The witch was silent as Gareth approached, the embers of the dead rising behind him. The air had begun to smell foul with smoke and charred flesh. The bodies had been prepared for days with potent herbs and oils, but it never served to mask what was happening completely. The fires reflected in Hela’s eyes as she watched the pyres dance behind him.

  “How many have you lost?” Her voice was cool and devoid of passion. She barely seemed to notice him as he stood next to her. Helrir and Sylen watched from the ring of the crowd, careful not to draw attention.

  “Eighteen,” Gareth answered, the weight of the dead heavy on his lips.

  Hela nodded absently, still staring beyond him at the fire. The yellow flowers strewn through her hair caught the flickering light. She whispered something under her breath, the words lost to the sound of fire and silent weeping.

  Gareth stepped forward, leaning closer to her. “We need to-“

  She held up a finger, turning to stare at him. Her eyes were black in the darkness, light falling into them and becoming void. “Yes, I know we need to speak. But not here. You won’t want to be seen speaking with a forest witch after what has happened.”

  Gareth nodded, gesturing with his head to the observation tower behind the crowd. “My quarters are on the bottom floor.”

  Hela nodded, gliding away with footsteps hidden beneath a willowy dress that trailed behind her. Gareth gestured to his lieutenants, his gaze fixed on the observation tower. Helrir nodded, Sylen following casually behind him as the Rangers silently wove through the crowd of mourners. Gareth followed the witch, who, of course, knew which side of the stone wall his door was on, regardless of whether she had ever been there before. The room was dark as he opened the door. The only light came from the candle he had forgotten to blow out, which was still visible through the window. Hela took the candle to light the two lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

  “There’s enough darkness already. We need light for this.”

  The lieutenants began to make their way in before Gareth stopped Helrir at the door, grabbing the man's arm. “You and Sylen wait outside. No one comes in. Not for anything.”

  Helrir and Sylen nodded, their faces grim as they lifted their hoods. They took spots at either side of the door as he closed it behind him. Hela crouched near the fireplace, using a candle to light a pile of tinder.

  “Do you keep it cold in here intentionally? Or is it something that follows you?” The tinder caught flame, and Hela began to push the pile of wood shavings and twigs below the logs with a stick.

  Gareth pulled his chair from underneath the desk and sank into it. The lacquered wood was uncomfortable, though it was kind of the point of the chair. A blanket statement of how leadership should never be comfortable. “I was told you know why this happened?”

  Hela stood. The fire had taken hold, and the shadows in the room were retreating as it crackled and snapped. “That much is true. I know most things.”

  “Well, given that eighteen of my people are dead, you can understand why I’m not in the mood for cryptic nonsense.”

  Hela shrugged as she passed him. She gestured to the blade hanging from the wall. “Well, you definitely shouldn’t have that.” She sat down in front of the desk, crossing her legs gracefully in her chair.

  Gareth clenched his fist and pulled from his brow, laying it on the desk. “The Mycellians made that clear. A boy brought it into the village. He carried it into the village a little over a week ago.”

  “The same boy who has no memory of who he is?” Gareth raised an eyebrow inquisitively. Hela shrugged, her hands primly in her lap. “The forest speaks of such things.”

  Gareth nodded slowly, then continued. “I’ve never used it. It’s never drawn blood.”

  Hela grimaced. “Well, you’re quite wrong about that. That blade has drawn more blood than you could imagine.” She lifted a tattooed finger toward it. “Bring it to me.”

  Gareth leaned back in the chair, reaching behind and grabbing the blade from the hanger. The naked silver gleamed in the firelight. “We were never able to make a scabbard.” He said as he carefully handed it to Hela, the edge pointed towards him, the blade resting on his palm. “Don’t cut yourself with it.”

  Hela stood, holding the blade in her right hand as she paced before him. She twirled it and took a few swipes with what Gareth had to admit was excellent form. She paced back and forth, inspecting the blade as she mumbled under her breath.

  Gareth leaned over his desk, his hands open in a gesture of inquiry. “Are you going to play with it or tell me what it is?”

  Hela sat back in the chair, the blade flat across her lap. “It’s a remnant of a forgotten people. One who should have stayed forgotten.” She traced her fingers across the black runes as she spoke. “Tell me, Gareth. How far have your people ventured beyond the old circles?”

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  Gareth shook his head. “We haven’t sent an expedition into wight country for decades. It’s madness to send men into the forest, knowing they won't return.”

  Hela nodded slowly. “Then you’ve been wise. There’s nothing beyond the circles but old ruins and wights.” She handed the sword back, whispering another hidden word as Gareth took it. “Ruins and wights. And this blade.”

  “This is from beyond the circle stones?” Hela nodded. Gareth laid the blade softly on the table, a sense of unease filling his mind. The fire popped and shifted, sending a scattering of glowing embers across the stone floor.

  Gareth pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back the overwhelming exhaustion of the last few days as he closed his eyes. “Well, that doesn’t explain much of anything.”

  “It does. It explains almost everything about your situation. The boy brought this with him when he came from the forest?”

  Gareth nodded, praying silently to Ioleth that this was going somewhere.

  “The rot walker that attacked your people. It was searching for something. The winds whisper that a wight was spotted as well?”

  “We haven’t even told most of our own people about the wight.”

  The witch nodded again, the fire dancing in her eyes. People were moving outside. The lights from the pyres were visible from the window to Gareth’s right. The night grew stronger around the camp as the dead completed their journeys to the gods. “Your people have forgotten the old kings. It is a good thing. They were not fit for remembrance.”

  Hela’s voice was cold as she spoke, her face shadowed and grave in the dancing light. She toyed with the end of one of her braids, twisting the dark hair around her fingers over and over again.

  “The sword is a remnant of an ancient time, from before the Transgression. It is touched by magic, the same curse that infests the ruins beyond the circles. The boy has brought this curse to you, and now its masters have awoken.”

  A chill bit into Gareth’s bones as he stared at the blade with reverence and revulsion. The runes seemed to eat away at the light around it, the simple piece of metal a placard of the sins that had reaped the rage of the gods and stolen away humanity's birthright.

  “The rot walker was seeking the sword.”

  “The rot walker was seeking the boy.” Hela corrected. “And more will come as more Mycellians are activated. And they will continue to come until their charge is fulfilled. Their curse is tied to this magic.”

  “What do they want with the boy? The Mothers have spoken of him to me. He’s no harm to anyone. He doesn’t even remember his name.”

  Hela sighed, pulling her shawl tighter around her. “I would have to talk to the boy to know more. I’m not as omniscient as you might think.”

  Gareth rubbed his face with his hands. His beard was growing unruly and prickled his face as his fingers passed through it. “I doubt the Mothers will agree to that. Especially not with talks of magic. People are scared enough.”

  “You have so little control over your own camp?”

  Gareth grunted in amusement. “I control my people, but I do not control the Mother’s Council. I would be a fool to even pretend the notion.”

  Hela leaned forward, her eyes alight and hard like a looming storm. “Then you will have to make them see. That boy is tied to this, and if we cannot learn what Taram Ethil wants with him, then you will all die. As much as your people try to smear me a witch and child stealer, I do not wish that upon them, Gareth.” She stood gracefully, gathering her train around her. “And I will, of course, need to see the girl as well. Raya, I think her name was.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Let me guess, the Mothers won't allow it?”

  “I won’t allow it,” Gareth shot back. “The girl has lost everything. She is barely more than a child and has had to light her parents’ funeral pyre tonight. I won’t have you disturbing her more. You know the stories they tell about you.”

  Hela snorted, twisting a bit of her hair between her fingers. “That I seduce local boys and cut out their hearts for rituals? That Aelio curses me for rejecting his hand? The stories change every few decades. I’d had trouble keeping up if not for the fact that I am possessed of a mind that is considerably vaster than a farmer, and that they all paint me as a murderous whore.”

  As the witch spoke, Gareth became acutely aware of Hela’s longevity. He had first met her when he was barely a recruit, and she hadn’t so much as gained a wrinkle since then. How many Captains had sat in front of her at the very desk he claimed, infuriated at her sharp words and cryptic messages?

  “The Mycellian called you Firstborn when it spoke to me.”

  The corner of Hela’s mouth turned up in a slight smile as she stared out the window. The fires were dying down, and the last of the mourners were leaving the ashes to be collected by the Mothers and distributed to the families. “The old toadstool did, did he?”

  “What does it mean?” Gareth asked.

  Hela shrugged, sadness washing over her face as the shadows danced across her. “It means a great deal of things, most of which wouldn’t mean much to you. It means I’m still here, after so many have passed. It means that I have lived to see horrors, and I will live to see more.”

  She fidgeted with her hand, and Gareth saw a small gold ring on her thumb. It was thin, the gold dull and scratched with age. He had known Hela most of his life, a trade secret among the Rangers, and he had never noticed it.

  “Firstborn and the last to die. Lucky us.” Hela said absently.

  “What do you mean, ‘us’?”

  “Just my brother. You’d love him.”

  Gareth had a creeping doubt that the opposite was true, if he was anything like his sister. “You’ve never said anything about a brother, and none of the Captains before mentioned or wrote anything about it.”

  Hela stood, brushing off her dress and flipping her braids behind her. “No one bothered to ask me.” Gareth stood, following her as she walked to the door. She took his hand in hers as she turned to look at him. Her grip was firm and urgent. “Tomorrow, have your festival and celebrate your dead. The winds whisper that the safewood is quiet. I can guarantee that for tomorrow, but no further. I need to see the boy. The girl can wait, but the boy is urgent. Talk to the Mothers. Make them understand. Things are happening in the forest that even I cannot see.”

  She turned away, pushing open the door and sliding out without a sound. Gareth heard the lieutenants grunt as she passed by them, disappearing into the night.

  Gareth turned, looking at the fire crackling in his hearth. There had been something in Hela’s gaze. Depth, the cold sadness of someone who was too old to be fully considered human. But no, not just that. There was fear on the edges of that depth, tendrils of it reaching in. Gareth now understood that Hela was ancient beyond what the Rangers had originally thought. What could make one such as her afraid?