriol. Indulge them once, and all you’ll have accomplished is have them ask for more. That was the way it always went.

“But let us speak no more of our troubles,” Hallara said instead, changing the subject. “Ancestors know we have burdened you with them enough as it is. Tell me, how did the search for your compatriot fare?”

Gut punch.

“Swimmingly,” Fawkes said in a voice like a dry husk. "I found him alright."

Hallara's eyes widened in alarm, but Fawkes offered no further explanation. She looked away, her gaze fixed on the flickering fire, as if she could find solace in the dancing flames. The wise woman was wise enough not to push the subject.

"There are two things I wish to discuss, Hallara of Clan Besk," Fawkes began. "First, I have reconsidered the alderman's initial request. I am willing to offer my assistance, if only under certain conditions." She paused, her gaze meeting the wise woman's. "Second, I have a request of my own. A favor, if you will."

“Speak freely.”

Fawkes hesitated for a moment.

"I ask that you read the ashes for me, wise woman. For me, for Reiner… and for Hunter."

A flicker of understanding passed between them. The reading of ashes was a sacred ritual, one that delved into the murky depths of fate and destiny. Hallara's expression grew serious.

"This is no small request. The ashes do not lie, but their truths can be... difficult."

“I am aware.”

She reached into a pouch at her hip and withdrew a small bundle wrapped in worn leather. Unfolding it carefully, she revealed a handful of crimson ooze and tatters. She carefully laid it at the feet of the wise woman.

"This is all that remains of Reiner," she said, a flicker of warmth softening her usually stoic features. "I would know what the spirits say of his fate.”

She reached into the pouch again, this time producing a single raven feather. She laid it on the ground too.

“This is a feather from Hunter’s spirit servants. Will it suffice?”

“It will,” Hallara nodded.

Finally, Fawkes laid a single, braided strand of her own hair beside the other items. "And this... for myself."

“Let it be so, then.”

The wise woman gently gathered the offerings in the palms of her weathered hands and meticulously arranged them around the fire, muttering incantations in some old tongue. From somewhere within her snow-white garb she produced a pouch of herbs and dusts, and sprinkled handfuls at the crackling flames. Leaning closer to the rising smoke, she opened her narrow mouth, placed a couple of green leaves on her tongue, and started chewing. Laurel, Fawkes noted. The herb of prophecy and true sight.

The air grew thick with the scent of burning herbs. The flickering fire cast long shadows on the tent walls. Fawkes felt a chill run down her spine as the wise woman's chant filled the space, resonating with a power that seemed to vibrate in her very bones. Transfixed, Hallara plucked a tongue of flame with her bare hands. If it burned her, she didn’t show it. She planted it at the center of Reiner's meager remains, her gaze distant as she watched them quickly turn to ash.

Hallara's voice, now deep and resonant and somehow not her own, spoke of Reiner first.

"The ashes speak of a soul burdened with regret," she intoned, her eyes fixed on the smoldering remains. "He walks a path of shadows, seeking forgiveness for deeds undone. But know this, Fawkes of the Lodge: he will find peace in the embrace of the ancestors. His spirit will soar, free from the chains of guilt."

Fawkes nodded slowly, her expression inscrutable.

"That is good to know," she said quietly. The words were more for herself than for the entranced elder. "He deserved peace."

Hallara never heard her. Her attention was now on the raven’s feather. She plucked it from the ground with two fingers and held it near the roaring flames. A spark leaped from the fire, igniting the feather with a sudden whoosh. She watched it burn and dissipate into thin ash and cinder, until it was nothing but a tiny blackened stub.

"This one," she said, her voice softening, "walks a path less defined. His fate is fluid, like water seeking its course. The spirits whisper of great potential, but also of danger. He is a wanderer, yet unbound by the usual constraints of fate. His choices will shape his destiny."

To that, Fawkes said nothing. She only kept watching as Hallara picked her own silvery lock of hair and fed it to the flames.

A gasp escaped the wise woman’s lips, and her eyes widened with a mixture of awe and dread.

"And you, Fawkes of the Sword," she whispered, "you carry a heavy burden, a life within a life. You’re thick with child. A son, strong and wild, destined for greatness. But beware, for the threads of your fate are intertwined. If you carry this child to term, it will come at a great cost. You will die in childbirth, Fawkes. This is the will of the spirits."

A harsh bark of laughter erupted from Fawkes's throat, the sound sharp and disbelieving.

"A child? Me?" She shook her head, the absurdity of the notion momentarily eclipsing the dread that had begun to coil in her gut. "Even if I'd ever wanted a twat goblin clinging to my skirts," she scoffed, "which I assure you, I did not, that ship sailed long ago."

“This is the will of the spirits," Hallara repeated.

"Forgive my bluntness, wise woman," Fawkes said, her voice softening slightly, "but I believe the spirits are mistaken. There is no child. I have walked a path of blood and steel, not of cradles and swaddling clothes. Perhaps the ashes speak of something else, a different kind of burden."

“This is the will of the spirits," Hallara said a third time. She let her jade eyes rest, visibly spent. As if sharing her weariness, the flames burned low. She looked old and fragile for a moment, too old and too fragile. A tiny, fur-clad sack of ancient skin stretched over delicate bones no thicker than twigs.

“Let us speak of this no more, then,” said Fawkes, changing the subject. “There’s the matter of the alderman’s request. As I said, I have given it thought. I’d be willing to grant it, under a few conditions.”

Hallara opened her eyes and studied her.

“Speak, Fawkes of the Blade.”

She spoke.