The people contemptuously called them the "beasts of the north." While they might not have lived up to the standards and expectations of their southern neighbors, they weren’t so different from other sentient races. It’s easy to label others as "brutal" when you live on land that yields rich harvests year after year. This fertile land was exactly what they waged war over—a conflict soon known as the Hundred Years’ War, even as it raged. The cursed border duchy of Aderon, lying to the south, was only loosely tied to the greater empire. Confident in their plans, the high council of northern tribes believed they could capture some territory and fortify it within one, maybe two summer campaigns. But after suffering several defeats, the duchy leveraged diplomacy to form a formidable defensive alliance. Dwarven clans gladly extended credit and mercenary regiments to Aderon, while the elf-dominated western republic lent skilled archers, making sieges nightmarish. And the empire—responding to every victory of the northern tribes— by dispatching new battalions of battle mages and ambitious young knights. This last development particularly irked Ashan, as the imperial mages used the front as a testing ground for dangerous new spells, while young noblemen treated the battlefield as a playground, a way to gain honor where they couldn’t elsewhere in peacetime.

Ashan spent his youth and over two more decades in this conflict, season after season, campaign after campaign. He found it difficult to piece together his memories and place them in time. Drinking from a stream running through the ruins, he ate whatever wild bounty the forest offered. His body was painfully weak; his skin was regaining color, and his joints were slowly recovering flexibility. Muscle cramps and shivers still wracked him. At nightfall, he lit a fire and lost himself in his thoughts. His last memory was of a siege where he had been grievously wounded. Dwarven siege engines relentlessly pounded the walls—they were losing. For years, Ashan had been not only an elder in the council of tribes and a battle leader with his own warriors but also an apprentice seer, dabbling in spellcraft, especially curses. Yet, on that day, he was merely another man on the brink of death. He vaguely remembered the ritual. He had lost much blood, his dark gray skin nearly covered in red. His loyal guards had placed him before the eldest seer present, who could not heal him. Suddenly, a vivid memory surfaced.

“I can’t heal this wound, not here, but I can send your spirit into a deep sleep, like a bear in a den. Your guards will hide you, and when we retake the fortress, I’ll wake you from this slumber. Your body will gradually heal in that time. This fortress is crucial to this war; we won’t leave it in the hands of southerners for long, even if we can’t hold it now. I promise!” the gray-haired seer had said, holding Ashan’s shoulders firmly, locking eyes with him before he sank into a deep sleep.

Ashan first chuckled softly, then laughed louder and louder among the ruins of what was once the most important fortress—now just a pile of stone overgrown with trees, their trunks so thick he couldn’t wrap his arms around them. In the end, it wasn’t his kin who roused him from this ritualistic hibernation but the backlash from one of his own thunder curses—infused into trinkets prized by the southerners as war trophies. He only stopped laughing when his sides ached, which didn’t take long. Clearing his throat, he rasped into the air, “I’m not sure if thanks wouldn’t have been more appropriate than vengeance.” Taking a deep breath, he slowly released it. “I’ll need to see how things stand tomorrow,” he muttered.

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Meanwhile, back in Forest Row, Moira carefully inspected a wooden box for any gaps. The extract she’d prepared for transport was sensitive to sunlight. She had arranged with Rose for one of the inn’s girls to collect it in the morning and deliver it with her letter to the town. Though Forest Row was small, it was well connected, with regular and reliable shipments. The thought of what her small experiment might have caused troubled her. She’d been certain her plan was solid, and the fact that her spell had hit something—or someone—unexpectedly left her uneasy. She’d have to listen for news from the north. True, it sounded like thunder, but with curses, appearances can be deceiving. For all she knew, a boulder might have cracked loose and tumbled down a hillside, sounding similar. Sighing, she tousled her hair. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open; it wasn’t exactly a grand counter-curse, just a quick one. No need to overthink it,” she assured herself aloud. Setting the box by the door, she lay down to get some rest.

Later that evening, she went for a stroll through the marketplace, buying two savory pastries—one she quickly devoured, while the other she saved for the road. Business was bustling lately. Lumber in all forms was in high demand from the dwarves, who were deepening their mines again, keeping Forest Row’s mills running in double shifts. She even saw new homes under construction—the village was growing. Familiar vendors greeted her with nods, and neighborhood children curtsied politely. To many, she was nearly a local herself. She wondered if she had stayed here too long. Wandering through the market, she found herself at the town notice board, surrounded by various notices for sales, jobs, marriage proposals, and wanted posters. One particular notice caught her eye, fitting her plans perfectly. On behalf of the local noble family, an experienced forester was organizing a logging camp further north. A herbalist joining the camp to gather rare plants in the deep woods wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. This would give her a chance to investigate the area where her counter-curse had struck.

She jotted down the details. The organizer would be accepting applicants on even-numbered days at one of the lumberyards. She’d missed today, but in two days, she could try to sign up for this little expedition. Naturally, she wanted to ensure she hadn’t caused any serious harm, but more than that, she was keen to gather herbs unique to these woods. She pictured the rare flowers and especially a wild nut species prized by the capital’s chefs, even if it didn’t interest alchemists. Smiling broadly at the thought, she slowly finished her second pastry on the way back to her quarters. “If all goes well, I’ll kill two birds with one stone, but even one good ‘bird’ will do,” she murmured to herself, closing and locking her door.