“Wait just a minute,” to Anna’s surprise, it was not one of the drunks who interrupted the elf’s story. It was Victor. Couldn’t he just nurse his drink and allow the Story Teller to finish her tale? “I find this entire tale very questionable. For one, there is no town called Hester.”

Anna buried her face in her hands. There was no reason for her to try to stop the Crest Guard from making a scene. After all, it was part of his job to ensure the integrity of Story Tellers, at least when he wasn’t busy escorting fledgling Scribes, like herself, or hunting monsters. Besides, even if she wanted to, she couldn’t stop Victor. He was a trained killer, and she was a glorified scripter. The man tolerated her; however, she was not his superior or master. At best, Victor considered her orders as polite suggestions. An altercation between them would end with Anna flat on her ass with a few extra unwanted bruises. Something that had been made abundantly clear as soon as they left the safety of the Covenant of Knowledge. To make matters worse, the two of them weren’t supposed to be here. No one from the City of Henet should be anywhere near the Northern Reaches. Doing so was in violation of the treaties between the civilised South and the barbarians of the North. Yet, here the two of them were, waiting for the storm to blow out so they could continue their journey past the desolate snow fields and venture forth into the Wastes. On the other hand, only a blind person would struggle to tell they weren’t from the southern lands.

The young Scribe was still debating whether it was good luck that the two of them had reached the Inn to Nowhere. It was the last place travellers might stop before they entered the Wastes. Nothing but flat grounds, frozen lakes and pine forests for thousands of leagues waited for them from here on. And after that? No one could tell. No mortal soul had ever crossed this nightmarish land to tell the tale, which made the existence of the Inn a curiosity in and of itself. Who was it here for? There were no locals to speak of, and yet, a dozen people were sitting in the large room around the roaring fire. Who those people were and where they had come from were the questions which flooded Anna’s mind. That was until the Story Teller arrived. Without a word, the pale elf had taken the spot on the small dais, removed the heavy furs covering her slender body and began spinning her tale, heedless of the lustful looks the drunks flashed in her direction.

It wasn’t that an uncommon sight for either herself or Victor to pay it too much mind. Story Tellers were at the core of society, more so the further one went from the large cultural centres like the City of Henet. The two of them had seen places from small hamlets to near-towns, almost worshipping the wise men and women who preserved the history of the world. And the further North they went, the more the power and influence of the Story Tellers grew. Here, the old ways ruled, and fewer people followed the laws of the new Mages and the Council of Luth. As a Scribe, Anna would one day advance in the ranks and would work closely with the rulers of the world. And if fortune would permit it, she too could wear the title of a Mage. But that was something to consider for the future. At present, she had to figure out what to do next. Victor would soon become a proper nuisance, and at the same time, she had all these questions regarding this place to answer if she was to properly log their journey.

“Tell me, Southerner, do you know every hamlet in our land by name?” The elf stared at Victor. Her slender fingers gently stroked the braid of her silver hair resting over her shoulder. The challenge was clear in her golden eyes and echoed in her silky voice. “Or perhaps you have travelled the entity of the border between the Northern Reaches and the Wastes? Share with us, oh wise one, the riddles of the skin-walkers. Regale us with the tales the naked savages of the Osr caves tell. Mesmerise me with the songs of the Glacier Huntresses.” The elf added with unhidden mockery. Her words sparked rough laughter amongst the dozen patron of the inn.

“That’s right, southern bastard, let Sága Vulpa finish her tale!” A man with the telling appearance of a lumberjack shouted out from the back of the crowd gathered around the hearth in the middle of the spacious room.

The comment caught Anna by surprise. The elf wasn’t just some travelling Story Teller. She was supposedly a Sága Teller. People like her were most rare, and the Scribe could count on the fingers of one hand the ones she knew of who had earned such a title. Even the Mage Council back at Luth trod carefully when speaking to a Sága. Anna wasn’t sure as to why since that was knowledge she was not yet privy to, but she had heard the rumours. Bringing stories to life, conjuring visions and beasts out of thin air, and the sort. There were many debates among the more learned if it was just some unknown form of magic or something else entirely.

However, this revelation brought a whole new set of problems. There was no question Victor would challenge the legitimacy of the claim. The man took too seriously his position as a Crest Guard, although out here, such a title meant close to nothing. Unless it was something to use for warmth or food, the people of the North couldn’t care less about luxuries such as titles. No sooner had the thought entered her mind when the idiot of a man did exactly that.

“In the name of the Council of Luth and with the power granted to me by High Lord Polos of Yern and Magus Superior Boevar Gratz, I demand proof of your claim of being a Sága, elf!’ Victor removed his thick woollen robe with a shrug of his shoulders. A move he must have practised numerous times, by the look of it. The magic-infused crest engraved on his armoured chest piece glowed a bright red as he made his proclamation. At least he was smart enough to wear a thick woollen shirt underneath it, Anna noted as a sigh escaped her lips.

As the Scribe had predicted, the locals only laughed at the Guard. But it wasn’t the usual mocking laughter she heard. This was nervous laughter, and worried glances darted between one too many people. Anna could see the proprietor of the establishment remove the tankards from the small counter and slowly move towards the sturdy wooden door leading to the back of the inn. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the two servant girls place heavy drapes over the two small windows. Their movements were far too precise for this to be a unique event in this desolate place. Which in turn gave birth to far too many new questions in the young Scribe’s mind for her to keep track. Because of this, it took her a moment to notice some of the locals had placed a hand on the hilt of a knife or an axe, fear twisting their hardened faces. Slowly, the patrons wormed their way closer to the fire. Like animals, they herded together, their eyes darting wildly in every direction yet appearing far too calm. Victor remained oblivious to the odd behaviour, preferring to stare menacingly at the slender elf half his size.

Sága Vulpa smiled, revealing the elongated canines common for her kind in the Northern Reaches. Her golden eyes reflected the flames, giving the illusion they had turned crimson, and Anna swore she felt the elf’s chilling breath touch her skin. The fur, placed on her lap, slid to the ground with a growl and sat next to her, taking the shape of a dreadful Ice Wolf. Hot saliva dripped from the beast’s fanged maw; its pale blue eyes fixed on the Crest Guard with unnatural hunger. Something about the monster wasn’t right, and it wasn’t related to how a skinned pelt had come to life. No, it was the far too-human grin which split its snout and the cunning in its snow-white eyes glistening like stars in the surrounding darkness of its otherwise black eyes. This beast was no spectre or a lost forest spirit but something else entirely. Something sinister and malevolent that didn’t belong in this world. A brooding silence took hold of the room as the monster’s growl died down, allowing Anna to hear how quickly her heart beat inside her chest. The sudden change in the mood was enough to put a hint of fear on Victor’s stern face.

“I applaud you, foreigner,” the elf’s clap sounded like a death bell inside the small room. “Not many would continue to stand as you do. Look at the hard folk of the North, how they cower close to the fire. You are nothing like them. You have courage. For this, I shall tell you how the story ends, as it is supposed to be told.”

A screaming wind tore the roof of the Inn to Nowhere, and the branches of thick pines broke the walls, toppling the sturdy structure. In an instant, a thick blanket of snow, denied for far too long, covered the clearing the trees created. Its cold embrace, usually chilling to the bones, sapping the warmth with greed, was kept at bay by the hearth. All that remained from the inn was the aged door and the tiny protective circle the fire formed. The stifled whimpers of men could be heard for a brief moment as the gale died down. Anna held her breath as the land behind the Sága and the small dais she was sitting on bent towards the skies, obscuring the horizon, and a thick forest covered all as far as the eye could see. A snowy meadow formed just behind Vulpa, and the lone figure of a frightened girl emerged from the trees. Her long blond hair was dishevelled and covered in mud and dark green needles from the surrounding pines. Her thin tunic - torn, resembling rags unworthy of a beggar. Frozen tears decorated her pale cheeks, and her once-red lips had turned blue from the cold. The only warmth the Scribe could see was in the girl’s red eyes, which burned with unchained hatred and anger.

For a single moment, that terrible gaze stopped at the gathered people. “The Wastes protect us,” Anna saw an aged hunter make the mark of the wolf by sliding two fingers down his eyes, leaving a thick line of sooth in their path. Almost as one, all the others followed his example. It was one of the strange, savage customs of the people of the North that the Scribe was yet to understand. Without thinking, Anna had fetched her leather-bound journal and iron pen and was putting what she saw to ink.

“In this place, only the moon would be her companion, and only she would - as always - see her secret torment,” the elf’s words were but a whisper. “With no more need for disguises, she discarded her tunic, allowing her true self the freedom it craved. The sound of tearing flesh heralded the change as blood-soaked bone plates covered the left part of her naked body. The skin of her right arm peeled off; bone-like scales covered the red meat beneath. Her fingers twisted into sharp talons with which she tore the soft part of her face, exposing the leering demonic visage half hidden underneath.” Each uttered word was in perfect unison with the girl’s actions.

Stolen story; please report.

The Scribe was convinced she smelled the fresh blood and felt small droplets of it splash on her face. She knew it to be impossible, yet when Anna touched her face, the tips of her fingers were stained crimson. The Ice Wolf laughed at her, its fanged smile scaring her sight. Not giving her the time to put her thoughts in order, the beast let out a sickening howl. The sound had barely left the jagged maw when the girl in the meadow answered it with a blood-chilling deathly scream. Anna could smell the piss from the gathered Northerners but could not tear her eyes away from the lonely girl.

“Her savage cry echoed in the darkness. It was a scream of hatred and unbridled fury. But more than that, it was a wail of pain and suffering from the betrayal she had suffered. A sea of grotesque faces emerged from the deep shadows and answered her call. For as long as she could remember, they were her silent companions, and they would be hers for all eternity. This was what old Eugene had told her when she had dared ask him,” Sága Vulpa continued without pause. “It was a song most unholy that they sang her. It soothed the rage burning in her heart. It eased the misery tearing her soul into pieces.”

The trees shattered and splintered. Ruby had become a storm of destruction. “Alas, it was not enough. The people she was taught to love and trust had torn her asunder.”

One of the local men roared and charged at the girl. It was the same man who had insulted Victor earlier. He took a single step past the elf and, with the next, was standing tall in front of the child in the distance. His muscular arms wrapped tightly around the grip of his woodsman’s axe. Ruby’s taloned fingers sliced through both limbs at the elbows before tearing the flesh from his head to his groin in a single swoop. The girl then screamed at the bleeding man and kicked him with all her might, breaking his spine like a dry twig.

“Even after inflicting a great amount of destruction to her surroundings, Ruby did not feel better. Each tree wore the face of one of those damned people,” the elf smiled, her eyes fixed on Victor and Anna simultaneously.

“Exhausted and spent, she collapsed into the welcoming embrace of sleep. However, her dreams tormented her. Death and chaos followed scenes of happiness. When the nightmares finally ended, and she opened her eyes, dawn was approaching, and her unholy companions had departed.” Anna was unsure when the other fur had slid from the elf’s shoulders, but she could see it gliding towards the confused Ruby.

“With a quick glance, she saw the unwarranted havoc she had wrecked during the night. Several trees were reduced to mere stumps and splinters, and many others carried the marks of claws and deep cuts like horrific battle scars. Ruby stared at her hands, seeing only the blood she had spilt but a night ago.”

The Scribe looked at her hands with horror. They were covered in hot red blood. Terror gripped her heart as she saw the back of the Sága in the distance. There, in the fire's gloom, she saw herself. A single blink and her senses returned to normal. She was herself again, but the vision would haunt her for as long as she lived; she was sure of it. For a brief instance, Anna had been Ruby. She felt the child’s guilt of the slaughter; she had a glimpse at the madness infesting her mind, and nothing could make that go away.

“Suddenly, Ruby realised she was hearing whimpering from under the wreckage of her last victim,” the elf continued as the fur slid underneath the ruined corpse of the lumberjack. “How could she have missed it until now?” Anna could hear the heart-wrenching sound grinding at her will.

“She tried to ignore it by convincing herself it was not her fault, but the whining did not stop. It was worse than the scornful curses of the villagers who had turned on her. All Ruby knew was that she had to make it stop. Running away was not an option. If anything, old Eugene had taught her; it was not the way of the animals to be cruel, and he had made it clear that his unwanted daughter was nothing but a rabid animal. With a sigh, she started clearing the branches,” Sága Vulpa said as the girl behind her began tearing the man’s corpse with her bare hands. Chunks of flesh were discarded without care. Bones broke with sickening crunches before being flung away.

Finally, Ruby’s gruesome task came to an end, and Anna could see the fur shatter in two like frozen tree bark. Each half took the shape of an Ice Wolf’s pup, only a couple of months old. No. She was wrong. Those were not the feared predators of the Wastes. The beasts’ fur was black as night, and they were the size of a hunting dog. There was something about these animals that made Anna recoil in terror. To his credit, Victor kept his hand away from the hilt of his sword despite the apprehension evident in his steel eyes. He recognised the unknown beasts and clearly feared them to the point that even Anna could tell he was uncertain he could beat them. Even though the Crest Guard looked diminished, his posture remained defiant nonetheless.

“These two discarded souls would be her family from this day, Ruby swore. She would cherish them and protect them because they were abominations, just like her…”

The door groaned and opened. A confused hunter smirked as he entered, his smile freezing as his eyes fixed on the Story Teller. Before Anna could blink, the surrounding forest shattered like a thin layer of ice hit by a rock, and the walls and roof returned to how they were. The air was once more chocked with the acrid aroma of burned wood, blazing pine needles and smouldering pine cones. What had just happened defined all the Scribe knew about the world, but one thing she was sure of, it was not magic, at least not any kind she had ever been in contact with before. Mages used the power of the elements, their affinity and power plain to see. The Crest Guards had their secretive sources, but even then, an educated person could tell that magic was used. Such was the case with the elven shamans who borrowed the power of forest spirits for their rituals. But this was different. There was no sign of the unsettling emptiness one felt in the aftermath of a spell being used. No wonder the Mages at Luth, who had kings bow to them, played nice with Sága Tellers.

Vulpa snapped her fingers, and the Ice Wolf sitting next to her jumped at the one who dared interrupt her story. The beast tore the poor man’s throat with a single bite of its massive jaws.

“A story was told. A price must be paid,” the elf proclaimed and stepped off the dais and kicked an empty bowl towards the gathered crowd.

One by one, the Northerners stood from their seats, terror written on their faces. First in line was an old man, long past his prime. With a shaking hand, he took out the knife strapped to his belt and began cutting away the small finger on his left arm. It took a minute to complete the task, and with a loud groan, he snapped the bone at the joint. The severed digit was placed in the blood-stained bowl. Anna watched in horror as each of them gave something, be it a finger, an ear or an eye. After them came the serving girls with struggling rats in their hands. With a quick twist of the arms, the rodents’ attempts for freedom ended. In unison, the pair dug into the dead vermin’s corpses, removing the rats’ hearts. Those, too, were placed with the other offerings. Last was the innkeeper. He passed a plate of fresh bloody meat and a tankard of warm ale to the elf. All eyes turned towards Anna and Victor.

“There are no exceptions,” Vulpa smiled at them. Her words were followed by the growl of the Ice Wolf. The beast still held to the corpse of the hunter. It was joined by a second one, fresh snow covering its white fur, silently stalking through the open door.

Anna bolted from her seat before Victor could open his damned mouth. It was his fault they were in this mess. The insistence on a blood toll was an ancient practice which was supposed to have been abolished decades ago, but apparently, such was not the case with the people of the Northern Reaches. The Crest Guard should know better than to act. However, the Scribe was not willing to test his common sense at this time. There was no excuse for his behaviour since he was the one responsible for getting them into this mess. Still, there was a problem with what the two of them were supposed to offer. If it was back in their homeland, a few droplets of blood would suffice to settle the matter. The issue was that from what Anna had seen, this version of the blood toll was the most barbaric, savage kind. Meaning that the offering, along with being bloody, had to also be something that would be missed. Somehow, self-mutilation didn’t sit well with the Scribe as a possibility, and she was more than doubtful Victor felt any different regarding this matter.

“Pardon the question, Sága Vulpa, but we are not from these lands. We don’t know your customs. I would like to kindly inquire as to…”

“From your brave companion, I ask for a kiss,” the elf interrupted the Scribe, a joyful smile dancing on her face. “And as for you,” with a single step, the Sága was by Anna’s side, her slender hand caressing the girl’s short raven black hair, “I will take one of your earrings.”

With a quick pull of her hand, the elf tore the thin steel chain threaders along with the attached to it jade-encrusted cuff. The pain wasn’t that bad, but Anna could see blood and a minuscule piece of flesh dangling from the jewel. At least, only the chain had pierced the lower meaty part of her ear. The accessory wasn’t a simple piece of ornamental jewellery as much as it was a way to signify her status as a Scribe and what role she played in the Order. If she were a bit more experienced and a step higher in the hierarchy, the cuff would have been a full circle, meaning that the Story Teller would have ripped her ear apart when she tore the item away.

“This is outrageous!” Victor’s shocked cry was cut short as the elf turned on her heels. With a slight jump, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Her fangs pierced into his lower lip and drew blood.

Once she peeled off of him, Vulpa smiled. “You two do not belong here. It is best you do not linger for the finále of my tale. Alas, it is too late for that.”

“What do you mean?” Anna hurried to ask before the Crest Guard could say something stupid or do something that could make matters worse.

“It has been a long time since the dead of the North last lay peacefully in their graves.” The elf’s eyes were definitely crimson this time. “And these particular ones dislike me all that much. Isn’t that right, Öthar, son of Hasse?”