The gruff, familiar voice of Bjorn cut through my dreams like a blade through silk, scattering fragments of half-remembered visions into the morning mist. "Einar! Get up, lad. You've duties to tend to." His voice carried the weight of ages, rough as bark and just as weathered.

I lingered in my cocoon of consciousness, suspended between sleep and waking. Every muscle in my body had conspired against movement, each burn and ache from yesterday's tribulations making themselves known with spiteful persistence. The heavy cloak draped over me had become my sanctuary, its familiar scents of wood smoke and well-worn leather telling stories of countless nights under stars. My fingers, moving of their own accord, found the cold comfort of my sword's hilt – a habit born of necessity rather than choice.

"If you don't get out here, I'll drag you out myself!" Bjorn's voice carried a sharp edge now, like thunder rolling across a winter sky.

A groan escaped my lips as I forced myself upright, each movement a negotiation with pain. The stitches in my side pulled against fresh bandages, a constant reminder of yesterday's mistakes. The world beyond my haven in the caravan emerged slowly: first the pale light of dawn seeping through cracks, then the symphony of early morning camp life.

The dying bonfire painted the air with threads of gray smoke, dancing like spirits in the space between earth and sky. Women moved with quiet purpose around a massive iron cauldron that seemed to breathe steam into the cold morning air. The rich aroma of stewing meat mingled with the sharp, clean scent of dew-kissed pine, creating an oddly comforting perfume of wilderness and civilization intertwined.

Nearby, horses stamped restlessly against the earth, their breath forming ghostly clouds in the chill. Stigr's low whispers to the beasts carried across the camp, a gentle counterpoint to the percussion of hooves on damp ground. The scene was a tapestry of life continuing its eternal dance; tools clattering against wood, muted conversations weaving through the air, the soft crackle of embers refusing to surrender to the morning cold.

Bjorn stood like an ancient oak, arms crossed over his broad chest, his scowl as familiar as the rising sun. "You took your sweet time," he rumbled, though a glint in his eye betrayed something warmer than irritation.

"Next time, just drag me," I muttered, pulling the cloak tighter as the morning air bit through the fabric with unexpected ferocity. The cold seemed to carry whispers of the approaching winter, despite the promise of summer in the distance.

"You're lucky the chief's not out here to see you sluggin' about," Bjorn replied, his words carrying the weight of unspoken concern rather than rebuke.

The camp pulsed with purpose around us. Two women at the cauldron – their faces etched with exhaustion but bearing the quiet dignity of those who understand their worth – moved with the efficiency of long practice. The tribe prepared for departure like a well-oiled machine, each member knowing their role in this ancient dance of survival. Tents collapsed into neat bundles, wagons accepted their burdens with creaking resignation, and supplies found their appointed places with practiced care.

Bjorn led me toward the forest's edge, where old trees stood guard like silent sentinels. The ground beneath our boots had the consistency of old memories – soft, treacherous, and full of hidden meanings. Morning dew transformed the world into a realm of subtle magic, each droplet capturing and releasing light like tiny prisms.

"Most of it's soaked through," Bjorn observed, discarding a waterlogged branch with disgust. The task of gathering dry wood seemed like a metaphor for life itself – searching for something useful among the decay, hoping to find warmth in a cold world.

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"I'd never have guessed," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The axe in my hands felt like an extension of my weariness, each swings a reminder of wounds both fresh and healing. Yet there was meditation in the work, a rhythm that allowed my mind to wander while my body remembered its purpose.

We laboured in companionable silence, the forest around us slowly awakening to day's first light. Pine needles released their sharp, clean scent with each step, mixing with the earthy perfume of wet bark and morning mist. Our breath formed clouds that dissipated like fleeting thoughts, joining the greater mysteries of the air above.

The return to camp revealed a transformation. Ragna stood in conversation with the chief, her posture relaxed but her gestures animated, weaving stories in the air between them. Agretha, the chiefess, presided over the cauldron like a priestess at her altar, each ladle of stew distributed with the gravity of communion.

The morning prayer rose like smoke into the brightening sky, a melodic chant to gods whose names felt ancient on the tongue. Bjorn leaned close, his voice low as he explained the tribe's dedication to the old ways, not just tradition, but a lifeline to their past, their identity. The words themselves seemed to carry weight, though whether from the gods or from the simple act of believing, I couldn't say.

The stew filled our bellies with warmth, though my mind wandered to the road ahead. Duskmoore Haven waited like a promise on the horizon. The tribe's hospitality had been unexpected, a gift I wasn't sure I deserved but one I would carry with me, along with the weight of questions still unanswered.

The caravan creaked and groaned as it rolled over the uneven road, the wheels occasionally catching in the muck. I sat in the back, surrounded by the rhythmic sway of goods and the low murmur of conversation. Stigr lounged across from me, his beady eyes scanning the road through a gap in the wagon’s covering. Bjorn sat beside him, arms crossed, his expression relaxed but watchful. Ragna was next to me, her wand resting casually against her knee.

The forest gradually gave way to open fields, golden with ripened wheat that swayed gently in the breeze. The air grew warmer, the oppressive chill of Mistwood replaced by the soft touch of early summer. It felt strange to see such a vibrant landscape after the ruin we’d left behind.

Duskmoore Haven. The stone fort at its heart rose against the horizon, its gray walls stark against the golden fields. Guards patrolled the battlements, their figures small but precise. Around it, the town sprawled in a mix of stone and timber, a patchwork of life and industry.

“We’ve reached the town,” Ragna said softly.

And with it, the next step on a path I couldn’t yet see.

Our caravan came to a stop on the plains just outside the main gates, the line of wagons forming a neat barrier along the road. Voices hummed around me as the tribe began unloading supplies and setting up temporary shelter. Bjorn stretched his broad frame and hopped down from the caravan, shaking off the stiffness of travel.

“Why’re we stopping here?” I asked, stepping out with my side bag slung over my shoulder.

Bjorn glanced over his shoulder. “You think we’re parkin’ this lot inside the town? Space’s tight enough without thirteen caravans hoggin’ the streets. There will be a festival at this time of the year.”

Ragna and Stigr followed him, and I trailed behind. As I stepped down, Agretha’s voice called out, warm and firm. “Einar! Over here.”

I turned to find her standing near a wagon, her hands on her hips. Her eyes carried the same knowing softness they had the night before. I approached quickly, bowing my head slightly. “Yes, Chiefess?”

She offered a small smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “We’ll be stayin’ here for a week. Whatever you plan to do, make it count. If the town offers you no path, come back to us. There’ll always be a place for you here.”

I hesitated, her kindness catching me off guard. “I… I wouldn’t want to burden you.”

“Hush, now,” she said, waving the thought away. “We can always use a strong pair of hands. And you can always earn a place in here.”

I nodded, gratitude swelling in my chest. Then, on impulse, I asked, “Chiefess, did you… know my parents?”

Her smile faltered for the briefest moment before she straightened. “Go on, now. You’ve got work to do.”