Gareth decided that administration was one of the most mind-numbing means of filling the hours between sunrise and sunset that a man could hope to preoccupy himself with. All around him were people, Ranger or not, approaching with ledgers and lists and complaints about how the transition would go. Moving an entire village from their ancestral homes into a fortress on the edge of the wilderness proved to be a rather complex affair.

  The wood-carved desk in the center of his quarters was strewn with various slips of paper labeling everything from provisions available and needed to the individual family names and genealogies of the people currently in exodus to the fort. The Mothers, along with his lieutenants, had realized that simply up and moving the hundred or so people living in the village would be unsafe and inefficient. Safewood or not, moving that many people at once through the forest created a large target for more than rot walkers. People were currently being escorted in groups of twenty, each guarded by multiple patrols of Rangers.

  The Mothers were cycling back and forth from Falderfell to the fort, checking and rechecking to ensure that the village had all of the essentials and quite a few nonessentials, to Gareth’s annoyance. Their requests and reports, along with the constant need for patrols and runners through the safewood, left Gareth feeling as if he had been pressed between two boulders and left to sit in the sun for a week. And it had barely been that long since the Mycellians made their ominous visit.

  It was well past midday, and the sun was casting shadows through his one window. A candle on his desk illuminated the open space, flickering orange light, and giving the room an ethereal feeling. The sword lay in the corner of the room, hanging from a peg on the wall by a leather strap. After the incident with the Mycellian, something felt wrong about wearing it. The runes cut into the blade seemed more foreboding and sinister.

  Gareth stared at the blade as he reached underneath his desk and pulled out his pipe. It was long and carved roughly from a piece of pine by his grandfather. The simple ritual of filling the pipe brought the slightest moment of respite from the chaos and blood of the past week. He tore a strip of paper from the corner of one of the ledgers, rolled it into a spill, and lit it with the candle. He puffed quickly as he held the spill to the leaf, filling the air around him with curling wisps of smoke.

  Tonight, they would light the pyres for their dead. Nineteen in all, townsfolk and Ranger alike would be sent to Fyrun. They lay in one of the cellars underneath the barracks, wrapped in preserving clothing and protection runes. Today was the witching day, and the coming night was holy, the night when the dead could pass on. As he exhaled a deep plume of rich smoke, he felt for the ward he wore at his neck.

  It had been almost a year since he had last needed to wear it. A farmer’s daughter had passed from sickness, he remembered. Week after week, the witching day came, a new week began, and he offered a prayer of thanks that the people were safe. Now, nineteen were dead, and he wore a rune to stop them from taking his soul as their ashes floated to the gods. He breathed in, tasting the earthy flavor as smoke rose around his head in a twisting cloud.

  The door creaked open as Reila stepped in. Her greying hair hung loosely around her bare shoulders. She wore a tan working dress, the long skirt rustling as she walked to his desk. Her warding rune dangled from a small chain pulled tightly around her neck. Wrinkling her nose at the smoke, she pulled a chair from against the wall and sat across from him.

  “That cannot be good for you.”

  Gareth shrugged, blowing a ring of smoke into the air proudly. “A man has to have his small pleasures.”

  Reila grinned softly. Having her around helped more than anything. Barring the horror of the last week, the melancholy and solitude that often came with leadership were lifted while she was near. He could be himself, be relaxed around her, and she with him. His visits to Falderfell had grown infrequent as of late, but he always tried to meet her when he could, sharing drinks and reminiscing to ease the increasing weight on his shoulders.

  “We’ve moved most of the people from the village; the rest should be here before tonight.”

  Gareth nodded, “They’ve not had issues with the quarters?” To accommodate room, they had moved all unmarried men and boys into the barracks, moving women and couples into more private dormitories on the fort.

  “A few of the men were asses about it,” Reila snorted. “They shut up when we told them their other option was to sleep outside the walls.”

  Gareth chuckled. “I’ve never understood the aversion to barracks. Men act like it’s a horrible thing.”

  “That’s easy to say when you’ve got a nice private room all to yourself up here,” Reila motioned to the closed door behind him.

  “Well, being the Captain has to have some perks, or else no one would do it.”

  Reila smiled. She hid the bags under her eyes well, but Gareth could see the exhaustion in her face. He felt it as well. The last week felt as if it had aged him a decade further. “Any words from your runners in the safewood?”

  Gareth grabbed another pinch of leaf from a jar on his desk, filling the pipe as he spoke. “We’ve got farming families and tree cutters heading towards us as we speak. We haven’t heard from most of the families on the outskirts. More than likely, many won’t come. They’ll feel they’ve survived long enough without the village not to need help. Or they just won’t believe us.”

  Reila sighed and nodded grimly. “As much as I hate it, it might be for the best. People here are cramped tightly enough here and resources will be spread thin come winter.”

  Gods, let's hope this doesn’t last that long. “We’ll patrol the area as intensively as possible and check up on them. They’re isolated enough that I doubt they’ll be a major attack target.”

  Reila shifted in her seat, pulling another folded slip of paper from one of the pockets in her skirt and handing it to him. He folded it open, reading as she spoke. “The other reason I came by. This is what the Mothers estimate will be needed for Festival tomorrow. I sent a proprietary list to your quartermaster already.”

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  Gareth looked at her blankly over the list of foods and wines. “We’re still doing that?”

  “Of course we are, Gareth. Tonight will be incredibly difficult for the village, which is exactly why the Festival is after a witching day. We have to celebrate the lost, not just mourn them. Did you think we’ve been hanging flower chains everywhere to make the fort look feminine?”

  He set the paper down softly on the desk. “Rei-“

  She raised her hand, giving him a sharp look that could’ve melted a steel plate. “I won’t hear it, Gareth. The Mothers have begun preparations already, and I won’t be the one to call it off.”

  Gareth stared at her for a moment, trying to find some rebuttal. Her green eyes reflected the candle flame and projected it back at him. He sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s out of my hands then.”

  “It’s absolutely not out of your hands, why do you think I gave you a damned ledger?”

  He took another puff from his pipe, the smoke clearing his head as he leaned back. “These damned ledgers will be the end of me.”

  Reila laughed as she stood. It was a welcome sound, reminding him of times when people weren’t dead or on the verge of being killed. “You never did want to be the one ordering people around.”

  “And you always wanted it.”

  “Well, I suppose that isn’t entirely untrue.” Rei began to grab pieces of paper from his desk, sorting them from their admitted disarray. “Gods, you are horrible at organizing.”

  Gareth grunted, blowing another ring of smoke into the air. “How’s the girl?”

  “Raya? We’ve kept her with me. She’s about what you’d expect.” She grabbed a stack of ledgers and tapped them against the desk's wood to straighten them. “She moved in a few nights ago. One of her friends, Elin, is with her right now. Sweet girl, watching out for her like that.”

  “Has she said anything about what happened?”

  Reila shook her head as she laid the neat stack of papers in front of him. “She’s barely fourteen, and she just watched her family die in front of her, Gareth. We can’t ask her to recall the single most traumatic thing that has or hopefully will ever happen to her. Not now, not tonight.”

  Gareth nodded as he set his pipe down, a trail of white smoke trailing from the end in a wisping line. “I know, I’m not a monster. She won’t have to talk to anyone until she’s ready.” He stood, pushing his chair back with a creak of wood on wood. “I just can’t make sense of it.”

  Reila took his hand and squeezed it gently. “Perhaps it's something we don’t need to make sense of. The works of gods are beyond us.”

  The works of gods. Gareth held her hand for a moment, the selfish urge to wait in his room and let someone else handle this mess of a situation filling his mind.

  “You look tired.” Rei’s voice was soft, her eyes brimming with concern. Green eyes under a pitch-black sky. It should have been enough to make me stay.

  “I already wasn’t sleeping before the attack.” Almost twenty years later, her face was enough to break down the wall, the mask he wore.

  “Come here,” she pulled him into a tight embrace, wrapping her arms around his chest. Gareth held her softly, the moment of gentle intimacy freezing the world around him. For a moment, all that existed was him and an old friend, holding each other against the weight of the world. She rested her head against his chest, closing her eyes as she spoke.

  “I know you, Gareth. I know who you are, and I know you better than anyone in this fort. I know that you don’t think you can do this, no matter what face you put on. But you can. You’re a good man, and you’re what will hold us through all of this.” She pulled back slowly, her hands on his back as she stared up at him, her aged face as beautiful as it had been when they were young.

  “Berin would be proud of you.” She pulled back to him once more, hugging him tightly before letting go. She smiled and turned, her ward ringing as it rattled on its chain. She opened the door, the afternoon sun casting a long shadow across Gareth’s face where he stood, mask broken.

  “Rei?”

  Reila turned, standing in the doorway, looking at him expectantly.

  “I’m sorry. For what I did. I was young. I was a fool. I hurt you, I-“

  “I know, Gareth. Reila interjected calmly. She stood still in the doorway, stoic as she spoke. “I know you’re sorry, but they’re going to be building the pyres soon. We leaders can’t just spend the day reminiscing about our past mistakes.”

  “Do you think you’ll forgive me?” He asked in a tone that he hoped wasn’t too pleading. The subject had become taboo for him. After Reila had stopped ignoring him completely, the understanding that this was simply not to be discussed had become an unspoken agreement between the two of them for years.

  She was quiet for a moment, contemplating the question. The agonizing silence was every reason why his visits to the village became increasingly infrequent. She finally spoke up, her voice matter-of-fact. “I haven’t decided yet.” She turned, leaving the door open as she left him to rebuild himself again, this time as the Captain of the Rangers, rather than some old fool mourning the folly of his youth.

  The night air was cold, the sky black and star-speckled above the crowd gathered in the fort common. They wore runes they had carved as children, some of the children having carved theirs just hours before. They wore them around their necks, on their hands, from their ears. The moon was full, a good omen for a witching day. Fyrun would watch and guide the dead into peaceful rest.

  Before the crowd, a group larger than the fort had seen in generations, stood eighteen pyres of wood, upon which lay eighteen souls to send to the gods. Their bodies were wrapped tightly in cloth and covered in wooden charms, and the night air hung heavy with the weight of the dead. From eighteen torches in a ring came billowing, twisting light that faded away upon the walls of the fort, the inky darkness of the forest taking hold beyond.

  Gareth stood before the crowd of villagers and Rangers, staring up at Fyrun as he spoke. He wore a laurel of sage’s mane upon his brow, as did the other men. The wives, daughters, and Mothers had woven the yellow flowers into their hair. A speech would not do, he decided. Loud words seemed unfit for the silence of the witching.

  “The witching day has come and gone. Now, we guide those we love into the arms of the gods. May their honor guide them beyond darkened skies.”

  Around them people began to move, taking the torches and proceeding into the mass of pyres. The air was still, and the forest watched as wives and children, fathers and brothers stood by the dead. Names were whispered and pyres lit, the quiet filled with crackling and snapping as dry wood kissed an indifferent flame. Rangers moved with him as he took a torch from the ring, his hood over his face as he wove through the rows of dead, approaching the pyres of his fallen Rangers.

  Beside him, Seren and Trissa stood. Their eyes were full of the confusion and shock of the young who had come to face death for the first time. They saluted softly as Gareth touched the flame to Fyn’s pyre.

  “Fyrn,” the Rangers whispered in unison. And then “Jeorge,” as the flame began to take their fallen comrades to the heavens.

  May your honor guide you beyond darkened skies. The prayer for the dead repeated in Gareth’s head as he gazed over the common. The fort was alight with bonfires that were once fathers, mothers, children. The common folk and Rangers who were lucky enough not to have lost anyone waited reverently outside the circle. His eyes stopped on the sight of a young girl shaking, Reila holding her hand as she lit the pyres of her parents, her choked whisper barely audible over the crackle of flame. Movement beyond her caught his gaze.

  Beyond the crowd of people, beside the wall of the barracks, stood a tall woman, half-obscured by the dancing shadows. She was wrapped in a dark shawl from which black braids erupted, interwoven with yellow sage’s mane. Her eyes were transfixed on Raya as the girl wept quietly in Reila’s gentle embrace. Gareth watched Hela’s gaze move from Raya to him. He thought he almost saw a tear roll down the witch’s face.