Say what you will of Torm, but the town was an utter shit hole. It sat squat nosed on the southernmost point of Danic, where the snow turned into freezing rain, pouring buckets of the stuff on miserable looking folk. Everywhere Regis looked he saw nothing but soggy longhouses, wrinkled yokels wrapped in stinking seal fur, and enough puddles to sink your ankles in ten times over.

Regis hawked, spat, adding his own contribution to the constant drizzle as he skulked down a cobblestoned road. Most of the people he crossed paths with gave him a wide berth, and why wouldn't they? He probably looked every part the terrifying monster. Skin pale as snow from lack of sun, eyes red rimmed and flinty from lack of sleep. The head of a Wyrd-forged hammer peaking out beneath his oiled leathers.

He paid them no mind either way. He was after one man and one man alone. The only man who could possibly make things right.

Laughter and candle light flickered out from a nearby window. Regis stopped and peered up at the dripping sign above, The Rusty Nail etched out in iron letters He trundled up the creaky steps, barged his way inside, warmth and light washing over him.

Heads bobbed up to look at him, over playing cards, the rims of drinks, from the sides of their eyes, measuring him, weighing him, deciding if he was trouble. Only one kept their head down, staring longingly into the bottom of an empty glass.

Regis shouldered past the crowd without a word, coat tails dripping onto the floorboards, leaving a trail of wet behind him. He pulled out a chair, wood creaking, and sat down, planting his hammer beside him with a resounding thunk.

Loken didn't look up at him, but he didn't need to. The guilty look on his face said it all.

"You knew," Regis growled.

"I did."

"Damn you, Loken!" Regis smashed his fist against the table, hard enough to dent the wood, loud enough to make the crowd around them jump. The room went silent as a dozen eyes grew watchful, a dozen hands reaching for their pockets.

A long, hard silence fell over the inn, broken the moment two gold coins flickered into view between Loken's fingertips.

"Another round for the room, if you would, Ingra?" He placed the money into the surprised palm of a serving girl, eyes twinkling at the sight of such a bounty.

"At once," the girl cried out, running off to the ale kegs as the crowd's tension melted back into merriment.

Loken looked up from his glass and stared unflinching into Regis' interminable glare. "If you wish to kill me, at least do so quietly and as far away from these good people as possible. They don't deserve to see such violence."

Regis grit his teeth, fingernails digging sharply into his palms. "You knew the Left Hand was hunting after Fenris, and you said nothing."

"He would have tried fighting it if I did. Then we'd all be dead."

"You have no right to withhold such things from him. From me! They took him, damn it!"

"And what would you have me do?" Loken lurched up from his seat, hovering over Regis, his breath wreaking of mead. "Should I have told him and gotten us all killed? It's my responsibility as an Auger, isn't it? Why even stop there? Maybe I should just spill my guts about everything? Shall I tell you the day of your death then, Regis? The day of your son's death, even?"

A tremor ran through Regis as he grabbed a handful of Loken's robe, dragging him to eye level. "I already know the day my son died, you rotten bastard, and if you speak of him again I will not hesitate to dash your brains across this table."

Loken smiled. "It's amazing what men will believe these days. They think that just because they find the burned remains of a family in a pit, they think it's their wife and children. They put the wrong skulls on the highest tree and think they've done right by Aurora, when it was all for naught."

The fire inside Regis burned out in an instant, leaving behind a cold hollowness. He lost his grip on the witch boy, limp hand trembling. "What did you say? What the fark did you say to me?"

Loken sat back down, the venom in his voice gone now, leaving behind only bitterness. "You took the wrong heads, Regis. You did your best, but Erik set fire to everything, to everyone, and there is only so much the flames leave behind."

"You're lying!"

"You know I don't lie," Loken said. "I just withhold the truth."

"Then...then whose heads did I farking take?"

"Not your wife, not your daughter, and certainly not your son."

"Quit mocking me!" Regis wanted to slam his fist against the table again, to feel something other than the squirming agony behind his eyes. "Are you telling me my son has been alive this entire time?"

Loken said nothing, but the look on his face said everything. A kaleidoscope of emotions churned and roiled within Regis as his thoughts crashed against each other like tidal waves, forming chains in the aftermath, connecting one by one.

The serving girl arrived, placing a mug of foaming ale neatly beside Regis. He picked it up and took a sip. It tasted sour.

"Fenris is my son," Regis said.

Loken nodded.

Regis took another drink, deeper this time, longer. "He's my farking son, and you knew it the entire time, and chose to withhold it from me so as to not change his fate. But that doesn't matter anymore now that the Left Hand has him. Am I on the right path?"

"You're quite good at this," Loken said. "It takes some people a lifetime to realize what's standing in front of their face."

"I guess I learned it from better people. And now that both of our fates are farked beyond all recognition, you've decided to reveal the horrible truth."

"You goaded me."

"Fark yourself."

Loken swirled the drink in his hand and took a sip. "I suppose I deserved that one."

"You deserve a proper beating after the stone you dropped on my head." Regis downed the rest of his drink and slid his cup to the edge, the serving girl quickly plucking it up and whisking it away in a flash.

"I deserve a lot worse." Loken frowned. "But I hope you understand I'm telling you this in good faith, and you know I'm not lying either. Deep down I can tell you knew something was off about Fenris from the very beginning."

Regis puffed his cheeks. "I suppose I can't fault you for that. The way the boy fought, the way he swaggered about like a cock in a henhouse. If I'd had a moment to think it over, I'd have thought I was seeing the spitting image of myself. Goddess, but I was a smug, little shit back then."

Loken smiled. "You both possess a warrior's confidence, yours is merely tempered now, while he still need's a bit more time in the fire."

Regis snorted. "If that ain't the truth." He ran a hand over his sweaty forehead, the heat in the room making him feel dizzy of a sudden. "Goddess above, my son's still alive and he was right there the entire time, and now he's back in the hands of my deranged brother."

He stared up at Loken. "Is he going to be okay? What else do you know? And don't you dare hold anything back this time, or I will beat you in front of all these lovely people."

The serving girl appeared with another cup and placed it beside Regis, eyes wide as dinner plates.

"Metaphorically speaking," Regis coughed. "And not inside your lovely establishment."

The girl nodded gravely and slipped away.

"Fenris...or should we call him Bjarni now?" Loken asked.

"Let's keep it as Fenris for now. Never liked the name despite my wife's insistence."

"Fenris stands at a crossroads right now," Loken said. "He has been returned to the High King's fold, but he has learned much since that time, seen things in a different light, and it has left tall shadows in his wake. The choice he makes now can steer his destiny in either direction."

"But is he safe?" Regis demanded.

"He is, for now, but that will change very soon."

"What do you mean?"

"The rebels are marching north now that Kel Dracon has fallen. The Right Hand is dead, killed at the hands of your former Captain, and they will soon make their move on Kel Drenor."

Regis sighed. Figured Libro would have a hand in all this somehow. The lad had a terrible habit of meddling with local affairs. It was how he met Elba, after all.

"Even worse, my sister has succeeded in reaching Mistveil Isle before me. The iron mage still stands doggedly at her side."

"Iron mage? Do you mean Brand? What's he doing with her?"

"He's been seduced by her charms and lies. I fear she may have even stolen his heart."

"Damn it." Regis shook his head, another mess he'd need to untangle. After witnessing the work of Loken's sister first hand, he feared the boy's outcome. "I suppose there's no time to waste then."

Loken's brows shot up. "You're going after my sister, even after what I said about your son? I'd thought he'd be your first priority."

"You said it yourself, he's safe for now. The Left Hand wanted him alive, which means my brother wants him alive as well. Your sister, on the other hand, has more than likely set an expiration date for one of my guardsmen, and I will not allow that."

"I thought you were done with the Vangen?"

"It goes beyond that," Regis growled. "And don't ever question me again."

Loken downed the rest of his drink and set it aside. "I'll try to remember that."

"Good, now let's start talking about a plan. Your sister is in Mistwall Isle—,"

"Mistveil."

"Whatever, she's there. How far is that from Torm?"

"About two days of travel up north."

"That's two days too many."

"I agree," Loken nodded. "Which is why we'll need to ask the stones for assistance."

Regis paused mid sip and stared at Loken over the rim of his cup. "The farking who?"

Several hours later, and he got his answer. He stared up at a shear wall of rock, a network of jagged stones and gnarled roots sealed together by time and enormous pressure. He looked back at Loken.

"These farking stones?"

"Yes, these farking stones." The witch boy stepped forward and placed his hands on the earthy surface, fingers digging into loose pockets of dirt. "Now either be quiet or be nice. They have feelings too, you know."

"Oh, right, right. Fine, fine." Regis turned away, muttering frustratingly at his current predicament. "Lets just talk to the stones. They've got loads to say. Could've given 'em drinks too to loosen up their stony tongues, I reckon. By my soggy, wrinkled balls."

"Regis," Loken snapped.

He looked up, the curse on his tongue melting away as the rocks before him shifted and twisted in their stony embrace, chunks of dirt and debris crumbling away as a dark passageway yawned open before them

He stared over at Loken. "What the fark did you even say to them? Is that more of your wyrdling magick I should be worried about?"

"It's a skill anyone can learn if they have the time and patience to practice. Usually the stones don't care enough to listen, unless you've earned their favor."

"What did you do to get them to like you?"

"I plot against my sister, and it pleases them."

Regis shrugged. "Fair enough, I guess. Where does it even go?" He nodded over at the passageway.

"Like you said before, traveling normally to Mistveil would take too long. My sister's machinations move swiftly, and so must I. That is why we will travel through the stones. It will be faster." He smiled and placed a hand on a nearby rock. "As long as they wish it so."

A shiver ran through Regis as he remembered his time in the twisted tunnels of the mines, and all the horrors that lay within it. "I would very much like to stay in their good graces, I think."

"Very wise, then we shouldn't dawdle." Loken took a step inside, pulled out a torch and sparked it to life, filing the narrow shaft with ruddy, red light. "Despite the many anecdotes you people give the stones about their patience, they're actually quite fickle."

"You don't say," Regis muttered as he quickly chased after Loken, reminding himself to keep any grumbling on the inside, lest he provoke the earth's wrath once more.

***