The lumbermen setting off to establish a remote camp were thrilled by the company of a woman who was—notably—still young and objectively pleasant to look at. Many of them were newcomers, drawn by the promise of steady work in the expanding lumber industry, which meant that quite a few were unmarried. To say they fawned over her would be an understatement. However, Moira had a knack for keeping such admirers in check, and besides, the head forester, Jorgen, held the crew in a somewhat fatherly but firm grip. Thus, four days of travel passed almost without incident, with only one overly persistent woodsman receiving a stinging slap for a somehow dirty joke.
On the first day at camp, Moira left the crew to their own devices; there was little risk they’d harm themselves while unloading the carts, marking the camp boundaries, deciding where to build the barracks, and so forth. Under the pretense of scouting for herbs, she assured Jorgen she needed no help and set out toward the spot where she had heard the thunderous crash. She quickly found that a nearby stream led in the right direction. Perfect, this will make my return easier, she thought. Gradually, she climbed the hill, feeling certain she was getting closer to her destination.
Ashan had regained enough strength and gathered enough supplies to begin his journey north. He was conducting his second inspection of the day on his makeshift water bag, filling it from the stream. Satisfied with his work, as the bag held water well, he decided to use his seer abilities to scan the area, something he hadn’t done in a while. After a quick check, he sprang up, his body tense, and darted a few steps to retrieve his walking staff, which he kept close both for travel and for defense.
To his shock, a whole camp of southerners had set up at the base of the hill, and now one figure was climbing toward the fort ruins. He began to think frantically. This couldn’t be a coincidence. They must have found out about me—maybe from that cursed witch? On the other hand, why would they only send one person after me? Why take that risk?
He was close to growling in frustration but held back, not wanting to reveal his position too early. Instead, he stepped behind the wide trunk of a tree, ready to strike if necessary. After a few tense breaths, the figure came into view: a woman, clearly from the south, with skin far too peachy to be one of his own people. Her fiery red hair reminded him of the vision of the witch he’d glimpsed with his last hurried scrying spell he casted right after awakening. Fear, curiosity, and anger swirled within him as he observed her approach.
Moira wiped her forehead and stretched after the climb. She’d been moving for a solid two hours, but it seemed she’d finally reached her goal. In front of her were ruins, now overgrown by the forest. She glanced around the area, and her gaze quickly settled on a leather water skin by the stream.
"Hello? Is someone here?" she called, stepping forward cautiously, scanning her surroundings. In a flash, she focused her senses and tapped into the magical current on her left, weaving a quick spell and holding it on the edge of materialization. Observing her, Ashan felt a sudden, vivid surge of memories of battle mages. Stepping from behind a tree, he raised his staff, adopting a defensive stance, and called out defiantly, speaking in an old dialect of the common tongue, “Have you come to finish what you started, southern witch?”
Moira almost unleashed a beam of decay at him, gripping the pattern of her spell tighter, stopping just short of casting it. She’d practiced this spell many times, but had never actually used it. Yet. "So, the curse found its way back to you?" she asked, her tone far more conciliatory than his. She wanted to gather as much information as possible before things took a turn for the worse. “All I did was neutralize a cursed bracelet,” she added in explanation.
"I don’t believe in coincidences," his voice trembled, half in anger, half in fear. He hated himself for this weakness. Had his brush with death sapped his will? Or would any mortal feel dread before such a sight? The witch’s eyes, soft blue a moment before, now glowed with a fierce purple light. Her hair swayed with the pulse of the spell, a smoky violet aura coiling around her left hand. Every magical sense he possessed warned him of impending death if that spell were to strike him. He could count on one hand the number of mages on the battlefield who had ever unnerved him like this. There was something particularly vile, something profoundly unnatural, in her magic. Swallowing, he spoke, “Assuming you’re telling the truth, what is it you’re looking for here?”
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“Answers. The curse drifted toward something—or rather, someone,” she corrected quickly, “and struck you.” She shifted her weight, lowering her hand just slightly, her tone softening. "This isn’t a threat, but by my calculations, you shouldn’t be alive. Do you have long-lived blood in your lineage?"
He didn’t want to reveal too much, yet despite her mild tone, the threat of her spell hadn’t lessened. He decided to share a little. “I was in a very deep ritualistic sleep here in these fortress ruins. The blast, instead of harming me, woke me up. I’m planning to return north,” he said, his tone leveling, lowering his staff, which felt useless in this situation.
“Just don’t make me regret this, and stay where you are,” Moira replied, then dissipated her spell, folding her arms across her chest. “Since I woke you, I’ll take responsibility. If you want to return to your own lands, all the better—I have no intention of stopping you or judging you for a past only you likely remember.” Her voice was firm but gentle.
“You mean to tell me you’ll let a northern beast like me go free, just like that, witch?” he asked, doubt thick in his voice.
“First of all, my name is Moira, and no one calls your people that anymore. You won’t find that slur anywhere, except maybe in the oldest of chronicles. Secondly, there’s been no major war here since the Hundred Years’ War.” She took out a handkerchief to wipe the cold sweat from her neck, the worst of her stress already behind her.
"To be honest, I don’t know what you call yourselves now, but around here you’re known as the Gray Nomads. There’s a trade route to the west where we import valuable hides and gemstones into the Aderon duchy from your kins. Your people are also scouts and caravan guides. I’ve worked with a few myself," she explained in a more relaxed tone.
“Ashan,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“My name is Ashan.” He leaned on his staff. “I understand that the war is in the past—truly. But for me,” he hesitated briefly, then continued, “it was the most real thing just days ago. I was right in the thick of it, and it lasted my whole life. I don’t know what to expect up north, but I can’t stay here.”
Moira looked at him with sympathy. “Look, I’ve never heard of a case like yours, but I think I understand, and I think it’s a good idea for you to return to your people now.” She started unpacking small vials and herbs from her bag, items that might help him on his journey. “I’ll leave these here for you. Take them if you want. Less than a day’s journey west is the route I mentioned. It’ll lead you to a trade town.” She also counted out ten silver coins and placed them in two neat rows. “This way, we’re even. I may have woken you, but I also struck you with that blast, even if it came from your curse.” She straightened up and looked him in the eye, lacking the hatred he had expected from a southerner. “Write to me sometime if you feel like it. Send it to the White Goose Inn in Forest Row.”
From anger to fear to gratitude and embarrassment, this brief encounter had drained him emotionally, and he didn’t know what to say. Unsure, he replied simply, “Alright.” She took a few steps back, and he gathered her gifts, adding, “Now we’re even.” She gave him a sympathetic smile, adjusted her bag, waved farewell, and began descending the hill. Ashan, feeling awkward, prepared to leave, not wanting to risk her coming back to kill him—or worse, show him more kindness.
Moira, you fool! she scolded herself as she hurried down the hill, faster than necessary. Might as well invite him to share your tent! This isn’t some injured stray dog on the side of the road—it’s a relic of an old war! Her cheeks burned, undoubtedly from the exertion. Yes, definitely from that, she told herself. Her intense inner dialogue nearly caused her to stumble several times. By the time she reached the camp, she had calmed down, while Ashan was well on his way toward the trade route. Their paths had now diverged, but their fates had intertwined.