The campfire's flames licked at the night sky, casting dancing shadows across the gathered faces of the tribe. After our long journey, the sight of eleven caravans circled around the massive fire brought an unexpected warmth to my chest. The air thrummed with anticipation as voices young and old chanted a single word that sent chills down my spine: "Witch! Witch! Witch!"
It wasn’t a curse. It was reverent, almost ritualistic, the way they said it.
I slowed my steps, confused, watching the scene unfold. Near the fire stood an ancient woman, bent with age but supported by a gnarled staff. Her face was a map of deep wrinkles, her eyes gleaming with something between wisdom and madness. Around her, the tribe had gathered—children cross-legged on the ground, couples sitting together, some men cradling bowls of stew. It was chaotic but strangely warm.
"Come on, Old Frida's about to tell a tale!" Stigr's voice cracked with excitement as he darted forward to join the crowd.
Bjorn let out a weary sigh. "And here he goes again like a small child."
"He ain't wrong there." Ragna's eyes sparkled in the firelight. "Don't want to miss any of the part."
"What's this all about?" I asked, watching the strange gathering. "Why is everyone gathered there?"
"It's for Frida's tales," Bjorn explained, his usual gruffness softening. "Once in a while, she tells the old stories passed down from who knows whom. But they're a hell of a lot more interesting than what bards sing in the taverns, hers are more real and true."
Ragna gestured toward the gathering. "Come now, grab yourself a seat next to Stigr, you two. I'll bring something for you all to eat. Later we’ll have someone look into your wounds."
My mother had never spoken of tales beyond the familiar village stories of some guardian wolf of the forest, or trolls of the northern mountains. But this was different. Following Bjorn, I joined Stigr at the edge of the crowd. Though we sat far from Old Frida, her weathered voice carried clearly across the gathering. Her face was a map of wrinkles, her back bent with age—eighty winters or more, I guessed. Few humans lived to see such years.
The tribe's chieftain sat before her on a stone, his massive frame making even Bjorn look like a pup beside a full-grown wolf. His intimidating figure was softened by the sight of the woman nestled in his lap within his cloak, like birds huddling together for warmth. Understanding dawned when I noticed the woman’s familiar features—blonde hair that caught the firelight like Ragna's, those same pale blue eyes. No wonder the tribe heeded her, both being a woman and sorceress. She was the chieftain's daughter.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Ragna approached her parents, gesturing in my direction. The chieftain caught my gaze, and my breath caught in my throat as he raised his tankard—not in welcome, but in silent acknowledgement. His unsmiling face sent a shiver through me. I managed a nervous nod, but the moment shattered as Old Frida's voice cut through the newest chant of "Queen."
"Queen of the Damned it is," she announced, and the chants died instantly. Her voice carried through the clearing, low and deliberate. She moved slowly, lowering herself onto a stone with a care that made the crowd hold their breath.
“Get yourself ready for one of the oldest tales," Bjorn whispered, his usual stoic demeanour cracking with rare excitement.
Ragna settled into Stigr's lap, tugging his cloak around her as she handed us steaming bowls of stew. The heat of the food paled against the fire of anticipation building in my chest. This was my first time experiencing anything like this—the atmosphere, the gathering, the promise of unknown stories.
Old Frida's voice dropped to a hollow whisper that somehow carried to every ear. "It's a tale of the time when the dragons left the living, leaving behind descendants with their touch of magic, what we now call 'Old Magic'..."
A child's frightened voice piped up, "Ma, were there really dragons?"
"Hush now, they were in tales only," came the gentle reply, though several adults shifted uncomfortably at the mention of dragons.
"It was the time when darkness ruled the lands," Frida continued, her eyes reflecting the flames, "when the sun was but a memory, and the blackened clouds devoured the heavens. There rose a terror that no words could fully bind."
“A witch…” a child whispered, their voice trembling.
“A queen,” Frida corrected, her gaze sharp even in her age. “She was beauty and death, bound together. They called her by many names: Daughter of Darkness, the Devourer, Crimson Queen. But one name was spoken in whispers: the Nightmare of Ihera.”
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The crowd leaned in; the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the faint rustling of trees.
“She was no ordinary being,” Frida continued. “Her long hair was silver as moonlight, her eyes redder than the first blood of virgins. None who met her gaze lived long enough to describe it fully, but they say she was like a rose; you will have to cut yourself to feel her. Some even say it was hunger, endless and consuming. Her power was drawn not from fire or frost but from the blood of the living. With each drop she consumed, she grew stronger and more beautiful but more monstrous. A terrible curse, some claimed, though others believed she embraced her darkness.”
"Like yours, stranger," someone whispered nearby, and heads turned briefly toward my crimson gaze before darting away.
Frida didn’t pause. “Her laughter was as sweet as spring songbirds, yet it carried death’s weight. Newborn vanished beneath her shadow. Fields turned fallow where she walked. Young ones, stolen from their beds and fields, were found drained, lifeless, and pale as moonlight upon snow. But at the end of the day, she would fall to her knees grieving and apologising like a broken creature, weeping as though in torment.”
“Why didn’t anyone stopped her?” a man muttered. His voice was steady, but I caught the undercurrent of fear.
Frida turned her gaze toward him, her eyes gleaming. “Who would stop her, when even the Dark One feared her?”
The fire crackled loudly, punctuating her words. Someone near me whispered, “The Dark One? She was his servant, wasn’t she?”
“No,” Frida snapped, her voice carrying an edge that silenced the murmur. “She was no servant. She was his sister. And while his armies marched with shadow and despair, her power was a horror unmatched. Where he sought conquest of Ihera, she sought blood and redemption.”
“She fell upon the dwarves of Stonehaven,” Frida said, her voice growing heavier. “The proud builders, the forgers of cold iron. Their hammers and axes could not protect them. She found their veins, and she burst them apart like ripe fruit. Stonehaven became a tomb, its gates in the mountain were painted red.”
Bjorn grunted softly beside me. “Dwarves… stubborn folk, even in the tales.”
“And yet they fell,” Frida countered. Her tone softened, but the darkness remained. “The Orcs of Avalon followed. Then Elves of Lavenor and Humans of Veldora. No race could stop her. No power can control her. No men could face her. But…”
“He did,” Ragna’s voice was soft, pulling my gaze. She was watching Frida intently, her expression unreadable.
Frida’s tone shifted, a faint thread of hope weaving into the darkness. “Yes, he did. Rising from the ashes, a child was born from a slave woman. She named him Laethos after the only god she believed in, the God of Wisdom. He was a true miracle. Within a year, he grew to manhood, his body touched by divine magic. With a blade of light forged from his light, he gathered dragon descendants and turned the tide together.”
The crowd exhaled softly, relief mingling with their tension.
“They drove the Dark One and his army to the Devil’s Gate,” Frida said. “Bound him in cold iron, impaled upon a stake of the same. They say it took all his strength to carry the tyrant beyond the crack in the mountains, locking him forever in that abyss from which he came. When the battle was done, the skies cleared for the first time in decades, and the land rejoiced.” Her voice grew lower, “But the Queen… her hunger could not be sated, her soul cursed to unending torment. She was no demon like her brother, nor mortal, but something ancient and broken.”
Her voice dipped lower, drawing the crowd closer. “For weeks, they battled, shaking the land. Each time he struck her down, she rose as her body reforming from her own blood with new wounds but the same as before. And in the end, he made a choice. Not death, but eternal binding. He crucified her at the neck of the Kaal Mountains with the chains made of cold iron and nails of the same piercing her, her blood forever spilling into the river that still runs red.”
Stigr's voice shook slightly. "Rumours have it that the red river still flows in the Kaal."
I felt a shiver crawl up my spine. The imagery their words conjured was too vivid; rivers of blood, a silver-haired figure still crucified with wounds of the old.
The fire dimmed slightly, or perhaps it was a trick of the mind. Frida’s voice was almost a whisper now. “She waits still, bound in chains, her whispers carried on the wind. Her blood feeds the river, and her final words echo in the ears of those who dare venture near.”
“What words?” someone asked, their voice trembling.
Frida’s eyes locked onto the fire, her face a mask of solemnity. “The night will fall again.”
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire. The story hung in the air like smoke, thick and inescapable. I felt its weight pressing against my chest, a strange mixture of fear and curiosity.
"Remember, children of the north," she said, her voice suddenly clear and sharp as a blade. "Some tales are more than stories. Some warnings echo through the ages for a reason. That darkness may not have touched our north then, but we can’t say for the future."
The chieftain raised his tankard. "To Old Frida and her tales!" The tension broke as people cheered, though I noticed many glancing nervously at the shadows beyond the firelight.
I sat there, the forgotten stew cold in my hands, unable to shake the feeling that there was more truth in this tale than anyone dared admit. As conversations resumed around the fire, I caught Ragna watching me with an unreadable expression.
"Come on now," she said softly, "We should patch up those wounds before you meet our chief."
I remained silent, nodding, my mind racing with thoughts of the ‘Witch.’