Three days into their journey, the storm hit. It descended from the higher peaks without warning, transforming the already treacherous mountain paths into whipping corridors of snow and ice. The temperature plummeted as darkness fell, the wind howling between ancient pines with voices that seemed almost human in their lamentation.
"We need shelter," Kitra shouted over the gale, her words immediately torn away. Snow clung to her dark eyebrows and eyelashes, her cheeks reddened from cold despite the scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face.
Fynnarin nodded, squinting against the stinging snow. They had been following game trails through increasingly unfamiliar territory, climbing steadily higher into the Whitecrest Mountains. According to the book—which had indeed revealed new information as they traveled—a settlement of Wild-Blooded called Raven's Perch lay three days' journey further, nestled in a hidden valley accessible only through a narrow mountain pass.
If they survived to reach it.
"This way," he called back, gesturing toward a dark outcropping of rock ahead. His instincts—sharper now, as though awakened by his transformation during the bear attack—sensed rather than saw the possibility of shelter.
They pressed forward, leaning into the wind that threatened to topple them with each step. Fynnarin led the way, breaking trail through snow that had already accumulated to mid-calf depth. The cold bit at his exposed skin, but underneath he felt that same strange heat that had manifested during the fight, keeping his core temperature stable despite the brutal conditions.
The outcropping, when they reached it, revealed a narrow fissure in the mountainside—not quite a cave, but a deep crevice where two massive slabs of granite had split apart ages ago. It was just wide enough for them to slip inside sideways, opening into a space perhaps twelve feet deep and eight feet across at its widest point.
Most importantly, it blocked the wind.
"Thank the Architects," Kitra breathed as they squeezed into the relative calm of the shelter. She immediately shrugged off her snow-crusted pack and began digging through it with fingers stiff from cold.
"Not the Architects," Fynnarin murmured, running his hand along the stone wall. "Something older, I think."
The rock face was marked with ancient carvings, barely visible in the dim light—spiraling patterns and animal forms that seemed to shift and move as shadows played across them. At the center of the far wall was a symbol identical to the one on the cover of Mirwen's book: the circle containing the figure that changed from human to beast depending on how you viewed it.
"This place was known to the Wild-Blooded," he said with certainty.
Kitra paused in her unpacking to examine the markings. "Convenient that we found it, then."
"Not convenience. Guidance." Fynnarin touched the central symbol, feeling a faint warmth emanate from the otherwise cold stone. "I've been sensing things since we left Thornvale. Impressions. Directions. As though... as though the land itself recognizes what flows in my veins."
She studied him with a mixture of fascination and concern. "The blood of many waters," she quoted. "That's what the voice called you, right? What do you think it means?"
"I'm not sure yet." He helped her arrange their supplies, laying out wet outer garments to dry and gathering what little dry kindling they could find to start a small fire at the mouth of the crevice, where the smoke could escape without choking them.
As they worked, Fynnarin felt the book calling to him from his pack. Since leaving Thornvale, he had studied it whenever they rested, discovering that new text appeared with each reading—but only when he was ready to understand it. The strange language remained perfectly comprehensible to him while appearing as indecipherable markings to Kitra.
Once they had a small fire crackling, sending blessed warmth into their shelter, he retrieved the book and settled against the wall. Kitra busied herself preparing a simple meal from their provisions, giving him the privacy she'd learned he needed for his readings.
The book fell open to a page that had been blank that morning. Now it was filled with flowing script beneath a detailed illustration of a mountain range that looked remarkably like the one they currently traversed.
The Passage of Awakening demands sacrifice, the text began. Those of mixed lineage carry the heaviest burden, for the Wild-Blood flows differently through veins also filled with other heritage. The first transformation comes in moments of extremity—danger, fear, rage. But true mastery requires willing submission to the Change.
Fynnarin's heart raced as he continued reading. According to the text, those with Wild-Blood were descendants of ancient shape-shifters who had once been the guardians of the natural world. In the earliest days of Aldermere, before the kingdom was founded, these beings had lived openly among other races. Some had interbred with humans and elves, passing their abilities through bloodlines that grew increasingly diluted through the generations.
Yet even the smallest measure of Wild-Blood maintains its potency, the book explained. It merely awaits the proper catalyst to awaken. For those of mixed heritage, this awakening is often violent and unexpected. Control comes only through understanding and acceptance of one's dual nature.
The next section detailed the process of consciously initiating transformation—a ritual requiring focus, will, and a clear understanding of the specific beast-form one's bloodline carried.
"What does it say?" Kitra asked, passing him a tin cup of hot broth made from dried meat and herbs.
Fynnarin accepted the cup gratefully, letting its warmth seep into his fingers. "It talks about transformation. About how to control it rather than having it triggered by danger." He hesitated, then added, "According to this, my mixed heritage—human and elven—makes the Wild-Blood more unpredictable in me. Harder to control."
"But possible?" She settled beside him, their shoulders touching as they huddled near the small fire.
"Yes. Through practice. Through... accepting it rather than fighting it." He took a sip of the broth, remembering how he had instinctively resisted the transformation even as it overcame him during the bear attack. "The book calls it 'the Change'."
"So what form would you take?" Kitra asked pragmatically. "The bear you fought?"
"No. The book says each bloodline has its own beast-form." Fynnarin frowned, trying to recall fragments of conversation he'd overheard between his parents years ago. "My father once mentioned his family came from the northern river valleys. He said our ancestors were... river guardians, I think."
"Otters?" Kitra suggested with the hint of a smile.
Despite their predicament, Fynnarin found himself laughing. "Something a bit more formidable, I hope." The book in his lap seemed to grow warmer, and when he looked down, a new illustration had appeared on the page—a powerful wolf with distinctive silver-blue fur and unusual markings—a magnificent predator with eyes that seemed to shimmer like flowing water. Unlike ordinary wolves, this creature had slightly webbed paws and a sleeker build.
"A river wolf," he read from the text that materialized beneath the image.
"I've heard stories of such beings," Kitra said, peering at the page though she couldn't read its contents. "Wolves blessed by ancient water spirits. They can move through rivers and lakes as easily as forests, their magic allowing them to breathe underwater and swim with incredible speed. The northern tribes speak of them with reverence."
"The Blood of Many Waters," Fynnarin murmured, understanding dawning. "That's my lineage."
The storm continued to rage outside their shelter, but within, Fynnarin felt an odd sense of peace. For the first time since the bear attack, the pieces of his identity were beginning to align into something comprehensible, if not yet fully formed.
They finished their meal in companionable silence, then prepared for sleep as best they could in the confined space. Kitra took the first watch, insisting that Fynnarin needed rest to continue healing from his wounds, though they had improved remarkably fast—another aspect of his heritage, according to the book.
Despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. The book's instructions on conscious transformation circled in his mind, along with warnings about the dangers of attempting it without proper guidance. Yet something in him yearned to try—to take control of this power rather than waiting for it to overcome him in another moment of crisis.
The crevice's ancient markings seemed to pulse with faint luminescence in the dying firelight, encouraging rather than cautioning.
Finally, when Kitra's breathing had deepened into sleep during his watch, Fynnarin carefully set aside his blanket and moved to the center of the shelter where he could sit cross-legged with his back straight. The book lay open before him, its instructions clear:
Empty the human mind. Fill the beast's heart. Seek the flowing center where both exist as one. The Change begins not in flesh but in spirit.
He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing as the text suggested. In, out. Deep and measured. With each exhale, he released the tensions and fears that had accumulated since leaving Thornvale—the worry about pursuers, the uncertainty of their destination, the lingering pain of his healing wounds.
With each inhale, he drew in a different awareness—the scents of stone and snow, the distant cries of night birds braving the storm, the subtle movements of air currents through the crevice. His consciousness expanded beyond the confines of his human perceptions, touching senses that normally lay dormant.
Find the spark, the book had instructed. The seed of your other self that dwells always at your center.
Fynnarin turned his awareness inward, past thought, past emotion, seeking that core of difference he had always felt but never understood. Deep in meditation, he found it—a pulsing ember of wild energy that had flared to life during the bear attack but had never truly been extinguished afterward.
Embrace it. Do not command or control. Invite.
He reached for that spark mentally, not trying to grasp it but opening himself to its influence. The ember flared, sending tendrils of warmth outward through his body. His heartbeat quickened, but not with fear. A strange exhilaration filled him as the warmth intensified, racing along his limbs.
The sensation was both familiar and entirely new—similar to what had happened in the forest but gentler, more controlled. His skin prickled as though touched by summer sunlight. His senses sharpened impossibly, the sound of Kitra's breathing suddenly as loud as drums, the scent of snow and pine and stone overwhelming in its complexity.
Something shifted beneath his skin—not painful but profoundly strange, as though his muscles and bones were remembering a shape they had always been meant to take. He felt himself becoming stronger, more compact, his face extending slightly as his teeth sharpened. Around his hands, a faint blue shimmer appeared—the water magic manifesting, though not yet fully formed.
Alarm flashed through him, breaking his concentration. The transformation halted abruptly, leaving him gasping in his fully human form, but with lingering enhancements to his senses. His heart pounded as though he'd sprinted uphill, sweat beading his brow despite the chill air.
"Fynnarin?" Kitra's voice, thick with sleep. She sat up, immediately alert at the sight of him. "What happened? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," he assured her, trying to steady his breathing. "I was... practicing."
"The Change?" She moved closer, studying him with concern. "Did it work?"
"Partially. I think..." He flexed his fingers, still feeling phantom sensations of power tingling there. "I think I need more practice. And perhaps a safer place to attempt it fully."
She nodded, relief evident in her expression. "When we reach Ravensperch, then. They'll know how to guide you."
If we reach Ravensperch, Fynnarin thought but didn't say. The storm showed no signs of abating, and their supplies would only last another five days at most.
"Rest," he told her. "I'll keep watch until dawn."
Kitra hesitated, clearly wanting to discuss what had happened, but eventually nodded and returned to her bedroll. Soon her breathing deepened again, leaving Fynnarin alone with his thoughts and the fading echoes of transformation.
The book before him had turned to yet another new page. This one contained a warning:
The half-transformed state is dangerous to maintain. Either complete the Change or return fully to human form. The path between worlds was not meant to be walked for long.
Fynnarin closed the book carefully and tucked it away. Through the narrow opening of their shelter, he watched snow continue to fall, obscuring the world beyond. Somewhere out there lay their destination, and perhaps answers to the questions that had followed him from Thornvale.
But first, they had to survive the journey.
Dawn brought no respite from the storm. If anything, it had intensified overnight, transforming the mountainside into a white void broken only by the dark shapes of trees bent beneath the weight of accumulated snow.
"We can't travel in this," Kitra stated flatly, peering out from their shelter.
Fynnarin nodded, though frustration gnawed at him. Each day delayed was another day the Royal Army's trackers might be gaining on them—if indeed they were being pursued. Neither of them had seen signs of followers, but the possibility remained a constant shadow at the edges of his thoughts.
"We have enough food for a few days," he said, taking inventory of their supplies. "The storm can't last forever."
But it showed remarkable persistence. They remained trapped in the crevice for two more days, rationing their provisions and taking turns reading aloud from a small collection of folktales Kitra had brought—stories her grandmother had passed down, many featuring the mysterious forest folk that she now realized must have been Wild-Blooded.
On the morning of the third day, Fynnarin woke to silence. The howling wind that had been their constant companion had finally ceased. He moved carefully past Kitra's sleeping form to the entrance of their shelter and found a world transformed.
Snow blanketed everything in pristine white, glittering in the early sunlight. The storm had dropped at least three feet of fresh powder, obliterating any trace of the path they had followed. In the distance, the higher peaks of the Whitecrest range stood sharp against a sky of perfect blue.
Beauty and danger in equal measure.
"It stopped," Kitra observed, joining him at the entrance. The relief in her voice was palpable.
"Yes. But going will be difficult." Fynnarin studied the terrain, calculating. "Breaking trail through deep snow will slow us considerably. And there's avalanche risk on the steeper slopes."
Kitra's practical nature asserted itself. "Then we avoid the steep slopes and accept that we'll move slowly. Better than not moving at all." She began packing their belongings with methodical efficiency. "How far is Ravensperch now?"
Fynnarin consulted the book, which had become their primary guide. "Two days under normal conditions. Perhaps four with these." He gestured at the deep snow. "We'll need to be careful with our remaining food."
"We'll hunt," she said confidently. "Surely there's game even in these conditions."
Fynnarin nodded, though he knew winter hunting in the high mountains was far more challenging than in the lower forests around Thornvale. Still, his enhanced senses might give them an advantage.
They set out midmorning, after a meager breakfast of dried fruit and the last of their journey bread. Fynnarin led the way, using his greater height and strength to break a path through the snow. Each step required lifting his knee to hip height and plunging his foot downward, a labor that quickly became exhausting despite his unusual stamina.
By midday, they had covered less than a league. The forest had thinned as they climbed higher, giving way to scattered stands of weathered pines and open expanses where the snow had drifted even deeper. They paused on a ridge that offered a view of the valley below and the path ahead.
"There," Fynnarin said suddenly, pointing to a distant smudge of darkness against the white mountainside ahead. "Smoke."
Kitra squinted. "I don't see anything."
"Trust me." His vision had grown remarkably acute since beginning his attempts at transformation. He could make out details at distances that would have been impossible before. "It's too controlled to be a natural fire. Someone's there."
"Raven's Perch?" she asked hopefully.
He consulted the book again, comparing its maps to the terrain before them. "No. Ravensperch should be beyond that next ridgeline, in a protected valley. This is... something else."
Caution warred with curiosity and the practicalities of their situation. They were low on food, exhausted from breaking trail, and still far from their destination. Whoever was maintaining that fire might offer assistance—or danger.
"We should investigate," Kitra decided, ever practical. "Carefully."
They altered their course, angling toward the source of the smoke. Progress remained slow, but Fynnarin found a second wind as curiosity propelled him forward. Something about that distant fire called to him, though he couldn't have explained the sensation.
As they drew closer, his enhanced senses detected more: the faint scent of cooking meat, carried on the still air; the occasional sound of voices, though too distant to make out words; the sense of multiple presences gathered in one location.
"A camp of some kind," he told Kitra. "Several people."
"Refugees? Or the military?" Her hand drifted to the hammer at her belt—not much of a weapon, but better than nothing.
"I don't think it's military," Fynnarin said after a moment's consideration. The encampment lacked the orderly arrangement he would expect from Royal Army troops.
They approached with increasing caution, using the scattered trees for cover. When they were within a few hundred yards, Fynnarin signaled for them to crouch behind a fallen log crusted with snow.
From this vantage point, they could see that the smoke rose from a collection of hide tents arranged in a rough circle around a central fire pit. People moved between the structures—men and women dressed in furs and leathers adorned with bones and feathers that marked them as distinctly different from the inhabitants of Thornvale or any lowland settlements Fynnarin had heard described.
"Mountain folk," Kitra whispered. "I've heard of them, but never seen any."
The nomadic tribes of the highest peaks were legendary for their independence and distrust of outsiders. They acknowledged neither king nor magistrate, living by their own ancient laws and keeping largely to themselves. Relations with lowland villages like Thornvale were rare—occasional trading at the height of summer, but little more.
As Fynnarin studied the encampment, something significant struck him: despite the deep snow, the area immediately around the tents was relatively clear, with well-trodden paths between structures. There was no temporary camp established after the storm. These people had been here for some time.
"What do we do?" Kitra asked. "Approach openly or slip away?"
Before Fynnarin could answer, a voice spoke from directly behind them.
"If you're done deciding our fate, perhaps you'd like to explain why you're spying on our winter camp."
They spun to find themselves facing three hunters, bows drawn and arrows aimed steadily at their hearts. The speaker, a tall woman with intricate tattoos spiraling across her weathered face, regarded them with eyes as pale and cold as the winter sky.
Fynnarin slowly raised his hands, signaling Kitra to do the same. "We mean no harm," he said carefully. "We're travelers seeking shelter after the storm delayed our journey."
"Travelers." The tattooed woman's tone made the word sound like an accusation. "Few travel these mountains in winter without purpose." Her gaze sharpened as she studied Fynnarin more closely. "Especially those with mixed blood."
Something in her emphasis on those last words sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the snow beneath his knees. She knew. Somehow, she recognized what he was.
"We seek Ravensperch," he said, deciding that honesty offered their best chance. "I carry the Wild-Blood. I was told I might find... guidance there."
The woman's expression didn't change, but something shifted in her posture. She exchanged quick glances with her companions, a silent communication passing between them.
"Raven's Perch is gone," she said finally. "Destroyed by the king's men three summers past, when the old peace shattered. Those who survived scattered to the winds or sought refuge with allied tribes." Her pale eyes narrowed. "Like ours."
The news hit Fynnarin like a physical blow. Their destination—the safe haven Mirwen had directed them toward—no longer existed. The prospect of finding others like him, of learning to control his abilities, seemed suddenly remote.
"Then we've come all this way for nothing," Kitra said, voicing his despair.
The tattooed woman studied them a moment longer, then made a quick gesture to her companions. They lowered their bows, though they remained wary.
"That depends," she said, "on what you seek at Raven's Perch. If it was a sanctuary from the king's decree, we might still offer that. If it was understanding of the Old Blood, that too remains among us." A hint of a smile touched her stern features. "I am Essra, Spirit-Speaker of the Cloudwalker Tribe. And you, young one with the scent of rivers in your blood, are expected."
Fynnarin's surprise must have shown on his face, for Essra's almost-smile widened slightly.
"The dreamwalkers have seen your coming in the smoke visions. 'One of mixed heritage, with the River Wolf in his veins, fleeing the king's hunters.' Their words, not mine." She gestured toward the camp. "Come. The elders will want to speak with you."
Stunned by this turn of events, Fynnarin and Kitra exchanged glances. After a moment's hesitation, they rose and followed Essra and her hunters toward the encampment, leaving deep tracks in the pristine snow—tracks that led them away from one destiny and toward another they could not yet imagine.
As they approached the circle of tents, the activity in the camp slowed, then halted altogether as people turned to observe the newcomers. Fynnarin felt their gazes like physical touches—some curious, some suspicious, a few openly hostile.
"These are difficult times," Essra said quietly, noting his awareness of the reception. "The mountain tribes have always kept to themselves, but now the war below forces hard choices upon us. Some would turn away all outsiders. Others recognize that old alliances must be renewed if any are to survive."
She led them to the central fire pit, where several older men and women sat on carved wooden stools despite the cold. Their clothing was more elaborate than that of the other tribe members, decorated with complex beadwork and symbols Fynnarin recognized from the carvings in the stone shelter.
One man rose as they approached—ancient beyond reckoning, his dark skin creased with countless lines, yet his eyes remained sharp and alert. He wore a cloak made entirely of raven feathers, the iridescent black catching the sunlight as he moved.
"The river-child arrives," he announced in a voice surprisingly strong for one so aged. "As the smoke foretold."
Essra inclined her head respectfully. "Elder Corvus. I bring the one you saw in your visions. He seeks Ravensperch, not knowing its fate."
The old man's penetrating gaze fixed on Fynnarin. "Your blood speaks loudly, young one. The Wild-Blood runs true in you, though mixed with other streams." His attention shifted briefly to Kitra. "And you bring a shield-sister with hands that shape metal. Also foretold."
Kitra's eyes widened in surprise. Nothing about her current appearance suggested her work as a smith, yet the old man had named her role precisely.
"I am Fynnarin of Thornvale," Fynnarin said, feeling some introduction was needed. "This is Kitra, also of Thornvale. We left our village when we learned that the Royal Army was coming to conscript those with... unusual abilities."
Murmurs ran through the gathering crowd. Elder Corvus nodded gravely.
"The king's appetites grow with his victories. First he devours the rebel provinces, next the independent holdings, and now he reaches into the very mountains for weapons to wield." The old man gestured for them to approach. "Your timing is both fortunate and perilous, Fynnarin of Thornvale. Three days before your arrival, our scouts reported a Royal Army detachment crossing the lower passes, bearing the insignia of the Magister's Special Hunters."
Cold dread settled in Fynnarin's stomach. "They're following us?"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps they seek all with the Wild-Blood, using the recent storm as cover for their incursion into territories they would normally avoid." Corvus glanced at the other elders, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Regardless, their presence threatens us all. The question now is what role you will play in the coming confrontation."
"We want no part in any confrontation," Kitra interjected firmly. "We seek only understanding and safety."
Elder Corvus's expression softened slightly. "Noble sentiment, young smith. But some battles find us whether we seek them or not." He focused again on Fynnarin. "You carry an awakening gift but lack the knowledge to wield it fully. This much is written clearly in your aura. The River Wolf stirs in your blood, but it does not yet flow freely."
"I've been trying to understand," Fynnarin said, unconsciously touching the pouch where he carried Mirwen's book. "To learn control."
"Control," Essra scoffed softly. "Always the lowlanders speak of controlling the Wild-Blood, as though it were a beast to be tamed rather than a self to be embraced."
Corvus held up a gnarled hand, silencing her. "Different paths lead to the same summit, Spirit-Speaker." To Fynnarin, he said, "We can offer you shelter, food, and guidance in the ways of the Change. In return, we ask only that you consider standing with us should the king's hunters find our camp."
It was a fair offer, especially given their desperate circumstances. Yet Fynnarin hesitated, glancing at Kitra. They had fled Thornvale to avoid being drawn into the kingdom's conflicts. Accepting Corvus's terms might lead them right back into danger.
As though reading his thoughts, the old man added, "The choice remains yours, river-child. We force no one to fight who does not choose the warrior's path. But know this—the king's hunters do not differentiate between those who resist and those who simply wish to be left alone. In their eyes, the Wild-Blood itself is a threat to be controlled or eliminated."
"We accept your hospitality and guidance," Fynnarin said after a moment's consideration. "And I will stand with you if needed, though I hope it doesn't come to that."
Kitra nodded her agreement, though her expression remained troubled.
"Wise choice," Corvus said, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Essra will show you where you may rest and store your belongings. Tonight, we will hold council to discuss what comes next." His ancient eyes twinkled suddenly. "And perhaps, river-child, you will share with us the book you carry that thrums with old magic. It has been many years since I saw the Treatise of Shifting Forms."
Surprised once again by the old man's perception, Fynnarin could only nod.
As Essra led them away from the central fire toward one of the smaller tents, Kitra leaned close to whisper, "Do you trust them?"
"I'm not sure," he admitted quietly. "But they know more about what I am than anyone we've encountered. And we have few other options with winter closing the higher passes."
"Just be careful," she cautioned. "Remember why we left Thornvale in the first place. Trading one form of conscription for another isn't progress."
Her words echoed in his mind as they settled into the guest tent assigned to them—a surprisingly comfortable space lined with thick furs and warmed by heated stones placed in a central pit. The Cloud Walker Tribe clearly knew how to survive the brutal mountain winters in relative comfort.
Left alone to rest before the evening council, Fynnarin retrieved the book from his pack and opened it to find yet another new page had appeared:
When tributaries join a river, the waters do not remain separate but blend to create something new—neither fully one nor the other, but stronger for the combination. So it is with the Wild-Blood when mixed with other lineages. What some see as dilution, the wise recognize as evolution.
The words brought a measure of comfort. Perhaps his mixed heritage wasn't the disadvantage he had feared, but rather an advantage he had yet to fully understand.
As dusk approached, Essra returned to escort them to the council. The camp had transformed in their brief absence. Torches lined the paths between tents, and the central fire had been built up into a towering blaze that sent sparks swirling toward the darkening sky. The entire tribe seemed to have gathered, arranged in concentric circles around the fire with the elders occupying the innermost ring.
Fynnarin and Kitra were led to places of honor within the second circle, directly behind Elder Corvus and the other tribal leaders. The crowd parted to allow their passage, many reaching out to touch Fynnarin's arms or shoulders as he passed—brief, almost ritualistic contacts that left him feeling strangely energized.
"They honor the Wild-Blood in you," Essra explained, noting his confusion. "Among the mountain tribes, those with the Old Powers are considered blessed."
"Even though I can barely control it?" he asked.
"Especially then," she replied with a rare smile. "Raw potential carries its own power. But that will change soon enough."
Once all were assembled, Elder Corvus rose, leaning on a staff topped with a raven's skull. Silence fell immediately, the only sound the crackling of the great fire.
"People of the high places," the old man began, his voice carrying clearly despite its age. "The smoke visions spoke true. The river-child has come to us in the time of greatest need, as the king's shadow lengthens toward our ancestral lands."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathering.
"Tonight we welcome these lowland travelers to our circle and offer them the knowledge they seek." Corvus extended a hand toward Fynnarin. "Rise, river-child, and bring forth the book you carry."
Fynnarin obeyed, suddenly conscious of hundreds of eyes upon him as he placed the ancient text in Corvus's weathered hands.
The old man opened it reverently, his expression softening as he scanned the pages. "The Treatise returns to the mountains," he said softly. "After so many years." He addressed the gathering once more. "This text was created by our ancestors to guide those of mixed blood in understanding their gifts. It was lost to us when Ravensperch fell. Its return signifies a closing circle—the beginning of restoration."
He handed the book back to Fynnarin. "You have been reading it, but not understanding fully. Tonight, we will show you what words alone cannot teach."
At a gesture from Corvus, several tribe members stepped forward into the innermost circle—men and women of various ages, all bearing facial tattoos similar to Essra's but unique in their patterns.
"The Spirit-Walkers," Corvus explained. "Those among us who carry the Old Blood and have mastered the Change."
What happened next left Fynnarin breathless with wonder and shock.
One by one, the tattooed tribe members began to transform. Unlike his own partial, halting experience, their changes were fluid and complete. A young woman flowed seamlessly into the form of a mountain lion, her human features melting away as fur sprouted and her frame reconfigured. An older man dropped to all fours as his body elongated into the massive form of a silver-backed wolf. Others took on aspects of eagles, bears, lynx—each transformation more astonishing than the last.
Within moments, the inner circle contained not humans but a gathering of powerful beasts, each maintaining perfect composure as they arranged themselves around the fire. Only their eyes remained recognizably intelligent, reflecting the firelight with uncanny awareness.
The assembled tribe showed no fear—only reverence and pride as they witnessed the display of ancient power.
"This is the birthright you seek to understand," Elder Corvus said quietly to Fynnarin. "Not a curse to be controlled, but a gift to be embraced."
Fynnarin could barely find words. "I... I had no idea it could be like this. So complete. So..."
"Beautiful," Kitra finished for him, her voice filled with awe.
"Yes." Corvus nodded. "Beauty and power in perfect balance. This is what was nearly lost when Ravensperch fell—not merely lives, but knowledge. The understanding that the Wild-Blood connects us to something older and deeper than kingdoms or wars."
As though responding to his words, the transformed tribe members began to move in coordinated patterns around the fire—not a dance exactly, but a ritual demonstration of their abilities. The great wolf leapt over the flames without singeing a hair. The mountain lion performed feats of impossible agility. An eagle-woman soared into the night sky before plummeting back to land delicately beside the elders.
"Tomorrow your training begins in earnest," Corvus told Fynnarin as they watched. "Tonight, observe and understand what awaits you if you persevere."
The demonstration continued for nearly an hour before the Spirit-Walkers began reverting to human form one by one—the transformations back appearing just as fluid and painless as the initial changes. When all had returned to their human shapes, the tribe erupted in celebration, bringing forth food and drink as musicians began playing instruments Fynnarin had never seen before—drums made from hollow logs, flutes carved from bones, stringed instruments fashioned from gourds and sinew.
The formal council transformed into a feast, with Fynnarin and Kitra treated as honored guests. They were plied with roasted mountain goat, preserved berries, and a potent fermented drink that tasted of honey and herbs. Tribal members approached them throughout the evening, offering welcome and, occasionally, displays of minor transformations—hands briefly becoming claws. The formal council transformed into a feast, with Fynnarin and Kitra treated as honored guests. They were plied with roasted mountain goat, preserved berries, and a potent fermented drink that tasted of honey and herbs. Tribal members approached them throughout the evening, offering welcome and, occasionally, displays of minor transformations—hands briefly becoming claws, eyes shifting to vertical pupils and back, teeth elongating momentarily into fangs.
It was overwhelming and exhilarating all at once.
Late in the night, as the celebration continued around them, Essra appeared at Fynnarin's side. Her earlier reserve had softened somewhat, though her pale eyes remained watchful.
"Come," she said. "There is something you should see before the night ends."
Curious, Fynnarin followed her away from the fire, gesturing for Kitra to join them. Essra led them to the edge of the camp where the snow-covered wilderness stretched away into darkness. Above, the storm clouds had cleared completely, revealing a night sky ablaze with stars and a waning moon that cast blue shadows across the pristine landscape.
"Look there," Essra said, pointing toward a ridge perhaps a mile distant.
At first, Fynnarin saw nothing. Then, as his enhanced vision adjusted to the darkness, he made out small, moving pinpricks of light—torches, moving in a tight formation through the trees below the ridge.
"The king's hunters," Essra confirmed, seeing his expression change. "They've been circling for two days, probing for a way into the valley. The storm delayed them, but they are persistent."
"How many?" Kitra asked, her voice tense.
"Twenty, perhaps twenty-five. A small force, but these are not ordinary soldiers. Each hunter is trained specifically to track and capture those with magical abilities." Essra's voice hardened. "They carry specialized restraints—silver and cold iron bindings etched with suppression runes. And worse things."
"What do you mean, worse?" Fynnarin asked, though part of him didn't want to know.
Essra turned to face him directly. "They bring Bound Ones—Wild-Blooded like yourself, but broken to the king's will. Their spirits chained by alchemical means, their transformative abilities turned against their own kind." Genuine sorrow clouded her features. "It is the cruelest fate imaginable for one who carries the Old Blood."
The knowledge sent a chill through Fynnarin that had nothing to do with the winter night. To be trapped between forms, to have his newfound power twisted to serve those who would hunt others like him... It was a nightmare vision that made simple execution seem merciful by comparison.
"Why show us this?" Kitra demanded, her practical nature reasserting itself. "To frighten us?"
"To prepare you," Essra replied without heat. "Tomorrow, Fynnarin begins training in earnest. He must understand what awaits if he fails." She turned her pale gaze on him once more. "The Wild-Blood is power, yes. But it is also responsibility—to yourself, to those who share your gift, to the ancient covenant between the bloodlines and the natural world."
"I understand," Fynnarin said, though in truth he was only beginning to grasp the magnitude of what he had stumbled into. This was no longer merely about his own survival or understanding his abilities. Larger forces were moving, ancient powers reawakening as the kingdom's reach extended into territories long left to their own governance.
"Do you?" Essra raised an eyebrow. "We shall see, river-child. We shall see."
With that cryptic response, she left them gazing at the distant torches, twin beacons of approaching danger in the otherwise serene mountain night.
Kitra moved closer to Fynnarin, her shoulder brushing his in silent support. "You don't have to do this," she said quietly. "We could still leave, find another path."
"And go where?" he asked, not unkindly. "Winter holds the mountains. Even if we could escape the hunters, we'd likely freeze or starve before reaching safety." He shook his head. "Besides, I need what these people can teach me. I need to understand what I am."
She studied his profile in the moonlight, her expression unreadable. "Just remember who you were first, Fynn. Before the bear, before the Wild-Blood awakened. Don't lose that person in your search for this new self."
Her words struck a chord within him. In the whirlwind of revelations since leaving Thornvale, he had indeed begun to think of himself primarily in terms of the Wild-Blood and its potential—the River Wolf awakening in his veins, the transformation that beckoned with promises of power and connection to something ancient and profound.
But he was also still Fynnarin of Thornvale. The hunter who provided for his village. The son of a human father and elven mother. Kitra's childhood friend.
"I won't forget," he promised, and meant it.
They stood watching the distant lights a while longer before finally returning to the celebration, which had mellowed into smaller gatherings around multiple fires. Musicians still played, but softly now, quiet melodies that spoke of snow and stars and the enduring spirit of the mountain people.
As they approached their assigned tent, Fynnarin paused, struck by an odd sensation—a prickling awareness at the base of his skull, as though someone or something watched from the darkness beyond the camp's boundaries. He turned slowly, scanning the tree line with his enhanced vision.
For just a moment, he thought he glimpsed a familiar shape—the sleek outline of a foxin, its golden fur catching the firelight as it observed the camp from a safe distance. The distinctive shimmer of its forehead crystal and the line of smaller crystals running down its spine unmistakable even at this distance. Its luminous eyes seemed to find his across the intervening space, conveying a message he couldn't quite grasp.
Then it was gone, vanishing into the shadows like a dream half-remembered upon waking.
"What is it?" Kitra asked, noticing his distraction.
Fynnarin hesitated, then shook his head. "Nothing. Just... adjusting to all of this." He gestured vaguely at the tribal camp around them.
But as they retired to their tent, the sensation of having briefly touched something significant lingered. The foxin's appearance—if it had truly been there and not merely a figment of his overtaxed imagination—seemed another piece in the puzzle of his awakening abilities and the mysterious balance that needed restoration.
Tomorrow would bring the beginning of formal training, the first steps toward mastering the Change and truly understanding the Wild-Blood that flowed in his veins. For now, though, he needed rest.
As sleep finally claimed him, Fynnarin dreamed of running through pristine snow on four legs, his body powerful and sleek, his silver-blue fur shimmering in the moonlight. In the dream, he raced across frozen lakes, the ice cracking beneath his paws but the water welcoming him regardless, allowing him to breathe and move beneath its surface with the same ease as through air. He wasn't merely a wolf who could swim, but a creature of two elements—earth and water both his domains.
*Blood of many waters,* whispered a voice that might have been the foxin's or perhaps something older still. *The time of choosing approaches. Remember what the blacksmith said. Remember who you were first...*
The dream shifted then, darkening. The distant torches he had observed with Essra multiplied, becoming a forest of flame that advanced inexorably toward the tribal camp. Behind the flames came shadowy figures, some walking upright like men, others moving with the unnatural gait of creatures caught between forms.
The Bound Ones. The broken Wild-Blooded who served the king's hunters.
Fear coursed through him, but in the dream, he did not run. Instead, he felt the Change beginning—not the halting, partial transformation he had managed in the stone crevice, but something complete and powerful. His body flowed like water taking a new channel, muscles and bones reconfiguring with fluid grace.
The River Wolf emerged, standing sentinel between the approaching hunters and the sleeping tribe. His silver-blue fur rippled with patterns like flowing water, and his eyes gleamed with an inner light that reflected the magic flowing through him. Behind him, others joined—the Spirit-Walkers in their various forms, a living wall of Wild-Blooded defenders. Among them moved a human figure, small but determined, wielding a hammer that glowed with forge-fire.
Kitra. Always pragmatic, always loyal, finding her own role even in this world of ancient magics and transformations.
*Balance must be restored,* came that whisper once more. *The old covenant renewed. But first, the blood must flow freely...*
Fynnarin woke with a start, his heart racing. The tent was dark and quiet, Kitra's steady breathing the only sound besides the occasional crack of the heating stones in their central pit. Outside, the camp had finally settled into nighttime stillness, though he could sense guards patrolling its perimeter.
The dream lingered vividly in his mind, more vision than random nocturnal imagining. He had the unsettling sense that he had been shown not just possibilities but probabilities—paths converging toward an inevitable confrontation.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would begin learning what it truly meant to carry the Wild-Blood, to master the Change, to become fully what he had only glimpsed in moments of extremity.
Whether that knowledge would come in time to face the approaching hunters remained to be seen.
Fynnarin settled back onto his furs, eyes fixed on the tent's ceiling. Outside, the waning moon continued its ancient path across the star-filled sky, indifferent to the small dramas unfolding beneath its cold light. The wind whispered through the pines, carrying scents of snow and secrets.
And somewhere in the darkness, the foxin watched and waited for balance to be restored.