A mild night breeze moved through. Eliza had been standing at the doorstep for some time. Laughter from the neighbors still drifted across the street, but she could not force a smile. Her eyes were dull and vacant, fixed on a wet mark upon the stone step and refusing to let go. Then, from inside, came slow footfalls. The shadow within seemed to sense something and paused—then came closer and opened the half-latched door. It was her father, Mr. Ingvar.
At the sight of him, a thin spark returned to her gaze under the lamplight. She threw herself forward and clutched Ingvar, sobbing. Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Sigrún—who had been in the kitchen rinsing ritual implements—set down her things and hurried over. When Eliza's sobs began to ebb, Ingvar kissed her brow and said gently, "Come in."
In the sitting room, Mrs. Sigrún brewed a hot decoction of ash and elm leaves for the three of them and switched off the evening news still playing on the television. She sat beside Eliza, stroking her shoulder and rubbing her chilled hands. "Erik already called us. This trip to London was far too reckless. Among wizards, if there's need, you can certainly ask for help at any time—but for something this weighty, you should have told us before…" Ingvar let out a quiet sigh. "Still, we can't lay all the blame on you. Since the day at the riverbank when the Three Mothers of Fate spoke, you said little—but your mother and I have been studying the omen's meaning all this time. We should have told you sooner."
Eliza snapped her head up, puzzlement in her eyes. "You… you've been studying it too? I thought after that prophecy—since Mother had already advised me—that was the end of it."
"My dear, of course not." Mrs. Sigrún pressed her forehead to Eliza's. "That wasn't a simple prophecy. I couldn't see everything you saw, but by your account I knew at once it was not ordinary. When wizards first peer into Fate, we usually witness the turning of our own years, or a critical decision and the futures attached to it. But what you saw was extraordinarily blood-soaked. I think—"
"Enough." Ingvar cut her off. "She's just finished the rite of returning to the prophecy. Body and spirit are hurt. What she needs is rest."
"No. I don't want rest." Eliza stood, her face full of unease and anger. "Father, Mother—you know something, don't you? Where is that stone circle? Who are those twenty-four people? And that strange girl—she had the same sigil as mine. What is she?"
Ingvar did not answer at once. He only sighed, walked to the window ledge, opened the door that led out to the garden, and lit a cigarette. His gaze went to the river beyond the yard, complicated. "The stone circle you saw is an ancient altar of the Coven, where offerings are made and gods are summoned. As for the twenty-four, we have no firm conclusion. In nearly ten generations, our kindred have recorded nothing like it. If it's only a shape cast by your fear and the workings of your subconscious, then do not worry overmuch—that is the result we most hope for. But if…"
"Ingvar!" Mrs. Sigrún rose, anger hardening her face. "You just stopped me from speaking, and now you tell her where the vision took place? Are you trying to drive the child mad?"
"An ancient circle… then I saw the Conclave being defiled?" Eliza cried out. "And those twenty-four—if they're only a projection of my fear, fine. But if not? If it's real, what am I supposed to do?" Tears burst free.
"Whether it's real or not, we shall prepare." Ingvar crushed out the cigarette, stepped to her, and held her by the shoulders. "My dear daughter, we will find what this prophecy truly points to as swiftly as we can. All guessing is in vain. If it is metaphor, we'll uncover the symbols behind it. If it is reality, there's no hiding from it. We will stand with you."
At that, Eliza seemed to have all strength drawn out of her. She fell into Ingvar's arms, weeping. "I don't want this prophecy to happen in the world. I don't want to see that hell again. I want everyone with me to share this weight…" Her sobs thickened; she shook without willing it. Mrs. Sigrún stepped forward and embraced her. "My dear daughter, you will be all right. All is still unclear; where there is uncertainty, there is change and a chance to turn. Your father and I, and the whole Coven, will look after you."
A thunderclap cracked the sky. All three lifted their heads toward the garden. Lightning flickered again and again above; they looked to one another, as if a storm long silent were at last bearing down…
Spring break ended at last. Yet the scenes she had seen in second-sight kept Eliza anxious day after day.
Each day she washed her hands in water boiled with valerian root and costus, hoping to scrub away—in body and in mind—the trauma taken from returning to the prophecy. Mrs. Sigrún watched it all, heartsick with guilt. But what could she do—cast a spell and rob her of memory? Seal every gate so that the prophecy could not occur? In truth, since Eliza returned from London, Mr. Ingvar and Mrs. Sigrún had waited each night until their daughter slept under a charm, then sat up near till dawn combing through volumes, even calling in favors with the Coven to consult forgotten and forbidden tomes. Without exception, in all the records they could reach, there was nothing that matched.
On the night before Eliza returned to campus, Mrs. Sigrún shut her daughter's door and came back to the desk to confer with Ingvar—when a wave of cold climbed her spine to her fingertips. Outside, a sudden gust drove at the windows. Papers spread across the desk were blown everywhere. A jar of powdered mistletoe mixed with sappanwood, left uncapped, scattered into the air and across the room, sending Ingvar into a harsh fit of coughing. Mrs. Sigrún hurried to fasten the doors and windows and, after pouring hot tea to steady him, saw that a thin, badly damaged notebook had been blown open to a page. She looked—and went pale with terror. Ingvar, seeing her face, leaned in.
On the faded paper a scene of absolute dark was drawn: within a black fissure ringed by flame stood, rigid, a blurred human figure whose face had been scraped away. As Mrs. Sigrún's gaze fell upon the figure, her hands snapped backward; her head tipped up; her eyes rolled white; her body locked. Ingvar startled. He tore the Mjölnir from his neck and pressed the silver hammer to her brow. "Með mætti ok rǫdd Þórs kalla ek nú fram þrumur þær ok sjónir; eyðið myrkri ok leiðið hana aptr í ljós."
(By the power and voice of Thor, I conjure thunder and sight; annihilate the darkness and bring her back to light.English Version )
The silver pendant gave a faint white gleam; the light brightened and then ran along the vessels of her face, sweeping through her whole body.
Mrs. Sigrún coughed herself awake; her legs gave way and she dropped to her knees. In the same instant, Ingvar saw a wisp of black vapor drift from her spine and slowly sink into the floor. "Are you all right?" he asked, frantic. After several minutes of measured breathing, he helped her to a chair; she lay back, drained, unable to speak for a long while.
Ingvar shut the notebook. He stroked his beloved's hands, trying to warm them. After a while, he spoke slowly. "What you saw—was it the one who whispers? The figure who walks the deepest dark and whom people deliberately avoid?" Mrs. Sigrún drew a deep breath and gave a tiny nod.
"Then we at least have a thread. That gust—it was likely a wordless warning. But if I'm right, to get to the bottom of this we can only go to that family." Ingvar's tone was heavy, tinged with helplessness. "You mean the seiðkona household?" At that, Mrs. Sigrún's expression turned stern.
"You know this: aside from what's preserved in the archives under the Upper Three Courts, only they hold such proscribed texts. Don't forget—had their clan not, centuries ago, sunk into greed and desire, how would they have drawn away from the Coven and from people? Yet as far as I know, they've lived in Essex for so long and made little of it." Ingvar's eyes kept moving, searching for a point of entry.
"Their family has studied the dark arts for generations. Is it possible they once swore to something and failed those harsh terms, so that they've been scorned by the coven and gossiped about, even into decline? What I'm thinking is: even if they are threadbare now, even if the gods won't favor them further—after so many years with the Myrkblot, might they still hold some things taught by gods of the deepest dark—materials the coven has never archived—that could explain our daughter's prophecy?"
Shock overtook severity in Mrs. Sigrún's eyes. "Those records have never been seen by anyone outside their family. Can you really make them bring them out? Ingvar, you are talking about the impossible."
"Then tell me what else we do. The Conclave has the news already. They're combing through millennia of texts. We can't do nothing and wait." Ingvar's voice rose despite himself. "I'll try regardless. Dream-walking. Summons. Even slipping into the layers of memory. I will solve this and give our daughter some peace."
Mrs. Sigrún had no answer. A dead hush fell. They stared at one another. From far off came a raven's cry, breaking the silence. "Then we try," she sighed, closing her eyes and bowing her head. Ingvar no longer looked agitated. He stepped forward and drew her into his arms as she dabbed at her tears.
"Everything will be all right," he said softly. "It will." …
The first day back after the break, Eliza moved as if some hair-trigger had been tripped. In class she stared out at the leaves beyond the window; when a pigeon swept past, she jolted so hard she knocked her desk askew. She kept rubbing her left hand—the skin already peeling from steeping in tinctures—treating every rustle of wind, every stray coincidence, as an omen gone wrong.
By afternoon the sun had bleached the track to a pale film. Eliza sat alone on the steps with her lunch and two bottles of orange juice. She lifted her salad after a few bites, set it down again, and murmured psalms to steady herself.
"Ah—"
A cry snapped across the field. Eliza's head came up. A girl with flyaway hair sat on a concrete step by the sideline, clothes plain, the collar mended in a few places. At the cry her bottle slipped from her hand. She turned sharply; a breeze combed her hair so a few strands stuck to the damp at her mouth. Not far off, a cluster of carefully made-up girls snickered, drawing out their vowels on purpose. Pebbles clicked over in their palms, as if they took pleasure in needling some timid animal.
Eliza said nothing. Her fingers tightened around her lunchbox. When another pebble arced toward the girl, she stood. Lunch in her left hand, she sketched the rune Raido ᚱ with her right—swift, clean—and sent the pigeons perched on the railing bursting straight at the taunters.
"What is—?" "Help!" "Why are you just standing there? Run!"…
The birds thudded against them, pecked at bare skin. Panic scattered the girls; after a flurry of shrieks they bolted, tripping over one another. Eliza couldn't help a short laugh. She'd learned that trick at the spring equinox; she hadn't expected it to come in handy here.
The other girl had curled in on herself, arms wrapped tight around her knees. Only when the pigeons and the stone-throwers were gone did she start to unclench. Eliza brushed dust from her clothes, picked up her lunch and the juice, and walked over.
Seeing someone approach, the girl hurried a hand through her hair, opened a book on her lap, and ducked her head as if to read. Eliza sat down about two meters away.
"They've got nothing better to do," Eliza said. "When they're done with one person, they move on to the next. Always picking the softest target. Don't mind them."
Her voice rang like a small bell, and the girl's silence cracked. She turned, embarrassment and resignation written across her face. Eliza smiled and offered one of the bottles, already warmed in her hand.
"Have some orange juice. When you're low, a bit of sweet helps."
The girl hesitated, glanced at Eliza's open, kind expression, then reached out with a slight tremor. When those fingers touched the plastic, Eliza noticed how slender the girl's hand was, how cool her fingertips felt. The girl nodded once after taking the bottle, still a little awkward, eyes lifting to the stretch of field now emptied where the others had been. Her throat worked; no sound came.
"Thank you," she said at last—very softly, as if a louder word might summon something that would shame her.
"I'm Eliza."
"I… Mondena." She seemed unused to saying her own name; the last syllable came out like she had to bite through it.
"Lovely name," Eliza said with a smile. "I'm curious, though—why would they throw stones for no reason? Is there some grievance?"
Mondena choked and nearly sprayed the juice she'd just sipped. Eliza realized her mistake and hurried to fix it.
"I don't mean to pry. It's your business—I'm not here to dig for gossip or enjoy the show. I just think, if there's a misunderstanding, say it and be done. If not, don't engage. No need to torment and mock people."
Mondena twisted the cap tight again and sighed. "Bullying doesn't need a proper reason… I… got used to it a long time ago."
Eliza didn't answer. She glanced at the tree by the track, then stood.
"I'm free this afternoon. If you are too, want to come to the library after two and read for a bit?"
Mondena looked up, nerves and shyness warring in her face. Eliza added, laughing softly, "Essex is small. Everyone already knows everyone. Turns out making a new friend isn't easy. I'm glad we met today."
Mondena's expression loosened. "Then… the library," she said, still quiet.
"Perfect. See you in a bit. Oh—don't forget the orange juice. It's a little warm, but fresh beats those awful cartons."
Eliza took her lunch and headed back toward class.
Left sitting there, Mondena watched her go, a slow warmth rising in her chest. It was the first kindness she'd felt at school in years: a half-warm bottle of juice, a few ordinary words that still respected boundaries and dignity. In her complicated, sensitive heart, the surface began to ripple.
"Sorry I'm late! Something came up—what are you reading?" Eliza hurried into the library with a canvas tote and plopped into the chair beside Mondena.
"Mm, just flipping through a poetry collection someone left on the table." Seeing the sweat on Eliza's brow, Mondena pulled a packet of tissues from her bag and passed it over.
"The Edda? Do you like its stories?" Eliza asked with a smile as she dabbed her forehead.
"Pretty interesting. It feels different from other mythologies—especially the personalities of the Norse gods and the way it describes Ragnarök. It's really special," Mondena said, tapping an illustration.
"It is. But most of what's in there came from the poets' imagination and from complicated lines of transmission between versions. In truth, a lot of the mythic material diverges from real history—or simply gets it wrong." Eliza's eyes showed a flicker of helplessness. She glanced at the crudely bound volume, then went back to sorting the things in her tote.
"Huh? Diverges from 'real' mythology? Are there other versions?" Mondena asked, curious.
Eliza nodded offhandedly. "There are. And the historical background behind the myths is more unusual than what the Edda presents—especially the stories among the gods…"
Just then, Mondena turned to the page about Ragnarök and the great serpent gnawing at the roots of the world-tree. "What about this? I've read other myth tales and novels, but in Norse myth the way the gods fall in the final battle and the world is destroyed feels different. Maybe I'm just a daydreamer, but while I was waiting for you I kept imagining how people would respond if it really happened…"
"Impossible. Even if the poems mention that day, the skalds were passing along hearsay, guesses, and inventions. It wouldn't happen in reality." Prodded by the thought, Eliza set down what she was holding, her face turning serious. "From 934 to 940AD, Iceland's Eldgjá fissure erupted. The vast ash, the blood-red sun, the lingering haze—they all had deep effects on the Norse countries, on Ireland, even Italy. People living in harsh climates, and the skalds among them, folded those natural phenomena into myth. Out of fear of doom and a desire to live, they wove the stories you're reading." She sighed, then went on:
"But that was just a blending—under extreme conditions and in an age when learning was only beginning—of geological events with mythology, a kind of groping exploration. As for gods falling and Jörmungandr chewing the roots of the world-tree until the Nine Realms collapse—that's nonsense. We would never allow that to happen."
"We would never allow it? What does that mean?" Mondena, who had been listening with relish, suddenly looked up.
Eliza realized she'd nearly said too much and quickly patched it over. "Nothing. I mean, if things truly happened as the myths say, humans would fight back and resist, right?" She smiled, trying to sidestep the deepening topic.
"Oh—fair point. Rather than waiting for extinction, making a last stand is human instinct—and a commitment to keeping civilization." Mondena's eyes brightened. "You really understand myth. Don't tell me you like fantasy novels too?"
"I prefer stories grounded in real history, and in old customs and rites." Something occurred to Eliza; she opened her notebook and, on the page sketching a rite for entering dreams, jotted a small marginal note.
Peeking at the finely made notebook, Mondena leaned closer. "Dream Walking? What's that?"
"Mm, nothing—just notes where I braid together my own experiences with what I've learned about different myths and folkways." Eliza looked a touch flustered at how close Mondena had come and quickly closed the notebook.
Realizing she'd overstepped, Mondena eased back. "Sorry—I was being nosy." She bowed her head and lifted the Edda again.
"It's fine—just scraps." Catching the awkwardness, Eliza stood, patted Mondena's shoulder, tucked the notebook into her coat, and said, "If you like myth, wait a sec. I saw a few new books here on myth deconstruction. I'll grab them for you." She headed up to the second floor.
Left alone, Mondena still felt uneasy about prying. She looked around, then bent over the poetry volume until her forehead was almost touching the page.
After a while, Eliza came back. "Here—this one's about the backgrounds and symbolic structures of myths; and these two unpack the historical layers of Norse and Greek folkways. If you like fantasy novels, you'll probably enjoy these." She handed over three beautifully bound volumes.
Mondena paused, then opened them and began reading word by word. Eliza flipped open A History of Medieval Medicine for her own research. "I saw you sitting alone by the field earlier. Something on your mind?" she asked, scanning the table of contents.
Hearing that, Mondena lowered her head even more. "It's nothing. If I'm ever feeling low, I'll come read with you. Since we like the same things, we can swap stories we're into." Eliza smiled.
"Actually, I was sitting there because… I don't have many friends at this school," Mondena murmured.
"What?" Eliza turned.
"Nothing. Thanks for the orange juice today."
"Oh—by the way, do you ever walk the town market? I'm curious what the antique fair on the square will have this week. If you're free this weekend, want to go?" Eliza asked gently.
"The weekend? I go to church with my parents in the morning, but I should be free after." Mondena's cheeks flushed; it was the first time anyone had asked her out.
"Then it's settled. I have to drop something off with relatives Sunday morning—let's meet at two, at the market on the square?"
"Mm." Mondena gave a small nod.