Page 195 of The Moonborn's Curse

The road narrowed into a cracked path flanked by dry scrub and exhausted earth. It was land that had known magic, and missed it.

No one spoke much. Veyr focused on the road, fingers drumming the wheel. Threk dozed with his boots on the dash, mumbling once or twice in sleep. Hagan stayed silent, his arm resting along the backseat behind Seren. She leaned against the window, watching the land grow more skeletal with every mile.

And then—like a mirage sharpening into truth—Vargrheim's boundary rose in the distance.

Stone pillars arched skyward, half-swallowed by twisting vines, each etched with markings only the old tribes still understood. The scent of something ancient brushed past them, wild and unmistakable.

Veyr slowed. The jeep rumbled over cracked stone as they pulled through the gates.

Seren opened the door, boots crunching against dry earth. The moment her feet touched the land, something inside her sang. She bent down to touch the dry earth. A rush, unbidden and bright, surged from spine to skin. She gasped, breath caught in her throat.

Behind her, Hagan stepped out without a word. He reached for her bag and slung it over his shoulder like it belonged there.

"My job," he said simply.

Something unfurled inside her. A hum, warm and bright, rose from her bones to her skin. The sky, long dry and dust-choked, darkened above them. Clouds swirled on the horizon, pregnant with long-awaited rain.

"Storm's coming," Veyr murmured, awe in his voice.

"I don't know," Threk said softly, staring at the horizon. "But I think... the land is happy to see you, Seren."

He stretched, cracked his neck, then added with a grin, "Now. What's for dinner?"

Chapter 71

The walk to the heart of Vargrheim was nothing like Seren remembered.

Where once there was a thick canopy of green and the sound of rustling life, now silence reigned. The trees stood like skeletons, their bark greyed, their branches brittle. The air held no birdsong, no scampering paws, no insects buzzing through the undergrowth.

It was as if the land itself had forgotten how to breathe.

They walked in silence, boots crunching on dry earth, eyes wide and heavy. The fields they passed were parched, cracked like a mosaic of thirst. Plants that once climbed and bloomed had withered into memory.

Then—suddenly—a clear, defiant trill pierced the air.

A single birdsong, small but bold.

A robin fluttered from the trees, a flash of rust and brown against the drab world. She circled once, twice, then swooped in and landed lightly on Seren's shoulder.

Seren froze, blinking.

The robin chirped once more—softly this time, a sound more wind than voice.

It wasn't words, not really. More a feeling, a nudge of recognition.

Home. Back. Safe.

The bird fluffed her feathers and nestled in without fear, surrounded by apex predators and warriors, as if she knew—without question—that Seren would keep her safe.

No one dared to speak.

Until Threk, in a singsong voice at odds with his deep bass, said

"Brace yourselves! the real-life Snow White just arrived. Cue the furry, feathered fan club!"

Seren let out an inelegant snort that startled her friend into flight.

Veyr groaned. "Don't encourage him"

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