The shaman laid a final cloth over the warrior’s chest, pressing her palm lightly to his brow. His fever still burned, but his breath was steady enough to endure the night.

“He rests now,” she murmured, her voice low but certain. “Morning will tell us more.”

The girl sat cross-legged near the fire, arms wrapped tight around her knees. Her eyes flicked nervously to the dark entrance, where the forest loomed beyond.

“There is something out there,” the shaman said, turning her clouded gaze toward the doorway. “A weight in the air. Old and restless. Keep your senses sharp, child. Not all dangers walk on legs.”

The girl nodded, though uneasily. She dragged her blanket into the corner, arranging her small bundle as a pillow. She kept her scarred face turned toward the fire, watching the old woman move.

The shaman remained upright, staff in hand. She placed herbs upon the coals, and thin tendrils of smoke curled into the hollow, sharp and bitter. The flames hissed, their glow shifting to a deeper hue. Her lips began to whisper words not meant for common ears.

The girl watched, her eyelids heavy. She had seen the shaman do this before—rituals to ease the passage of the dead—but never after such a slaughter. The smoke thickened, carrying the weight of countless unseen presences.

The child’s breathing slowed, her body sinking into the worn blanket. Her eyes fluttered, struggling to resist, but the rhythm of the shaman’s chant lulled her. At last, sleep claimed her, pulling her into dreams she could not hold.

The shaman was left alone.

Her voice deepened, steady as the earth, guiding the lost spirits of the battlefield into silence, one by one. The dwelling filled with a presence, heavy but not cruel, as if unseen figures stood in the shadows, listening.

Then her body stilled. Her head bowed, her staff trembling faintly in her hands. She slipped into the trance that had carried her through many years—beyond the walls of the cave, beyond the forest, beyond even the blood-stained dawn.

Visions pressed upon her: flames devouring villages, banners tearing in storms, men’s screams swallowed by the roar of war. And at the heart of it—a shadow without form, vast and hungry, spreading its hand across the land.

The shaman gasped, her chest heaving as if the vision itself had struck her down. Her dull eyes widened, clouded not by age but by terror.

“Chaos is coming,” she whispered into the silence. “And with it, choice.”

Her grip on the staff tightened until her knuckles whitened. She felt the presence of the warrior lying behind her, still breathing, still chained to fate.

And for the first time in many years, fear settled in her heart.