He handed her a wooden figurine, a rough carving of a hummingbird. The work was far from flawless, but the detail and care she spotted in the tiny bird were touching. And she sensed how much Regn wanted her to like his gift. Regn’s tender and shuffled emotions were more than she could handle, and soon, a few tears escaped her eyes. He panicked. “If you find it that awful, you can hand it back! I’ll give you raw fish or—!”
Before he had the chance to scurry away, she jumped into his arms. “You silly, I love this! It’s perfect.”
The slight tremor in his arms dwindled while he hugged her. Before stepping away, Regn rewarded her with a grateful smile.
She then turned to Hakken, and Maeve couldn’t help the butterflies in her stomach. Much had happened in the last few days, and their relationship was entirely different from their good-natured friendship back at the village. Their attraction was undeniable.
Did she love him?
“I’m afraid my gift to you is back in the village.” He as well held something behind his back. “I didn’t want to be the only one not giving you a present.” He produced—almost reluctantly—a delicate flower crown. Maeve took the garland, smelling the wildflowers and herbs, and admiring the careful handwork. A simple gift, and yet so meaningful. The image of rough, manly Hakken picking flowers and knitting a crown for her made her smile.
“Thank you.” There she was, crying again. “It’s beautiful.” She placed it over her head, and Hakken beamed at her.
As everyone relaxed back to their seats, going for a second round of food, an acute pang of urgency called on her. Someone roamed outside the cabin. Placing her many gifts on the table, Maeve headed for the entrance, and everyone’s eyes followed her.
A breeze crept in through the parted door, and Maeve shivered as she stepped into the night. The Warlocks and the half-breeds joined her, and four jaws dropped in unison. Stomping on the grass, showered by starlight, a magnificent stag gave them the most mesmerizing stare. “I am glad to meet you again on such a mirthful occasion, young Maeve.”
“Ancient Hua,” she bowed.
“I’m terribly sorry to cut your celebration short, but I must speak to my sister.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE TORMENTED LEADER
Dröm
Standing on a slope, his eyes glistened lost in the distance, and partially blinded in caverns, the colorful sight of trees had always been a distant and captivating treat.
Before the war, where his father and so many others found their untimely deaths, he used to roam under the green canopy, enjoying the fresh breeze and the briskness of the creatures scurrying around him. As a child, he dreamed of leaving the caves behind and traveling the Forest, visiting other tribes, and learning many things.
He almost smiled, remembering those days.
Eleven years ago, soon after his coming of age, his father—chief of their tribe—denounced the river and valley tribes as enemies to be eradicated. The news came as a shock to everyone in the village. They maintained little contact with the other half-breed tribes, but their meager relations had always been cordial.
Every single elder conveyed their disagreement, but his father seemed deaf to reason. Dröm even tried to speak with him alone, only to be slapped in the face. Know your place, boy. He scolded him. Dröm might have reached adulthood, but his father never failed to make him feel like a child.
After weeks of arguing, the elders didn’t seem to be close to convincing his chief to abandon this madness. Word spread about their leader losing his mind. Dröm could only witness with concern how his father’s ruling failed hopelessly. But then, the unimaginable happened.
The chief summoned each family’s elders, matriarchs, and patriarchs to the deepest cavern in the mountain. A place reserved only as a shelter in case of a foreign invasion. The younglings stayed behind under Dröm’s charge.
Long hours passed. His father left him with strict instructions of not letting anyone down where they held the meeting. The night turned into a new day, but still, no signs of the village elders.
When they emerged, noon had long passed. A long line of men and women left the thick darkness of the caves, their faces devoid of all emotion.
His father climbed out the last. When he reached the highest spot in the chamber, he turned to his people, and an awful presentiment chilled Dröm’s blood. No more questions, no more dissent against his father’s will.
“We are at war,” the chief declared. And the brutality of those days scarred Dröm for life.
He always blamed himself for not being strong enough to stop his father. Never in his life he felt as useless as when he failed to save him. He held him when he passed from this world. A short moment of lucidity when his old man stared at him, panicked, not knowing what was happening around him.
The memory haunted him ever since. After the carnage, it was Dröm’s responsibility to lead his people. He vowed to look after the survivors, promising his father’s spirit and himself to raise his tribe from ruin. Dröm dreamt of the time they would be at peace and rejoin the world. He yearned for the other tribe’s forgiveness.
Eleven years of hiding and struggling to gain a new sense of harmony rewarded his people’s hard work. He knew in his heart; the time had come. But the ghosts of the past weakened his resolve.
He never understood the true reason for his father’s war.
Dröm feared to lead his people out into the world and put them in a place of vulnerability, only to be crushed by uncertainty. He needed to discover why his father waged war. Looking for answers, he went down to the abandoned cavern.
He only took a small torch since his eyes were used to the darkness, and he didn’t expect to stay long.
The shadows
