Chapter 46
Kelan stood on frost-crisp grass at the edge of Northhaven's main track, watching a line of wagons creak through the town gates. The early winter sun hung low, casting long blue shadows across snow packed down by many feet. Each breath he took clouded white in the frigid air. Northhaven was no longer the quiet northern town he and Dennor had arrived in weeks ago; it swelled with life and noise as more tribal clans gathered to winter here. Fur-clad men and women shouted greetings, children darted between carts, and the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat drifted from communal hearths.
Several clan banners fluttered in the cold breeze. Kelan recognized a few from Dennor's descriptions: the brown bear on green of the Stone Bear Clan, the red stag of the Hartfell Clan, and others he had yet to learn. Each arrival was met with hearty embraces and the clatter of unloading supplies. Despite the bustle, he sensed an undercurrent of urgency in the way people moved—an unspoken awareness of the harsh season ahead, and perhaps something more. He caught snippets of conversation as clansfolk passed:
"...many more coming than last year..."
"...heard unrest near the eastern steppes..."
"...best to stay close to kin this winter..."
These murmurs about the east pricked Kelan's ears. Before he could dwell on them, a sharp cry rang out by one of the wagons.
A pregnant woman had collapsed as she tried to step down from a cart. Immediately, people converged around her, voices urgent. Kelan exchanged a look with Dennor, who gave a swift nod. Without hesitation, Kelan pushed through the gathering onlookers.
"Please, let me through," he said calmly. The clansfolk parted enough for Kelan to kneel beside the laboring woman. She was pale and trembling, clearly in the throes of childbirth—and something was wrong. Her breaths came in gasps that misted in the cold air, and a man at her side (her husband, Kelan guessed) hovered in terrified concern.
Kelan placed a steady hand on the woman's swollen belly and another on her forehead. She was far too cold and weak; the journey had been hard. He closed his eyes, letting his mind-sense extend inward. Around him, the world hushed as he focused on the tapestry of life beneath his palms. He felt not just the mother's strained heartbeat, but the faint flutter of the child inside. Two heartbeats—one rapid and faltering, the other faint and irregular.
"She's too early..." murmured an older woman near Kelan—perhaps a midwife—"and the baby's turned wrong."
Yes. The infant was positioned dangerously, and the mother's strength was failing. A year ago, such a situation would have left Kelan frightened. Now, a calm determination settled over him. He had grown in his healing powers; he understood the human body in ways few could imagine.
"Keep her warm," he instructed softly. At once, someone draped a fur cloak over the mother's shaking form. The crowd formed a tight ring, shielding them from the icy wind. Kelan sensed a young woman with golden hair kneeling opposite him, holding the mother's hand and speaking softly to soothe her. The young woman's gray eyes were steady despite the worry on her face.
Drawing a deep breath, Kelan sent his mental focus deeper. He envisioned muscles and arteries, the womb itself. Gently, he urged the mother's heartbeat to slow and steady, pushing warmth through her body. She sighed as some pain eased. Next, he focused on the unborn child, sensing its distress as each contraction threatened rather than helped. With invisible hands of thought, he coaxed the infant to turn in the womb.
A few watchers gasped as the mother's belly shifted under Kelan's palms. He ignored the murmurs, deep in concentration. For a terrifying moment, the infant's heartbeat fluttered and dimmed. Kelan's own heart clenched. He poured gentle strength into coaxing life to continue. It felt as though he held a delicate bird cupped in thought, willing it to breathe.
"By the ancestors..." someone whispered.
The mother cried out one last time—and then the tension broke. A thin wail rose from beneath the blankets. Relief and joy rippled through the onlookers. The midwife swiftly wrapped the newborn in a wool blanket, laughing through tears. The mother, eyes glazed with exhaustion, let her head fall back as the baby was placed against her chest. A cheer went up, and the anxious husband sagged with relief, thanking everyone and anyone.
Kelan sat back on his heels, a bit unsteady as the energy he'd expended caught up with him. Dennor was there immediately, offering a hand to help him up, pride evident in his mentor's eyes.
"You have our thanks, healer," said the older midwife, bowing her head. Others echoed her, some touching Kelan's arm in gratitude as they began to disperse, now that mother and child were safe. The elated father clasped Kelan's hands in his own rough grip. "We are in your debt, healer. I am Aric of the Stone Bear Clan. If ever you need anything—anything—just ask," he said, voice thick with emotion.
Kelan flushed and shook his head modestly. "I'm glad I could help. Take care of them—that's thanks enough." Aric nodded fiercely and returned to his wife's side, where he gently stroked the newborn's cheek in amazement.
As the small crowd thinned, the young woman with the golden hair remained. She had fetched water and blankets swiftly and kept the mother calm. Now she stepped toward Kelan.
"That was well done," she said quietly. Her voice was low and clear, and up close Kelan noticed she wore a finely made fur-lined cloak and had a hunting knife at her belt—details that marked her as someone of stature. "Not many could have saved both mother and child like that."
"I only helped nature along," Kelan replied, rubbing the back of his neck, a habit when he felt shy. "I'm Kelan, apprentice to Dennor."
"I know. Word travels fast in Northhaven, especially of a gifted healer." The young woman offered a friendly smile. "I'm Astrid, daughter of Jarl Haesten."
Kelan recognized Haesten as one of the prominent chieftains. He straightened respectfully. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Astrid's eyes flicked to the new mother being carried into a nearby hall for warmth. "You arrived at the perfect time. They'll tell that story all winter," she said, a teasing note in her voice. "My father will want to thank you himself once he hears of this. Northhaven needs healers, especially with so many folk here now."
Kelan felt heat rise to his cheeks that wasn't from the cold. He wasn't used to praise. "I'm just glad I could help. And thank you for what you did. You kept her calm."
Astrid waved off the thanks. "We all do what we can. Perhaps I'll see you at the evening meal, Kelan? You and Master Dennor should sit at our table tonight."
Before he could answer, a deep voice called Astrid's name from across the yard. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy bearskin cloak was beckoning—likely Jarl Haesten himself. Astrid gave Kelan a parting smile. "Until later, then."
Kelan watched her jog off, moving with a confident stride even in the snow. Dennor came up beside him, chuckling under his breath. "You've made quite an impression—on everyone," his mentor said quietly.
Kelan managed a half-smile as he exhaled, seeing his breath puff out. The adrenaline of the moment was fading, leaving him tired. "Let's get inside," he murmured. "I need a moment."
They walked back to their assigned cabin—a snug timber lodge near the center of town. Along the way, people greeted Kelan with nods or a grateful word. Hearing himself called "healer" by so many was strange and new.
Inside the cabin, warmth from a small hearth embraced them. Kelan shrugged off his cloak and sank into a chair by the fire. He didn't realize how much he was shivering until he felt the heat on his face and fingers. Dennor busied himself at the table, where neat rows of herbs and tinctures lay. He poured hot water into two cups with a pinch of dried mint, then handed one to Kelan.
Kelan wrapped his hands around the cup, inhaling the minty steam. "Everything happened so fast," he murmured. "I just reacted."
Dennor sat across from him. "And you reacted well. You've come far, Kelan. I doubt even I could have managed such a delicate healing so swiftly." He sipped his tea, eyes on Kelan. "How do you feel?"
"Tired, but alright," Kelan replied, taking a long drink to steady himself. "Using that much of the power…it's like running a long distance, but inside my mind."
He set the cup down and frowned slightly. "I heard some folks mention trouble on the eastern steppes earlier. Do you think that's why so many clans came? Are we expecting trouble?"
Dennor frowned, gaze on the fire. "Rumors. For now, just rumors. There's talk of a warlord rising in the east, uniting the steppe tribes and pushing west. Every few years we hear tales of raids or armies, most come to nothing. But…" He trailed off, thoughtful. "The fact that so many clans chose to winter together behind Northhaven's walls means they're worried. Safety in numbers."
Kelan nodded slowly. He remembered the fear in the father's eyes. Multiply that by hundreds—an entire town at stake if an army came. The thought made Kelan's stomach knot. "If war does come… we'll have to be ready," he said quietly.
Dennor reached over and squeezed Kelan's shoulder. "Let's not borrow trouble. Our task this winter is to tend to these people—heal them, help them. We'll let the warriors and chiefs plan for war. One day at a time."
Kelan let out a breath and mustered a smile. "You're right. One day at a time."
Night had fallen, and through the window they could see hearth fires and torches illuminating the settlement. The aroma of dinner—stew and fresh bread—wafted in, reminding Kelan he was hungry.
"Come," Dennor said, grabbing his own cloak again. "We should eat. I suspect Jarl Haesten will want you at his table."
Kelan chuckled softly, nervousness fluttering in his chest at the thought of dining with a jarl and his family. "Let's hope I remember my manners," he joked quietly.
They stepped out. Snowflakes drifted down, cloaking the town in soft white. Kelan pulled his cloak tight. Despite the cold, a warmth bloomed in Kelan's chest—the warmth of belonging and purpose.
As they headed toward the great hall filled with laughter and light, Kelan silently vowed to see this community safely through winter. Whatever spring brought—war or peace—he would stand by these people who had welcomed him as one of their own.
Chapter 47
A thin winter sun struggled through the gray morning sky as Kelan stood outside the town's old storage barn, palms outstretched. The air was biting cold, each breath a white cloud, but sweat beaded on his forehead from concentration. Before him, six heavy wooden barrels rose slowly into the air until they all hovered at chest height. With careful focus, he sent them floating in a slow orbit around him, driftwood in an invisible current.
Dennor observed from a few paces away, arms folded inside his thick cloak. His expression was a mix of pride and astonishment. Kelan could feel his mentor's presence at the edge of his mind—a familiar steady calm that had guided him often during training. Today, however, Kelan was venturing beyond Dennor's own limits. He felt an exhilarating strain, like a muscle pushed to its capacity but not yet failing.
"One more circuit," Dennor said quietly, visible breath puffing out. "Then set them down gently."
Kelan nodded, jaw clenched in concentration. He coaxed the barrels through one more slow circle. One barrel wobbled as a stray thought broke his focus, but Kelan steadied it with a slow exhale. In his mind's eye he pictured six invisible hands cradling the casks.
With a controlled downward sweep of his hands, he guided each barrel back to the frozen ground with a muffled thump. Kelan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and swayed slightly, lightheaded, until Dennor's steadying hand found his shoulder. A surge of triumph warmed Kelan despite the cold. Just a month ago, he would have struggled to lift even two of those barrels at once. Now six had moved under his command like extensions of his arms.
Dennor walked to one of the barrels and inspected it. "Not even a crack," he noted. "Excellent control. You didn't crush them with too much force when you grabbed hold."
Kelan managed a grin. "I remembered what you taught me. Fine fingers, not a fist, when lifting fragile things." It was an old lesson Dennor had given when Kelan first learned to lift pottery without shattering it.
They began rolling the barrels back against the wall of the barn, restoring them to their original places. Dennor's breath came a little heavier than usual as he heaved one into position manually, and Kelan smoothly lifted another with a thought and a casual wave of his hand, setting it down precisely. The older man chuckled under his breath.
"I suspect you'll have all the chores in Northhaven done in half the time with talent like that," Dennor said, though his tone turned gently admonishing. "If you choose to use it for chores, that is."
Kelan paused, sensing the undertone. "I know. Don't show off," he recited. "Keep my abilities low-key." It was something he and Dennor had discussed often. Many in the town knew Kelan had a gift, but they had seen it mostly in healing or small helpful tasks. He took care never to flaunt the full extent of his power; it would only invite fear or unwelcome attention.
Dennor nodded. "Part of wisdom is knowing when not to use power. Still... it's important you practice what you can do. In a controlled setting like this." He gestured around the empty barnyard, where only the wind and a few crows were witness to Kelan's feats. The morning's stillness resumed now that the scrape of barrels had ceased.
Kelan flexed his fingers. They tingled slightly with the residual flow of magic. "I'd like to practice more fine control," he said. "Strength without precision isn't enough."
Wordlessly, Dennor drew a long hunting knife from his belt. He walked a few yards away and wedged the blade upright into a wooden fence post, the steel glinting dully. "Can you draw that knife out and bring it to me?" he asked.
Kelan tilted his head. This seemed straightforward compared to the barrels. He extended his mind towards the blade, feeling the cold metal as if under his fingertips. The knife quivered free of the post and floated toward Dennor.
But before it reached him, Dennor held up his hand. "Now put it back, exactly as it was, and leave no new mark," Dennor instructed.
Kelan narrowed his focus. The knife bobbed, then shot back into the fence post with a faint thunk, perfectly fitting the old slot. Dennor checked the wood and nodded, impressed. "Good. Remember, precision can matter as much as raw force. Threading a needle amid chaos might save a life."
Kelan felt a slight chill at the mention of battle. "Do you really think it will come to that? Fighting?"
Dennor was quiet for a moment, gazing past the barn toward the distant tree line, where pines stood silent and snow-laden. "I pray it won't," Dennor said. "But we must be prepared. And you, Kelan, might find yourself at the heart of it. Not just for your power, but for how you choose to use it. Many with gifts have done terrible things seeking glory or revenge. I've tried to teach you another way."
"You have," Kelan said softly. He remembered lessons on ethics spoken late by the campfire in nights past, Dennor cautioning him that power over life and death carried the heaviest of burdens. "I don't want to harm anyone if I can avoid it."
Dennor smiled faintly. "I know. That is why I trust you with these skills. And that is why we practice even the more... dangerous applications, so that if the time comes, you can control them."
At this, Kelan squared his shoulders. He knew what Dennor was referring to: the destructive side of mind-magic. The ability not just to lift or heal, but to break, to stop a heart or rupture an organ with a thought. He had not tried such things on any living being, but intellectually he knew he could. The idea made him uneasy.
As if reading his thoughts, Dennor spoke gently, "Let's try something simpler today. See that old stump?" He pointed at a rotted tree stump at the edge of the clearing, half-buried in snow.
Kelan nodded and walked closer to it. The stump was the width of a barrel, its center black with decay. It might have been an old pine felled long ago.
"I want you to use your power inside it," Dennor said, coming to stand by Kelan. "Imagine reaching into the wood as you would into a body to heal, but instead, disrupt it. Tear the fibers, stop any life still within."
Kelan swallowed. He faced the stump, placing one hand on its rough, icy surface. With healing, he always visualized knitting things together, encouraging growth. Now, he would do the opposite. He closed his eyes and sent his awareness into the dead wood, probing the rot and dormant insects within. Even extinguishing these tiny lives gave him pause. Still, he steeled himself and gently smothered each faint spark of life. Then he gathered his will and clenched. A hollow crack echoed as a fissure split the stump through its core.
Kelan opened his eyes to see the stump ruptured. He felt a little sick; even those small deaths weighed on him.
Dennor laid a hand on his back. "I know that wasn't easy."
Kelan took a moment to steady himself. "It's alright. I needed to know how it feels... to end life with this power, even a small one." He flexed his cold fingers.
"Remember that feeling," Dennor said quietly. "If you must ever use this on something larger, know the cost. It should never be easy."
Kelan nodded solemnly. He appreciated that Dennor didn't shield him from the grim side of his abilities. Better to confront it here and now, than in the heat of battle for the first time.
They walked back to town in thoughtful silence. Northhaven was fully awake now, smoke curling from chimneys and voices ringing through crisp air. A gaggle of children dashed by, flinging snow and squealing in delight. The sight made Kelan smile, easing the weight on his heart. Life went on, bright and innocent, even with dark rumors in the backdrop.
A gruff voice hailed them. Kelan turned to see Gannon, Jarl Haesten's seasoned housecarl, striding over. The burly warrior clapped Kelan on the shoulder. "I was about to drill some youngsters with spears. Care to help? One lad also banged up his knee and could use a healer's touch."
Kelan welcomed the normal request. "Of course."
Dennor nodded. "Go on. I have a meeting with Haesten and the council. I'll find you later." With that, his mentor headed to the longhouse, and Kelan followed Gannon.
Behind the great hall, about a dozen youths were already gathered in a trampled snowy circle with practice spears. Gannon bellowed for them to line up, and they hastily obeyed when they saw the stern veteran approach.
What followed was a vigorous hour of training. Gannon led the youths—boys and girls alike—in spear drills, barking corrections. Kelan helped demonstrate when asked, doing his best to keep up. Despite the cold, the exercise soon had everyone sweating.
When Gannon finally called for a break, the trainees broke ranks to gulp water and catch their breath. Kelan leaned on a spear, his muscles pleasantly aching. He noticed Astrid walking over, cheeks flushed from the cold and exercise.
"Not bad for a healer," she teased.
Kelan chuckled and shook his head. "I'll leave the real fighting to you warriors."
Astrid glanced around and lowered her voice. "I saw you earlier—with those barrels. Six at once, was it? Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."
Kelan felt his face warm despite the chill. "Thank you. I'm working on control."
She placed a hand on Kelan's forearm, her voice earnest. "If war does come…we'll need every advantage. My father hasn't said as much openly, but I can tell he's worried. We all are."
Kelan laid his hand over hers briefly. "Whatever happens, I'll do everything I can to help. I promise."
They shared a brief, understanding look before one of the young warriors called Astrid's name. With a final nod to Kelan, she stepped away to answer, leaving him warmed by her trust—and sobered by the promise he had made.
After drills, Kelan quickly tended to Bram's swollen knee, easing the sprain with a touch of mind-magic. The young warrior sighed in relief and thanked him, astonished at how quickly the pain faded.
By midday, the training was over and the youths dispersed to their chores. Gannon clapped Kelan on the back. "Those hands of yours might save more warriors than any blade, lad." He gave a meaningful look. "The hard part is knowing when to heal and when to strike. Both can save lives."
Kelan nodded, Gannon's words echoing what Dennor had taught him. The old warrior squeezed his shoulder. "You have a good heart. Trust it." With that, Gannon headed off to see to the palisade repairs, leaving Kelan alone in the yard.
Kelan drew a deep breath of chilly air to steady himself. The events of the morning—barrels, blade, stump, Astrid's trust, Gannon's counsel—had shown him both the pride of growing power and the weight of responsibility. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he'd skipped breakfast. He let out a breath, allowing the normalcy of hunger and the sight of townsfolk cheerfully going about their tasks to ground him.
As he walked toward the communal hall for a meal, Kelan vowed anew to protect Northhaven with all his strength. He would let Dennor's teachings guide him, and trust his heart to choose rightly between healing and harm when the time came.
Chapter 48
The deep heart of winter settled on Northhaven, and with it came the long-awaited Midwinter Festival. For days leading up to it, the town buzzed with preparations. Children and elders wove evergreen wreaths for every door. Women gathered in the great hall's kitchen to bake breads and spiced cakes, their laughter and the scent of cinnamon filling the frosty air. Men hauled huge logs for the bonfire and a hunting party dragged in a great boar for the feast's centerpiece.
On the morning of the festival, Kelan awoke to the distant sound of drums and the high call of a ram's horn echoing off the snow-clad hills. He peeked out the cabin window to find the town already alive in the pale dawn light. Clan banners that had hung limp in the cold now unfurled proudly from poles, bright patches of color against the white landscape. The sight drew a rare, unguarded smile from Kelan. In a way, it reminded him of harvest festivals back in the south, yet here everything was touched with the crispness of the far north and a fierce joy in defying the cold and dark.
By midday, the celebrations were in full swing. In the central square, a ring had been cleared of snow for contests of strength and skill. Two burly young men grappled in a friendly wrestling match to the cheers of onlookers. Nearby, older children took turns running and skidding across the ice atop round wooden shields, a game that had everyone roaring with laughter whenever a contestant tumbled.
Astrid stood not far from Kelan, enthusiastically cheering on a lanky warrior from her clan who was grappling in the ring. Catching Kelan's eye, she beckoned him over. "Enjoying the show?" she asked, her eyes bright with excitement. She wore a deep blue tunic embroidered with silver knotwork—a festive garb still suited for movement.
Kelan nodded, absorbing the festive energy around him. "Very much. Though I admit I don't know all the games. What do you call that shield sliding game?"
Astrid laughed. "Shield-sailing. You run, jump on a shield, and see how far you slide. Harder than it looks to stay upright at the end!"
As if on cue, one boy toppled over at the end of his slide in a spray of snow, drawing howls of laughter. Kelan chuckled. "Looks fun. And a bit dangerous."
"Only a little," Astrid grinned. A gust of wind tossed a loose strand of her golden hair across her face and she brushed it aside. "Later there'll be axe-throwing and archery contests," she added, nudging him. Kelan raised an eyebrow and laughed off the idea of joining. Before he could respond further, a cheer erupted from the wrestling circle.
Astrid's clansman won, pinning his opponent, and she whooped in triumph. The two wrestlers helped each other up, clapping backs and laughing. Kelan joined the applause, admiring the camaraderie of the contests; it was shared joy, not bitter rivalry.
"Come," Astrid said, lightly touching Kelan's elbow. "They'll be passing out hot cider soon, and my father usually says a few words before the feast. We should get good spots near the fire."
She led him through the throng toward the enormous bonfire at the center of the square. Dusk crept in, the feeble winter sun already sinking, as the last logs were stacked for the blaze that would mark the longest night.
Steaming mugs of spiced cider were passed around. Kelan accepted one and savored the fragrant warmth in his hands. He and Astrid found a place where they had a clear view of the makeshift wooden dais by the bonfire. A hush gradually fell over the crowd as several important figures climbed up. Among them was Jarl Haesten in a heavy cloak trimmed with white fox fur, and beside him the old priestess Edda, wrapped in robes marked with runic symbols.
Haesten raised his hands for silence. "People of Northhaven, kin and friends—we welcome the Winter Solstice with open hearts!" Haesten called out. A cheer rose. "Tonight we honor our ancestors who watched these fires before us and our descendants who will come after. We gather as one people to share warmth and blessings through the longest night!"
Kelan felt a tingling communal energy as the crowd answered in one voice. Despite being a newcomer, he felt woven into that community fabric.
Haesten's tone turned sober. "This winter, more of us gather here than in many years. Thank you for bringing your families, for trusting each other and standing together. We all know there are shadows on the horizon,"—a murmur rippled through the crowd—"but tonight, let us share strength and hope. By this fire, we are safe, and we are one."
Astrid slid her arm through Kelan's and gave a gentle squeeze. Kelan covered her hand with his for a moment and nodded, a silent shared vow of solidarity.
Haesten bowed his head and Edda, the clan priestess, stepped forward with a wooden bowl. Her eyes were clouded by age, but her voice was clear as she chanted an ancient hymn in the old tongue. Kelan didn't know the words, but felt their power in the soothing cadence. Many in the crowd bowed their heads, murmuring along to the traditional prayer.
Edda sprinkled mead from the bowl onto the ground as an offering. "We give thanks to the earth that sustains us, to the sky and stars that guide us, to the ancestors who guard us," she intoned, then switched to the common tongue. "Spirits, bless all here—every man, woman, child, warrior, and healer—through the cold nights and trials to come." As she spoke, Kelan thought her gaze passed over him at the mention of "healer."
Kelan felt a prick of awareness at that word, and Astrid gently squeezed his arm.
With the blessings given, the solemn moment broke. Men with torches lit the oil-soaked kindling, and with a roar the fire caught. An orange glow illuminated hundreds of faces, shadows dancing at the sudden light.
A great cheer rose, and the drums struck up again, this time in a lively beat. Feast tables, set outdoors near the fire, were laden with roasted meat, hearty stew, and winter vegetables. The rich aromas made Kelan's mouth water.
Kelan sat between Dennor and Astrid at one of the long tables under the stars. Excitement and firelight kept him plenty warm. As they ate, storytellers and bards entertained the crowd. Elders shared legends of winters past—tales of giant wolves and heroic warriors—earning chuckles and cheers. Gannon himself stood to recount a youthful battle against raiders, describing fierce winds and flying arrows, yet humbly crediting unity for the victory. As night deepened, somber ballads of lost love gave way to bawdy songs that had everyone roaring with laughter by their final verses.
Midway through the feast, Haesten had a small gift brought forth for the healers: two wooden cups etched with the Bear Clan's knotwork. Astrid presented one to Kelan. "A token of thanks from my father," she said softly. Kelan accepted the beautifully carved cup with gratitude. Astrid leaned in, "Think of it as proof you have family here now. We take care of our own."
Kelan's chest swelled with warmth. For so long it had been just him and Dennor wandering; now he sat among friends, a hearty meal in his belly, feeling a sense of belonging that had nothing to do with blood ties.
Laughter echoed as couples whirled in dance. Astrid sprang up and tugged Kelan to his feet before he could protest. "Just follow my lead," she laughed.
They joined a simple circle dance, hand in hand. Astrid guided Kelan through the steps with gentle tugs and bright laughter whenever he faltered. Before long he was laughing too as the music whirled them faster and faster. When at last the dance ended in a flurry of applause, they stumbled out to the edge of the firelight, flushed and breathless. Astrid squeezed his hand before letting go. "See? You can dance."
"Only because you dragged me," Kelan replied, grinning. His heart pounded from the dance—and the closeness they'd shared.
Astrid tilted her head up. "The clouds cleared." Above, a tapestry of stars stretched out, and to the north, faint green ribbons of aurora began to shimmer. "Beautiful," she whispered.
"It is," Kelan agreed quietly.
After a comfortable silence, Astrid nudged him. "Let's walk a bit. I'm warm from dancing, and the night sky is too lovely to ignore."
After letting Dennor know, Astrid led Kelan up a gentle hill just beyond the cabins. Snow crunched underfoot. From the slope they could see Northhaven below—the bonfire a bright beacon in the center, torches dotting the palisade, and beyond, dark forests and mountains.
"When I was little," Astrid murmured, "I thought the lights were the gods painting the sky. My mother told me they were brave souls dancing in the afterlife. Either way, I've always loved them."
Kelan ventured gently, "Do you miss her—your mother?"
Astrid's gaze stayed on the lights. "She died when I was twelve, along with the baby brother she bore. After that, the clan raised me—Father, Gannon, Edda... Here, no one is alone in grief."
"I'm sorry," Kelan whispered. "I lost my parents as a child too. Dennor became my family."
Astrid turned to him, eyes sympathetic. "Then you know what it is to find family beyond blood."
Kelan nodded. In that moment of shared loss, an unseen bond seemed to form between them.
A distant burst of laughter floated up from below. Astrid chuckled, "We should head back before they start another dance without us."
As they made their way down the hill, Astrid added softly, "Thank you for being here. This winter is better with you."
Kelan felt his cheeks warm, and answered earnestly, "I'm glad I'm here too."
They returned to the festivities. Eventually the bonfire burned low and people began to drift off to their beds. Kelan helped tidy up, and received a grateful shoulder clap from Jarl Haesten as the jarl bade everyone goodnight.
At last Kelan trudged back to the cabin with Dennor by his side. At the door, Dennor paused, eyes twinkling. "You seem happier tonight."
"I am," Kelan admitted. He felt a profound sense of belonging.
"Good," Dennor said, patting his shoulder. "Remember this feeling. Dark times may come, but these people—these moments—are why we endure."
That night, wrapped in thick quilts, Kelan replayed the day's events: the fire and stories, Astrid's laughter, the clan's kindness, the shared hopes under shimmering skies. Outside, the wind hummed around the eaves like a gentle lullaby. Kelan drifted to sleep feeling safe, warm, and truly at home in the heart of Northhaven.
Chapter 49
Winter's deep stillness was shattered one gray afternoon by the urgent clamor of a horn at Northhaven's gate. Kelan, who had been helping Dennor prepare poultices in the healers' cabin, froze at the sound. He exchanged a quick glance with Dennor, and both men hurried outside. In the main thoroughfare, townsfolk emerged from doors and workyards, their breath misting in the chill as they looked toward the palisade walls.
A lone rider pushed through the gate, his horse lathered and sides heaving. The rider—a young man clad in travel-stained furs—nearly fell from the saddle before a guard rushed to catch him. Even from a distance Kelan could see an arrow shaft protruding from the traveler's thigh. The man's face was pale with exhaustion and pain.
Kelan sprinted forward without hesitation, reaching the rider just as others gathered around. Astrid was already there, having been on watch near the gate; she helped ease the wounded messenger to the ground. Kelan knelt, his healer's instincts kicking in. He placed a hand lightly on the man's leg around the broken shaft. Blood had soaked the fur leggings.
"Easy now," Kelan murmured. The messenger's eyes fixed on him with a mix of desperation and relief. "I'm Kelan, a healer. Let me tend this."
The man nodded weakly, biting back a groan as Kelan carefully probed the injury. The arrow was barbed—removing it would cause more damage if done hastily. Kelan closed his eyes for a brief moment, centering himself despite the swirl of alarmed voices around them. With a steady breath, he extended his mind into the wound, dulling the pain and coaxing the muscle to relax. "Astrid, hot water and clean cloth," he said quietly. She sprang up to fetch them.
Meanwhile, Dennor and Gannon arrived at the scene. Gannon barked at onlookers, "Give the man some space! And bar that gate!" He turned to the sentries above. "Keep a sharp watch!"
As Astrid returned with supplies, Kelan worked swiftly. He had no time for subtlety. He deadened the nerves around the wound, gripped the arrow, and pulled it free in one smooth motion. The messenger grunted, body tensing, but Kelan immediately sent a pulse of warmth through the torn flesh to staunch the bleeding. Astrid pressed a cloth to the wound, and under Kelan's guiding hands the blood flow soon slowed to a trickle.
"That will hold," he said, tying the bandage snugly.
Jarl Haesten was now crouched on the other side of the injured man. "You've come from the east?" Haesten asked, voice calm but urgent. "What news?"
The messenger struggled to sit up, and Gannon braced him from behind. "From High Glen… rode two days straight," the man rasped. He looked around at the faces encircling him. "They're coming. An army, thousands strong. High Glen fell. They'll be here by spring."
A collective gasp rose, and then silence fell so complete that the crackling of a nearby torch was audible. Northhaven's people had heard rumors for weeks, but here at last was confirmation spoken through bloodied lips. Astrid's eyes widened as she absorbed the words, her hand unconsciously gripping Kelan's arm.
Haesten's jaw clenched. "Did you see their leader?"
The messenger nodded, swallowing. "A warlord… calls himself Vorannis, the 'Wolf of the Steppe.' He's united the eastern tribes into one horde. Horsemen beyond count… archers… siege engines…." He shuddered at the memory.
A murmur of horror rippled through the onlookers. Dennor set a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder. "You did well to get here. Rest now."
The messenger swallowed. "Vorannis sends a message: 'Bow or be broken. Come spring, I will sweep the north clean.'"
His last words fell like stones into a silent pond. Kelan felt Astrid's grip on his arm tremble ever so slightly. Rage flickered across Gannon's weathered face, and Haesten's eyes blazed. Yet the jarl took a deep breath and nodded grimly. "You've done your duty. Northhaven will not forget it. Get this man to the hall and tend him well."
Two guards carefully lifted the wounded messenger, and Kelan rose to go with them, intent on continuing treatment. But Haesten caught Kelan's shoulder. "Thank you, healer," he said quietly. "We'll speak soon, but now I must summon the council." He then directed Astrid to help bring in any families from outlying farms behind the walls.
Astrid straightened, trying to mask her fear with determination. Gannon began barking orders to bolster watch shifts, and runners were dispatched to call the clan leaders for an emergency council meeting at dusk.
Kelan and Dennor accompanied the messenger to the great hall, where they settled him by the hearth. The man had slipped into an exhausted sleep—shock and relief overtaking him. Kelan left him in the care of a couple of experienced village women who had helped with injuries before. They would keep him warm and watch for any fever. Kelan had already sown the seeds of healing in the leg wound; infection would be the main risk now, but he would attend to that later.
As he stepped back outside, the gravity of what they'd heard sank fully in. The eastern warlord had a name now—Vorannis—and the danger was no longer distant rumor but a crushing certainty. Kelan felt a knot of anxiety form in his stomach. Thousands of warriors. Even with all the gathered clans, Northhaven had only a few hundred fighters. He had seen the town's militia drilling with spears and bows in recent weeks, but facing a professional horde with siege engines was another matter entirely.
By dusk, snow had begun to fall in fine, icy flakes. Kelan made his way to the longhouse where Northhaven's council met, a sturdy log building just off the main square. Light spilled through the narrow windows, and two guards at the door let him pass with respectful nods. Inside, the air was thick with the smoke of torches and the low rumble of many voices.
Around a long table sat the leaders of the assembled clans and key figures of the town. Jarl Haesten presided at the head, flanked by Elder Svena of Hartfell, a wiry woman with keen eyes, and Borik of Stone Bear, a broad man with braided gray hair. Dennor stood near Haesten's side as an advisor, and he beckoned Kelan to join him. Kelan slipped in quietly, aware that he was likely the youngest in the room and technically held no official position. Still, no one objected to his presence—many gave him small nods or murmured greetings, remembering his healing deeds.
Haesten addressed the council somberly. After fierce debate, they resolved to fortify Northhaven and hold it. Scouts would harry the enemy in the mountain passes, and riders would depart at dawn to warn other towns and seek aid from the south. It was a tenuous plan, but all agreed the clans would not bow to Vorannis.
"We have one advantage they don't expect," Gannon pointed out, glancing toward Kelan and Dennor. Immediately, all eyes turned to the two mind-mages.
Borik didn't mince words. "Can your powers kill, as well as heal?" he asked bluntly.
The directness of the question made Kelan's chest tighten. A hush fell in the hall awaiting an answer. He glanced at Dennor, who gave him an encouraging nod.
Kelan took a breath. "My abilities have grown. I can defend as well as heal," he said carefully. "I can strike down some enemies—stop a heart or knock a man senseless—if I must. And I can heal our wounded to keep warriors fighting."
A chorus of murmurs—astonishment, approval, a touch of unease—met his words. The leaders had suspected Kelan's potential, but hearing him calmly acknowledge he could snuff out life was another matter.
Haesten held up a hand before anyone else could speak. "Kelan and Dennor's talents will be used as they see fit. I will not command a healer to murder for us. But," he looked Kelan in the eye, "if you are willing to use your power to help us survive, we will welcome it. The choice is yours."
They respected him enough to leave the moral choice in his hands—a heavy responsibility. "I understand," Kelan replied quietly. "I will do what I must to protect us."
Tension in the room eased slightly. Dennor then spoke up, calm and practical. "In the meantime, we will prepare medicines and train a few more to treat the wounded. Being ready for injuries will save lives."
Haesten acknowledged that with gratitude. The council went on to decide who would scout east (Gannon volunteered), how to evacuate the vulnerable westward, where to place archers, and how to signal for help. Kelan mostly listened, offering input only when asked about healing logistics.
By meeting's end, a rough strategy was set. It wasn't perfect—worry lingered in every face—but resolve burned brighter. The clans would not bow. They would fight for their homeland, no matter the odds.
Snowflakes speckled Haesten's hair as he spoke softly to Kelan and Dennor outside the longhouse. "Thank you again, Kelan. You saved that messenger's life—and have done more for our folk than we could ask. I won't demand you ever go against your conscience."
Kelan met the jarl's earnest gaze. "I give you my word: I'll do all I can."
Haesten set a firm hand on Kelan's shoulder. "I know you will. We'll all be counting on each other." He allowed himself a brief smile. "And for what it's worth, I'm glad my daughter has a friend like you in these times."
Kelan flushed and stammered, but Haesten held up a hand. "No need for formality. Just keep that promise—to help however you can. We'll all be counting on each other." With that, he turned to attend to other matters.
As Kelan and Dennor walked away through the snow, Dennor gave a sympathetic smile. "The weight grows heavier, doesn't it?"
Kelan nodded slowly. He felt it indeed—the expectations, the responsibility. "I won't lie, I'm afraid," he admitted softly.
His mentor's eyes twinkled kindly. "Courage isn't never feeling fear, Kelan. It's acting despite it. And I have seen your heart—you will do what is right when the time comes."
They passed clusters of townsfolk busy with war preparations even at this late hour—smiths hammering iron, fletchers bundling arrows, neighbors packing wagons for those leaving at first light. The air smelled of snow and anxiety.
As they neared the now-quiet great hall, Astrid emerged, bundled in a cloak. She spotted Kelan and hurried over, her expression resolved but softening slightly upon seeing him.
"How is the messenger?" she asked.
"Resting. He'll live," Kelan answered.
Astrid let out a breath. "Good. I arranged quarters for some families from the outlying steadings. We'll have more people inside the walls than ever. It's going to be close quarters."
They fell into step together. Dennor excused himself with a pat on Kelan's arm, heading off to gather more herbs. Kelan and Astrid continued slowly along the snowy lane under the lanterns.
After a stretch of silence Astrid spoke, her tone gentle. "I heard what you said in the council… about what you can do." She looked up at him, concern in her eyes. "Stopping hearts, striking people down—it's hard to reconcile with the kind healer I know."
"It's nothing I ever wanted," Kelan said quietly. "Dennor taught me in case I had no choice. I haven't used it on a person—and I hope I never have to." He looked away. "You must think me monstrous for even having that power."
"Never," she said fiercely, stepping in front of him and taking his hands. Under the glow of a lantern she held his gaze. "You're kind and brave, carrying a burden none of us can truly understand. Whatever you do with your gift, I trust it will be for the right reasons."
Kelan felt a tightness in his throat at her words. He gently squeezed her hands. "Thank you. Your faith... it means a great deal to me."
Astrid managed a small smile. "If Vorannis expects us to roll over, he'll be sorry. He's never faced the north united," she said with pride.
They resumed walking, hands occasionally brushing in the cold. Before they parted outside her father's hall, she hesitated, then leaned up and pressed a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. "For luck," she whispered, before turning and disappearing into the snowy dark. Kelan stood there for a moment, heart lifted despite the grim day.
He returned to the cabin to find Dennor laying out bandages, herbs, and tools—methodically preparing for the worst. Kelan joined him wordlessly. Under the flickering lamplight they worked late into the night: grinding herbs, boiling linens, sorting medicines. The tedious tasks were oddly calming, each completed bundle of herbs or stack of bandages a small bulwark against the chaos to come.
As the wind howled and snow piled against the walls, Kelan found solace in knowing he was not alone—an entire community labored with him, and one steadfast young woman's faith gave him strength. Whatever came, he would do all he could for Northhaven.
Chapter 50
As winter waned, Northhaven transformed into a town on a war footing. The communal hall that had recently rung with festival songs now echoed with the clang of hammers and the hiss of quenched iron. Blacksmiths toiled day and night reforging scythes into swords and sharpening stacks of arrowheads. The air smelled constantly of coal smoke and hot metal. On the snowy practice field by the palisade, lines of clan warriors drilled with spear and shield until their breaths came hard and white in the frigid air.
Kelan split his days between the healing cabin and the training grounds. In the mornings he and Dennor organized supplies—rolling bandages, brewing large batches of woundwort poultice, and packing medicine kits for each squad of warriors. A few village youths with steady hands had been recruited to assist them, and Kelan taught these apprentices simple techniques: how to clean a wound, how to splint a break. Their eyes were wide as they learned, knowing these skills might soon save their kin.
Each afternoon, Kelan took time to observe the fighters. He was no soldier, but he found value in understanding how battles might play out. Gannon often led sparring sessions in the yard, and Kelan watched from atop a fence rail or while lugging water for the trainees. Archers from the Hartfell clan held contests of aim, their arrows thudding into painted targets on straw bales. Even Astrid, along with a cadre of young scouts, practiced daily—running through the woods outside the walls and back, despite the crusted snow, to build endurance.
Word from the scouts trickled in every few days. Vorannis's horde had not yet reached the high passes before the valley; they seemed to be encamped on the eastern plains, waiting out the worst of winter. That bought Northhaven precious time—time the townsfolk used to fortify. Under Borik's direction, teams felled tall pines and sharpened them into stakes to line the eastern approaches, while Elder Svena oversaw the digging of trench traps to be hidden under spring thaw. Every able pair of hands had a task, from the youngest children plaiting extra bowstrings to grandmothers boiling leather strips to reinforce shields.
During these strenuous days, Kelan continued to hone his mind-magic in whatever moments he could steal. In the dim predawn, he practiced lifting multiple objects with precision—levitating half a dozen iron ingots at once in the smithy before anyone else arrived, carefully moving them from forge to anvil. The blacksmith had blinked in surprise to find his heavy materials already neatly arranged, but Kelan never claimed credit. He did these things quietly, easing the burdens of others without fanfare.
On a few occasions, Kelan even sensed people's pain or fear moments before they cried out—a sign his mind-sense was sharpening. He practiced shielding his thoughts to not be overwhelmed, and tried to ignore the stray flickers of others' emotions (like the warm wave of affection he felt from Astrid one afternoon that nearly made him drop a crate in surprise).
One moonless night, about a month after the Midwinter Festival, a special council was called around the great bonfire. The winter sky was clear and stars glittered above as clan leaders, warriors, and even children gathered. It was time to invoke the blessings of the gods and the ancestors for the battle to come.
Old priestess Edda stepped forward in the firelight, just as she had during the festival, but this time her garb was different. She wore a cloak of snowy owl feathers that fluttered in the cold breeze, and carried a staff crowned with a carved raven's head. In a slow, ringing voice she led the crowd in an ancient war-chant. The people responded in unison at each pause, their voices low and resolute, vibrating in Kelan's chest. He stood near the front beside Astrid and Dennor, the heat of the bonfire at his face and the chill night at his back.
After the chant, Edda raised her hands high. "Spirits of our forebears, heed us!" she cried. "We stand on the knife's edge of doom and destiny. Guide our blades, strengthen our shields, and if it be your will—" here she lowered her arms slowly, "reveal to us the path of victory."
The flames roared upward suddenly, sparks spiraling into the sky. Many gasped—Kelan too felt an otherworldly stirring, as if some presence drifted through the gathering. Edda's milky eyes rolled back and she trembled. Two attendants stepped forward, either to support or restrain her, but her voice came clear and strong, transformed by prophecy.
"In the darkest hour of winter's waning," intoned the priestess in an echoing tone, "a mind of light and shadow shall stand among you. By his hand shall life bind death and death yield life. United under the raven banner, the clans will prevail when the healer's fury is unleashed upon the field."
Kelan's heart thudded in his chest. He felt Astrid reach for his hand and squeeze it tightly. There was no mistaking that Edda spoke of him. Awe and dread washed through Kelan as people in the crowd began to whisper and glance his way.
Edda shuddered and nearly collapsed as the trance left her. Haesten and another man rushed to her side. She seemed spent, but a small, knowing smile crept onto her lips when Haesten quietly asked if she was alright. The priestess nodded, as if to say the message had been delivered.
Murmurs rippled outward. Kelan caught fragments as people began to talk excitedly: "...the healer's fury… must mean Kelan…", "...prophecy favors us…", "...the gods send a champion…"
Heat rose to Kelan's face. He had never wanted to be the center of attention like this. Dennor placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, leaning in to speak over the crackle of the fire and buzz of voices. "Easy, lad. Breathe."
Astrid's hand remained firmly around Kelan's. When he met her eyes, he saw concern, pride, and reassurance all mingled. She gave a slight nod, as if to say she believed what Edda had proclaimed.
Jarl Haesten raised his arms for silence, and gradually the crowd stilled again. Without naming names, Haesten seized the moment. "The ancestors give us hope in our midst," he declared. "We will fight with courage. Each of us has a part to play—mortal and spirit alike stand together!" He lifted a torch high. "For Northhaven! For the clans!"
A great cheer erupted. Swords and axes were raised to the sky. The clans were fired with belief now; Kelan could almost touch the resolve that burned in their collective spirit. Yet he stood there nearly overwhelmed. He was being cast as some sort of harbinger—a tool of fate.
Later that night, as the gathering dispersed and people returned to their homes, Kelan lingered by the dying bonfire to collect himself. Most accepted Edda's prophecy eagerly—anything to cling to hope against a seemingly invincible foe. But Kelan knew hope alone wouldn't win this war; it would take action, sacrifice, and likely more blood than anyone cared to admit under the celebratory roar.
Dennor stayed beside him, quietly tending the fire with a staff. When only Kelan and a few others remained, Dennor spoke softly, "You needn't become what they expect."
Kelan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "But what if that's the only way? If I fail to save them…"
Dennor turned, the firelight carving gentle lines on his worn face. "Prophecies may guide, but they don't bind you. You are still Kelan—not a weapon or a symbol, just a man trying to do right."
Kelan swallowed and nodded, drawing strength from his mentor's steady presence.
"If unleashing my fury will save these people, I'll do it," Kelan said quietly. "I only fear what I'll become in doing so."
Dennor draped an arm around Kelan's shoulders as they walked back through the snow. "That's why you have friends—and me," he said softly. "To remind you who you are, if that moment comes. And to guide you back afterward."
They passed the palisade, where on the platforms above, sentries kept watch with torches lighting their vigil. The night was deathly cold, but inside Northhaven's walls the glow of hearths still showed that many remained awake—sharpening weapons, whispering prayers, or simply holding loved ones close.
Before sleeping, Kelan climbed to the lookout above the gate. The world beyond the palisade lay silent under the moon. He reached out with his mind and sensed only the faint sparks of Northhaven's distant scouts; beyond that, nothing stirred yet. If Vorannis had sorcerers, they remained far out of reach. He took a measure of comfort from the quiet night and the calm resolve he felt radiating from the town behind him.
Soon, spring would arrive, the passes would clear, and war would crash upon them. Kelan understood that the weight on his shoulders was great, but he no longer bore it alone. An entire community labored with him, and one steadfast young woman's faith gave him strength. Whatever came, he would do all he could for Northhaven.
Chapter 51
A brittle chill still clung to the late winter air, but the first signs of spring seeped through—longer days, drip of meltwater from eaves, the softening of snow underfoot. With those signs came the news Northhaven had awaited and dreaded: Vorannis's horde was on the move. A scout returned at dawn one day, breathless and red-faced from a hard ride through the night, to report that thousands of troops were winding their way into the high mountain pass. The enemy would reach the valley in less than a fortnight.
The town sprang into final action. As planned, the remaining elders, children, and those unable to fight were escorted westward to safer villages beyond the far hills. It was a tearful, hurried affair—wagons loaded with blankets and provisions creaked out through Northhaven's gates, surrounded by a small guard of militia for protection. Kelan helped hoist bundles and offered gentle assurances to anxious mothers and wide-eyed youngsters. One grey-haired grandmother pressed a trembling kiss to his cheek in thanks as he lifted her onto a wagon seat. A little boy Kelan had healed earlier that winter ran back at the last moment to hug his legs before being hurried along. These simple gestures nearly undid him. He watched in quiet sorrow as families parted, uncertain if they would ever reunite.
By afternoon, only the defenders remained in the town—some three hundred men and women of various clans, grim-faced and determined. In the relative hush after the evacuees left, Northhaven's streets felt eerily empty. Warriors checked their weapons in silence, and final positions were assigned along the walls and at the gates. Astrid was given command of a unit of twenty scouts and archers who would patrol just outside the walls, harrying any probing enemy parties. Gannon took charge of a reserve force near the main gate, ready to reinforce any weak point. Kelan and Dennor organized their cadre of field medics and runners in a makeshift infirmary set up in the great hall.
That evening, Haesten convened one last council of war atop the rampart overlooking the eastern plain. Kelan attended with Dennor, standing a few paces behind the row of clan leaders as they surveyed the darkening horizon. Far beyond, where the mountain pass opened out, faint campfires flickered—pinpricks of orange in the distant dusk. The enemy's outriders had already descended into the valley.
"They'll be upon us soon," Haesten said quietly. "Perhaps two days until their vanguard arrives." The wind carried his words off in white puffs.
Borik spat over the wall. "Let them come. The first wave will pay dearly."
Elder Svena closed her eyes and murmured a prayer under her breath. Astrid, standing beside her father with a bow slung on her back, gripped the stone battlement so hard her knuckles were bloodless. Kelan sensed the mixture of fear and resolve that gripped everyone present. He clenched his own hands to stop them from trembling.
Haesten turned to the fighters along the wall and raised his voice. "The enemy is near! Hold fast and trust one another. We stand for our homes and family, with the ancestors beside us!"
A low rumble of affirmation came from the warriors. Torches sputtered along the length of the palisade, casting a wavering light on steeled faces. Kelan caught Astrid's eye as she glanced back toward him. She managed a thin, confident smile that did not entirely hide the tension in her jaw.
That night, Northhaven slept little. A watch alarm came just before midnight—a few enemy scouts testing the outer pickets. Astrid's patrol engaged them in the dark beyond a copse of firs east of the town. Kelan, who had been dozing in his clothes near the infirmary hearth, awoke to the horn's blare and rushed outside in time to see distant torchlight and hear the clash of steel.
The skirmish was brief. Astrid's scouts returned through the gates not long after, supporting two of their number who were limping and bloodied, and carrying a third on a makeshift stretcher. They had slain or driven off the intruders, but not without cost—one young man, no older than seventeen, had taken a spear thrust to the belly.
Kelan directed them to bring the wounded into the hall. The injured boy, Tarec of the Frost Elk clan, was deathly pale and gasping as they laid him on a table. The spear had gone clean through. Kelan pressed his hands over the entry and exit wounds and sent his mind inside. The spear had mangled organs and unleashed dangerous bleeding.
He poured healing energy into the boy, knitting torn vessels and tissue as best he could. Tarec writhed and cried out until Dennor and two others held him down. Astrid stood at his head, murmuring reassurance through her tears.
After long, harrowing minutes, Kelan withdrew, arms shaking. He had done all he could—the bleeding was stanched and the worst damage mended, but Tarec was in shock. Another medic moved in to wrap the wounds tightly and swaddle the boy in blankets.
Outside the room, Gannon appeared, grim and panting. "They won't try that again tonight," he panted. "We dropped three of them. All other outposts are clear."
Gannon's hard expression softened as he surveyed the wounded. "This is just the beginning," he muttered. "We'll see worse by sunrise."
He clasped Astrid's shoulder and squeezed Kelan's in silent thanks, then trudged back out into the dark to resume his duties.
Astrid lingered by Kelan's side while Dennor and the others settled the wounded boy by the hearth. Thanks to Kelan's intervention, Tarec lived, though barely. Kelan wiped sweat from his brow and realized his hands were sticky with the boy's blood. The metallic scent of it filled the hall.
"He'll make it," Kelan said quietly, more to convince himself than anyone. "He's young and strong."
Astrid nodded absently, her eyes on Tarec's ashen face. "He shouldn't have been out there. Seventeen… He insisted on proving himself." Her voice was tight with anger and pain. "The one who stabbed him, I—" She broke off, but Kelan sensed what she didn't say. Astrid herself had likely slain the man responsible in the fury of battle.
Kelan gently guided her a step away, giving the medics room to work. He noticed Astrid had a shallow cut along her upper arm, oozing blood. "You're hurt," he said, reaching out.
She looked down as if noticing the gash for the first time. "It's nothing."
Nonetheless, Kelan placed a hand over the wound. A brief wash of warmth, a thought of clean closure, and the bleeding stopped, flesh knitting under her torn sleeve. Astrid watched and managed a weary smile. "Handy, that."
They moved into the quieter shadows of the hall's entry, away from the wounded being tended. Outside, the horn-call had ceased; the night was still again, save for the distant bark of orders along the walls as defenses were reset.
Astrid took a shaky breath. "So it begins."
Kelan didn't reply immediately. He glanced around at the shadowed interior of the hall—the same space where not long ago they'd danced and laughed. Now it was a field hospital, already with its first grievously injured patient. War had arrived on their doorstep, and the true battle hadn't even begun.
Seeing Astrid's eyes glisten in the lantern-light, Kelan reached out and gently drew her into his arms. This time, she did not hesitate or pull away. She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his collar for a moment.
"I was so scared," she admitted in a whisper. "Out there in the dark... when Tarec went down, I thought we'd lose him. And part of me feared I'd come back to find you hurt, or—or worse."
Kelan tightened his embrace. "I'm alright. And you brought your people back alive—that's what matters."
She lifted her head to look at him, her face inches from his. The adrenaline of the fight still lingered in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "If I lost you, Kelan…" she started, then shook her head. "We have so much yet to do. I shouldn't think that way."
"You won't lose me," Kelan said, attempting a reassuring smile. He gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "I'm not that easy to kill, remember?"
She gave a soft huff of laughter, half-sob. "Maybe the spirits truly are watching over you."
For a moment, despite the distant groans of the wounded and the knowledge of looming battle, they found a small bubble of solace in each other's presence. Astrid reached up and pulled Kelan's face down to hers. This kiss was born of fear and longing, fiercer and more desperate than before. Kelan returned it with equal fervor, tasting salt from either tears or sweat—he wasn't sure and didn't care.
When they broke apart, both were breathing a little unsteadily. Astrid kept her hands clasped behind his neck, her brow against his. "Just promise me," she whispered, "when the fighting comes, you won't be reckless. I couldn't bear to lose you."
"I promise," he said huskily. "I'll be careful. I have someone to come home to."
Astrid closed her eyes and nodded, a tear finally escaping to slip down her cheek. Kelan wiped it away with his thumb, leaving a clean streak through the grime on her face.
Footsteps approached and one of Astrid's lieutenants appeared at the doorway, respectfully averting his eyes from the tender scene. "Commander Astrid," he said, "we're ready to head back out on patrol."
Astrid pulled away from Kelan, straightening her shoulders. In a heartbeat, she was every inch the warrior again, composed and in command. "I'll be right there," she replied. The man returned outside to wait.
She turned back to Kelan, squeezing his hand once hard. "Rest if you can. Tomorrow will be…" She trailed off.
"Tomorrow will be difficult," Kelan finished quietly. "But we'll face it."
She nodded and gave him one last searching look, as if committing his face to memory, then she was gone—jogging out into the cold darkness to resume her duties.
Kelan remained where he was for a few breaths, grounding himself. He could still feel the tingling imprint of her lips on his, the warmth of her body against his—a stark contrast to the cold dread creeping into his stomach when he thought of what dawn might bring.
He returned to check on Tarec (still alive, thanks to Kelan's intervention, though unconscious) and to assist with a few more minor injuries among the patrol. When things calmed toward the early hours of morning, Dennor all but ordered Kelan to lie down and rest, pointing out that his hands were shaking from fatigue.
Stretching out on a cot in the corner of the hall, Kelan finally closed his eyes. The taste of Astrid's kiss and the copper tang of blood still lingered with him. He understood now, viscerally, that prophecy or no prophecy, he was as mortal as any man when steel clashed and arrows flew. His powers gave him an edge, but not invincibility.
And yet, despite the fear gnawing at him, there was a grim determination in his heart. The vision of those distant campfires was burned into his mind. By tomorrow or the next day, those fires would be on Northhaven's doorstep. He would meet them with everything he had—both the gentle healer's hands and the terrible force coiled within him.
As Kelan drifted into an uneasy sleep, the first faint light of false dawn began to creep into the sky. The last day of winter was over. Outside, a lone raven cawed in the darkness and took wing toward the east, as if carrying word that the final confrontation was at hand.
Chapter 52
Dawn broke on the day of battle with a strange, deceptive beauty. The sky was clear, tinted rose and gold, and the last crusts of snow glittered on the fields. But as the sun climbed, it revealed a dark mass moving across the eastern plain: Vorannis's army had arrived.
From his position atop the gatehouse, Kelan felt his stomach lurch at the sight. In the distance, beyond the range of arrows, thousands of figures swarmed—a seemingly endless tide of warriors in lamellar armor and furs, banners of crimson and black fluttering among them. He could make out the glint of spearpoints and the shapes of siege towers being dragged forward by teams of oxen. Drums began to pound, a deep rhythmic thunder that matched the quickening beat of his own heart.
Northhaven's defenders lined the wooden walls two or three deep now. Archers already had arrows nocked, waiting tensely for the order to draw. Spearmen manned the palisade walkways, their pikes angled out through the sharpened stakes that bristled from the ramparts. The town had never felt smaller to Kelan than at this moment, facing that vast host.
A horn blast from the enemy lines heralded the approach of a lone rider under a crude white banner. The figure halted halfway between the horde and the town. In a booming voice amplified by some horn or perhaps magic, the herald called out: "People of Northhaven! The Wolf of the Steppe offers you one last chance: Open your gates, lay down your arms, and submit to Lord Vorannis. Refuse, and be utterly destroyed!"
Without a word, Astrid nocked an arrow and loosed it from her watchtower. It arced high and fell to earth not ten paces from the envoy's horse—a wordless answer. The rider wheeled around and galloped back to the lines.
"So be it!" the distant voice echoed back across the field.
Haesten raised his sword above his head where he stood on the rampart. "Archers to the ready!" he barked. Along the wall, the archers drew in unison, bowstrings creaking. Kelan, stationed near Haesten with a small group of medics and runners, gripped the cold wood of the railing. Below in the courtyard, Edda clutched a raven-emblazoned banner and whispered prayers. Kelan silently added his own plea to whatever powers might listen: let us have the strength to endure.
A second horn blast came, this one from Northhaven's gatehouse. "Loose!" Haesten shouted.
The first volley of arrows darkened the morning sky, hissing toward the oncoming ranks. In the distance, faint screams and shouts marked their deadly arrival. The battle for Northhaven had begun.
Almost immediately, the enemy answered. A storm of arrows whistled back in reply, rattling off the timber walls, thudding into shields. One northern archer toppled with a cry two paces to Kelan's left, an arrow jutting from his shoulder. Kelan dashed over, heedless of the missiles flying overhead. With a swift yank he pulled the arrow free and clamped a hand over the wound, pumping a burst of healing power. The man gasped at the sudden relief, flexing his arm and finding it sound; he nodded gratefully, picked up his fallen bow, and resumed firing.
Kelan returned to his vantage and looked out as the enemy forces advanced within a few hundred yards of the town. He could distinguish individual warriors now—a front line of shield-bearers, behind them halberdiers and archers marching in disciplined formation. Among them strode hulking figures draped in bear hides—perhaps the warlord's elite guard. He swallowed hard, searching the throng for any sign of Vorannis himself. If he could spot the leader… But Vorannis remained hidden amid the sea of troops toward the rear.
An enormous siege engine rolled forward—a towering structure of wood on iron-bound wheels. It would reach the walls in minutes if not stopped. "Fire the pits!" Haesten commanded. A torch-bearing warrior plunged a brand into a trench concealed before the gates. With a whoosh, oil-soaked kindling ignited, sending a line of flames roaring up along the field. One of the siege tower's wheels sank into a camouflaged pit and shattered, lurching the structure sideways. A ragged cheer went up from the walls.
Kelan felt a surge of fierce hope at that small victory, but it was quickly tempered. More siege towers trundled behind the first, and sections of the enemy host were maneuvering around the flaming trench, finding spots untouched by their traps.
The pounding drums of the horde beat faster. The air filled with the terrifying din of war cries in dozens of languages, the clangor of cymbals and roars of beasts driving war-carts. Under that cacophony, Kelan's world seemed to narrow to the length of the wall and the people fighting upon it. Time itself became strange—moments of frenzied activity followed by instants of clarity.
In one such instant, Kelan realized his hands were steady, his mind eerily calm. Fear had transmuted into focus. He had a role to play here: not to stand idle, but to be the fulcrum between life and death that Edda's prophecy foretold.
Down by the gate, Gannon's reserve force braced as a battering ram rumbled toward the oak doors. Kelan could not be everywhere at once; he trusted the gate defenders to hold for now. Instead, he focused on an enemy squad that had managed to push close to the south corner of the palisade, raising tall ladders against the wood despite the rain of northern arrows. With a deep breath, Kelan centered his mind on the base of one ladder crawling with armored soldiers. He clenched his fist and yanked downward with his will. The ladder wrenched back and toppled, warriors spilling and screaming as they hit the frozen ground. A second ladder followed with another sharp gesture, crashing onto the men trying to steady it.
A strange, almost frightening exhilaration coursed through Kelan as he realized the extent of his influence on the unfolding battle. Lives saved with one hand, lives ended with the other—truly a mind of light and shadow.
But with that power came the heavy weight of responsibility. Every time he chose to strike, he had to accept what it meant. He reminded himself of Tarec's pale face, of little children hugging him before leaving, of Astrid's desperate kiss. He was doing this for them—for all the innocents depending on Northhaven's victory. His fury was for their sake, and he would wield it without regret.
A deep horn blast sounded from the enemy lines—a signal for all-out assault. Vorannis was done testing the defenses; now he threw his full strength forward. The horde surged like a tide, flooding the field with hate and iron. The ground literally shook beneath the onslaught. Northhaven's walls creaked and shuddered as grappling hooks latched on and hundreds of foes began to climb.
Kelan stood atop the gatehouse amid a knot of defenders, eyes blazing. A hook caught the parapet near him; he slashed the rope with a fallen axe and sent the attackers tumbling back. To his left, an enemy warrior who had reached the top of the wall hacked a clansman down. Kelan didn't hesitate—he seized the attacker's heart with an invisible grip and squeezed. The man stiffened, a strangled sound escaping his throat, then collapsed lifeless from the ladder. Kelan's stomach churned at the act, but he shoved the feeling aside. There was no time for doubt, not now.
Across the battlements, Astrid's arrows flew relentlessly, each shot carefully picking off an officer or a torch-bearer trying to set fire to the palisade. She caught Kelan's eye briefly through the melee and gave him a fierce grin, as if to say We can do this. He drew strength from her unwavering courage.
Dennor, down in the courtyard, was already treating the first wave of serious injuries brought from the front. Over the din, Kelan heard him shouting for a runner. He caught a glimpse of his mentor's gray hair bent over a wounded fighter, hands glowing softly as he mended a gash. Seeing Dennor calmly saving lives amidst chaos reassured Kelan; it anchored him to his purpose.
All around, battle raged with a ferocity Kelan could scarcely comprehend. Yet amid the chaos, he found clarity. This crucible of life and death was what every step of his journey had led him to.
Drawing a steadying breath, Kelan descended into the fray. The charged air of destiny pressed on him, but under that weight, he did not buckle.
As Kelan stepped forward, he felt both facets of his gift alive within him – the gentle warmth in one hand to heal, the cold fire in the other to destroy. This was the fulcrum on which Northhaven's fate would pivot, and he would hold that balance for as long as needed.
Whatever came next, he would face it head-on. The weight of destiny pressed upon him, but his heart was steady. He would not falter in protecting all that he loved.