Freja woke with a start, her eyes burning and her head pounding with the relentless onset of a headache. She couldn’t recall when she’d drifted off, but she was still slumped against the door, the cold wood pressing against her back. A solitary light crystal perched on a cupboard cast its sharp, crystalline glow across the unfamiliar home she had invaded. She didn’t want to move—the soreness in her muscles only deepened the weight of her despair.
Bjorn was dead. The metallic tang of his blood clung to her skin, the scent sharp, it threatened to unearth the tears she had barely managed to hold back. There was no one left for her. No one who cared. No one who would come searching. The thought gripped her chest like a vice. Perhaps she should die too. She could craft a poison; it would be her final work. It would end it all. She could surrender to the peace of the Forest Father’s embrace. Maybe then, the Salstars would finally be rid of her, their family disgrace erased, their reputation untarnished by her continued existence.
A faint sound, a breath, shattered her spiraling thoughts. It wasn’t hers. The realization jolted her into the present. Freja looked down, cradling Bjorn’s still form in her arms. Her heart lurched violently in her chest. Bjorn’s chest rose and fell. Slowly. Steadily.
Warmth radiated from his body, his heart beating strong beneath her fingertips. He was alive? Alive. How was it possible? She traced his form with trembling eyes, disbelief taking root. Hours ago, his neck had been severed—his head ripped clean from his body. Somehow where one neck should have been, there were two. The serpentine forms curled protectively around her shoulders, their presence surreal.
She wasn’t losing her mind, was she? No. She could feel it—the familiar bond between them pulsed stronger than ever, thrumming with life and magic. She didn’t understand but if Bjorn was dead the connection would have broken. So it was true. Her breath hitched, and a sob tried to claw its way free, but she choked it down, holding him tighter.
This wasn’t the time to cry. Bjorn was alive, she didn’t know how but he was alive. Freja buried the torrent of questions and doubts clawing at her mind. She needed to find help, and she needed to find it now. She frantically forced herself to stand, her muscles groaned in objection but she powered through.
She carefully placed Bjorn down on the nearby table. Looking him over for any signs of his injuries. There were faint patches of new scales which shined with a more brilliant luster than his older ones. They seemed to be the only proof that he had nearly died earlier that day.
“You’re not losing it, Freja. Hold it together.” She said to herself.
She continued her examination and found that he was fine, probably in better shape at that moment than she was. She didn’t know how long he would sleep for. She didn’t know how long she had slept for either. However, judging from the rays of twilight she was seeing out the window they had been there for hours already. She sat down in the tableside chair with a huff.
She felt the familiar bond reach out to her and she examined her core again. The bond had grown by an order of magnitude. What would normally take months happened in only a few days. Bjorn was now a Delta-class familiar. Delta was the first class, which meant that their bond was far more stable. She could feel his emotions and vice versa. More importantly, the bond was harder to break and more of her mana could be stabilized.
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Status Menu
Name: Freja Thundersky Salstar
Species: Wendigo
+ Level: 8
Vitality: 9
Restoration: 2
Constitution: 2
Willpower: 8
Strength: 2
Dexterity: 4
Stamina: 2
Magic: 16
Magic Regeneration: 25 (+100 from bond)
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Skills Analysis
Delta Familiar Contract
You are bonded with a Delta-class familiar. You gain +100 to magic regeneration. Your bond has grown, allowing you to convey emotions though your bond. Your bond is more resilient to outside influences and can not be forcibly severed by outside parties. Your familiar’s life expectancy is extended by five years.
Mystic Wind Hands
Magic cost: 3
Speak the words of power and call forth mystic hands created from the wind. These hands can interact with the world and will act out the caster’s will.
Mana Manipulation
Magic cost: Variable
Manipulate the pure mana inside and around your body. Allows you to circulate your mana and use mana-dependent tools.
Mana Muscle Saturation
Magic cost: 1
Push mana into your muscles and bones to temporarily increase your physical attributes.
+ Fire Wisp
Magic cost: 10
Beginner level basic defensive fire wisp. Call on the elemental power of fire which will launch from your hand and burn the target. This self defense magic causes basic burns.
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She blinked at the information, finally seeing the benefit in the mental projection magic. She had forgotten about her Fire Wisp spell. It was the only attack magic she actually knew, but she had never cast it successfully. She attempted during the troll attack but failed as she always had. Now that it was in her skill list could she actually do it? She was stronger thanks to Bjorn. Before she could close the window a second one appeared, causing her to open her eyes wide at the implications.
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Unassigned Cultivation Points Distribution
You have 10 UCP
Please assign all UCP within 10 days or it will be automatically assigned.
Assign [yes/no]
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She was a cultivator now; how had that happened? She needed more time to think, and her mind was already frazzled. She closed all of the menus and put her mind back on the situation at hand. She needed to find help and find out whose home she broke into. Her eyes swept the room, taking in her surroundings for the first time.
The wendigo’s minimalist aesthetic was unmistakable—a design philosophy driven by practicality and longevity. Function over form. Every item in the room served a purpose, built to endure centuries, perhaps even millennia, for generations yet to come. The sparse decorations reflected this mentality. The walls were bare, but the space was clearly lived in. Strips of drying meat hung in the window. Clothes were scattered near the bed at the far side of the room. Children’s toys lay abandoned on the floor, untouched for hours—or perhaps days.
Her gaze settled on the hearth, where a pot of food sat cold and half-prepared, the fire beneath reduced to ash. A prickling unease began to seep into her thoughts. The silence was so unnatural. No voices, no movement. Then she remembered even the animals outside were slaughtered en masse. Her eyes darted toward the broken window, and her breath hitched. Dried blood streaked the frame—a long smear trailing out, as if someone had been dragged away.
Her heart thundered in her chest as dread clawed its way into her mind. She had survived a druid familiar, but where was the druid? She moved swiftly, scooping Bjorn up from the table and rushing to the bed. It was small—too small for her—but she carefully tucked him beneath it, ensuring he was as hidden as possible.
Freja cast a desperate glance around the room before yanking the curtains shut. As she approached the broken window on the farside to close the curtain she froze. The magic hit her before her eyes found him. It was a knotted, twisting corruption of the natural world, a crawling wrongness that scraped against her instincts. She had never felt druidic magic before, but she’d read about it, heard war veterans speak of its unnerving touch. The descriptions hadn’t done it justice. It was a primal violation, something that whispered to her very bones that this was an abomination.
Rage filled her heart as she thought about how some druid tree fucker was out here, in her country, targeting her people and trying to kill her. She couldn’t just leave, knowing that whomever was out in the forest was the owner of the familiar who had killed who knows how many people. Most of all she wanted the druid to pay for hurting Bjorn.
Freja crouched low, peering out cautiously. What she saw made her breath hitch. The druid man was definitely a soldier; his mossy green combat robes attested to his allegiances. Well, what was left of his uniform and of him. His outfit was torn to shreds, and dried blood, dirt and only the Forest Father knows what else clung to him. One of his antlers was broken.
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Magic stitched him together in a grotesque mockery, his broken form little more than a marionette held upright by sheer will. Right arm, left leg, most of his side, neck and face were living wood prosthetics hastily formed and rotting at the edges. He reeked of decay, the foul stench of festering wounds mingling with the sour tang of druidic magic. As he walked he had to prop himself up with his staff, each step causing old wounds to reopen and fresh blood to drip.
She took a dry gulp. This was not a regular druid, not anymore. He was devolving, turning into a monster, a lesser druid, a treant. He wasn’t all the way there although he was close. Things were getting more dangerous if he fully changed, she was dead and there would be nothing she could do about it. His wounds would heal and his control over plants would make everything in the forest an extension of his magic.
“Gordo. Gordo, buddy, no—no, no!” he cried, stumbling toward the dead steel wolf. He fell to his knees beside it, his trembling hands shaking the lifeless creature. “Stay with me! I’ll get you healed, okay? Just hold on.”
Freja hesitated. His anguish was raw, almost disarming. Beneath the monstrous veneer, there was still something painfully wendigo about him. It was unsettling. Druids and wendigo were eerily similar, after all, both bearing echoes of the Forest Father’s appearance. However, their differences were stark: the broad, flat antlers of the druid, the sharp, deer-like antlers of the wendigo; herbivore versus carnivore, plant eater versus meat eater. Opposites, yet reflections.
The treant’s trembling voice rose into a guttural wail as he slammed a fist into the ground. His magic surged outward in a violent pulse, tendrils of nature crawling over the soil in jagged, unnatural lines. Freja stiffened as the aura brushed her, a sickening sensation crawling over her skin.
His head snapped up. His unfocused eyes darted wildly before narrowing, his expression twisting with fury.
“Where are you, you fuckin’ cannibal savage?” he roared, his voice raw with pain and rage. “I can feel your cursed magic! I know you’re there! Get out here, coward! Savage! Look at what you’ve done!”
He cradled the wolf’s lifeless body, his voice cracking as he whispered, “Don’t close your eyes, Gordo. Please…”
Freja backed away from the window, her steps measured and silent. Attacking that thing head-on would be suicide—no matter how much rage burned in her chest. She wasn’t foolish; she knew hiding was the only chance she had, but fate, as always, had other plans.
Her foot landed on one of the many wooden toys scattered across the floor. It was a remnant of the home's former residents. It shifted beneath her weight, sending her off balance. She toppled backward with a loud thud that echoed through the hollowed-out house.
The treant outside froze, its anguished wails replaced by a low, guttural snarl. A heartbeat later, it roared and slammed itself against the door with such force that the hinges snapped, and the entire house shuddered.
Freja's eyes darted to the bed where Bjorn lay hidden. He was well-concealed; the treant wouldn’t see him unless it deliberately moved the bed. There was no time to think. No time to grab him. She’d have to lead the creature away—her life be damned if it meant saving his.
Scrambling to her feet, she barely had time to brace herself as another earth-shaking crash obliterated the door. The entrance burst apart in a shower of splinters and bricks, the debris clouding the air. She held out her hand and yelled the incantation for Fire Wisp. She feared it would fail as it always had. She didn’t even have her wand to focus the magic. However, a flame erupted from her outstretched palm and hit the treant in the chest as it barreled into the room.
The flame erupted on impact but did little to slow the creature. He saw her and with his staff said a spell of its own ignoring the fire entirely. Freja didn’t wait to see what it would do. She forced mana into her legs, propelling herself out of the broken window just as the treant unleashed his spell.
The side of the house exploded in a chaotic eruption of jagged wooden spikes. Freja hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs. Rolling to her feet, she cast a frantic glance at the house. Relief washed over her when she saw the bed remained untouched.
The treant came into view faster than his form looked like it should allow. Freja turned and ran, her feet pounding the uneven ground. The village around her was a graveyard of memories, its empty homes overtaken by nature. Vines snaked over walls, and plant life crept through the cracks, reclaiming the abandoned settlement. She glanced back just in time to see a spike erupt from the ground, missing her by inches.
Gritting her teeth, she rounded a corner, weaving between crumbling buildings. Another spike shot up, narrowly missing her back as she sprinted deeper into the village. A flickering light ahead caught her eye—a bonfire in what must have once been the village square. She slowed, realizing she had lost the treant.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body screaming for rest. Spotting a nearby house, she darted inside, ignoring the bloodstains smeared across the floor. She eased the door shut, leaving only a thin crack to peek through. The treant staggered into view, its broken body heaving with every breath.
She looked around the house whispering a spell and forming the two Wind Hands. She knew that this was not going to end as long as one of them was still alive and she was not going to die. She saw a set of knives and directed her constructs to pick up one each. Quietly she opened the window on the side of the house away from the door and slipped out. She then took one of the knives from one of the Wind Hands and directed it to knock something over.
The treant reacted immediately and violently. With a wave of his staff the building was a pincushion of wooden spikes. He had apparently learned from the last time he mindlessly rushed into a house. Freja was happy that she had already exited and waited in anticipation as the spikes retracted.
Things seemed to slow down as the treant approached the devastated home to confirm his kill. As soon as his focus was entirely on the doorway she steeled her nerves and struck.
One of her Wind Hands had been destroyed but the other flew forward with deadly accuracy. The knife flew through the air as a flash. The treant reacted in the last possible moment. It raised its arm to avoid being struck in the neck. He dropped his staff as he screamed in pain. Freja didn’t hesitate. She darted out from the shadows, her own knife raised high. She screamed, a raw, guttural cry of desperation, and lunged toward the beast.
The treant struck her mid-charge. A crushing blow sent her sprawling to the ground, pain exploding through her ribs as she gasped for air. She scrambled to her knees, clutching her side, and looked up to see it retrieve its staff. Its glowing eyes turned on her, now burning with an indignation that made her blood run cold.
Freja’s grip tightened on her knife, but doubt began to creep in. What was she thinking? Her life had been relatively peaceful; of course her family was the worst but she didn’t live with them, she lived at the academy. She’d never even been in a fight before now. A few days ago and the top of her worries were about grades and fitting in.
Why did she think she would be able to fight back against the treant when it had killed so many people before her. Up until the troll and the shadow wolves’ attack she’d never even considered learning combat magic or fighting. For all intent and purposes she was a normal girl placed in a shitty situation. He took another step towards her, his jaw clenched and brows furrowed.
“You did that to him? You fucking killed my familiar.” He accused.
“Well he tried to kill me first, and he hurt my familiar,” Freja said with equal resolve.
The treant sneered, his jaw clenched tight. “You don’t matter,” he growled, venom dripping from every word. “You and your cursed kind deserve nothing more than to rot as fertilizer for the forest. If those damned trolls hadn’t wiped out my squad, you’d already be hanging from the branches of a hundred trees. Your entrails splayed for the Forest Father to witness. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end!”
He pointed a shaking finger toward something in the distance. Freja turned, her stomach twisting into knots. What she saw broke her. Bodies hung from the trees, their limbs severed and posed like grotesque ornaments. Blood had painted the ground, the bark, and the air itself seemed thick with death. Freja doubled over, retching bile as her empty stomach offered nothing else.
Freja took a shaky breath. “Even if you kill me. One day you are going to get what you deserve. You will be buried in the ground where your soul will never reach the Forest Father.”
“And you will get what you deserve, trust me, savage,” he said as he walked towards her.
The treant rushed toward Freja with surprising speed. He was no athlete any more, but the fact he could run at all with his injuries was shocking. He reached her in a few heartbeats and swung at her with his staff. She scrambled to her feet jumping out of the way right as the staff hit the ground with a hollow thunk.
Everything was ringing for a moment as Freja tried to recover her balance, only for the treant's staff to sweep her legs out from under her. The air was knocked out of her as her back hit the ground. She only had moments to regain her bearings and see that the treant was swinging his staff towards her head.
She rolled to her side and she heard the clunk of the staff hitting the ground where her head had been a moment earlier. She continued to roll as again and again the staff hit the ground. She directed the Wind Hand to strike him in the back and it crashed into him, knife first, leaving him wailing with pain and fury.
She was so flustered she forgot to have the hand release the knife, leading it to be dispelled on impact. The treant was on the ground, his staff having been dropped when he was hit. Freja realized that he couldn’t use any more of his magic. His last attack left him vulnerable and he had to dedicate the rest of his mana to holding himself together. Every ounce of his strength was being used to keep himself alive. Freja wasted no time in standing up; she needed to capitalize on his injuries.
Freja forced herself to her feet, her muscles screaming in protest. Her gaze darted to the staff lying a few feet away. It was a striking fusion of wood and metal, twisted together in a way that was both beautiful and practical—a weapon forged for war, not ceremony. She stumbled toward it, her fingers curling around the polished grip. The staff was heavier than she expected, its weight grounding her as she lifted it over her head. She charged the treant, aiming to end the fight.
He wasn’t done yet. The treant raised his wooden arm, the gnarled appendage splintering but holding as it absorbed the blow. With a guttural roar, he shoved her back, his unnatural strength sending her flying. She crashed into the side of a nearby building, the impact rattling her bones. Pain lanced through her. She crumpled to the ground in a heap, her vision swimming as her head throbbed with a pounding ache. A concussion, she realized numbly.
This is it, she thought. I’m going to die. Her body refused to move, every inch of her screaming in protest. She could only watch, helpless, as the treant dragged himself to his feet. His steps were slow but deliberate, each one carrying him closer to her.
The treant loomed, its glowing eyes fixed on her with cold malice. Freja’s breath hitched as tears blurred her vision. She had fought as hard as she could, but what chance did a girl with no training stand against a seasoned war mage and his monstrous familiar?