The Binding of Faenrir

"Few relicts are so unique that they are given their own name. Faenrir the World-Eater, son of Al'Ashar and one of the three Aldereich, is one of them."

— Ylva Norn, The Encyclopaedia of Daemons

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"Seventy-nine… Eighty… Eighty-one…"

Sweat dripped from Ein's brow as he swung his wooden blade again and again, cutting the evening air. Each motion was fluid and seamless, a sequence of steps with no unnecessary movements.

Stepping forward, raising his sword, bringing it down in a whistle of wood and wind. His back was straight, his knees bent, centre of gravity low as he stared down his invisible opponent. With each complete swing he exhaled with a hiss, sending a breath of white from his lips.

"Are you done yet?"

He shut Evaine's voice in a small box that he locked and tossed into a corner of his mind. All it took was a moment's lapse in concentration to decide the outcome of a battle. If you were lucky, you'd suffer a light wound or maybe a broken bone. If you were unlucky, or if your opponent knew what they were doing, your head would be separated from your neck.

That was what his father had taught him, and Ein had never beaten Alend in all the times they'd crossed blades.

"Ninety-nine… one hundred."

He panted, letting his sword fall to his side. Goose-flesh formed along his exposed arms and it wasn't long before he was shivering. The patches of sweat on his chest and back were reaching uncomfortably low temperatures.

"Here," Evaine called, tossing a towel towards him. Ein caught it and wiped himself, joining her by the back entrance to the forge where the fire still burned hot. He closed the door and sat down before the furnace, breathing steadily.

"I don't understand you," she said, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "Why even bother learning to use a sword if you're never going to set foot outside Felhaven?"

"It's a good skill to learn," Ein said. He rested the sword against the wall. "You never know when you'll need to take up arms and defend your home. Besides, weren't you the one trying to convince me to leave the village and become a hero? Heroes don't become strong by lazing around."

Evaine rolled her eyes. "Well, you've finished your drills now. Are you ready to go yet?"

"Is Mother ready?"

"She's already gone. She left with Cinnamin about an hour ago to help out at the inn."

Ein listened. Evaine was right; aside from the crackle of the fire, he couldn't hear a thing. They really were gone.

"The rest of the village is probably there already," Evaine sighed. "I saw the troupers marching through a while ago. I hope they haven't started their stories without us."

"You didn't have to wait for me," he pointed out. "You could have just gone."

Evaine picked up the wooden sword and tapped him on the shoulder. "They'd probably throw me into the kitchen to cook, or send me out as a barmaid." She looked at the sword. "This is heavier than it looks."

"Father makes the training swords heavier to build muscle."

Evaine replaced it by the wall and smiled smugly. "Well, it's working. I saw some of the trouper girls eyeing you on the way back."

Ein flushed. "That's ridiculous." Were they really?

He placed the towel by the fire and slipped on his leather vest, drawing the strings tight around his collarbone. Evaine waited for him outside the forge as he doused the flames and closed the door. There were no thieves in Felhaven—there was no need to steal when you could borrow whatever you needed from your neighbor—so very few of the shops and houses actually had locks. If someone stole something, a quick search of the surrounding houses would usually uncover it.

They heard the troupe long before they reached the inn, above the grinding of feet on loose gravel and packed dirt. The festival stalls were all but ready, streams of lanterns hanging from roof to roof like wind chimes.

Founder's Eve was a single night's sleep away.

Ein might well find himself betrothed by this time tomorrow. Evaine was silent beside him, her deep eyes gazing far into the distance.

"You're serious, aren't you?" he said.

"Hm?" She gave a start and turned to face him. They stood in front of the Sleeping Twinn as sounds of song and laughter washed over them.

"About leaving Felhaven and joining the Wydlings."

Evaine cast her eyes to the ground. She opened her mouth as if to say something, and then stopped. She drew herself together and smirked, but the moment of hesitation had not escaped him.

"Of course I am." Evaine pushed open the door and stepped inside before he could enquire further.

The inn was packed to the rafters. Every seat, every table was full, villagers and troupers alike sitting in circles touching mugs together in drunken movements. A group of men played cards and dice on one of the bigger tables, while another downed beer after beer in childish rivalries.

Several of the unmarried Masters flirted with troupers and villagers alike, boasting with flushed faces and loud mouths. Three men sat around a trouper in the corner, chatting while feasting on what looked like a wolf roast.

The trouper moved his hands in exaggerated movements, and the men watched with eyes that saw not the Sleeping Twinn, but dragons and princesses from faraway lands. Between the incessant drone of gossip and the raunchy singing of the lutist by the fireplace, and the splash of mead and the clatter of mugs being thumped onto the tables, Ein could barely hear himself think.

"Young Master Thoren! And young Mistress Tamelyn! We were wondering when you'd arrive." Mistress Caitlyn greeted them. She was dressed in the roughspun apron of a barmaid and appeared to be enjoying every inch of attention it brought her.

Ein spotted his mother nearby in the same outfit, serving a group of rowdy men.

"Is there anything I can get you? Food or a drink? Don't worry about paying; we wouldn't have much in the way of food if it weren't for you or your father."

She closed Ein's fingers around the coins he had out and looked solemnly at Evaine. "Or the poor sheep on your farm. Do pass my best wishes to your parents."

Evaine nodded curtly.

"I suppose we can settle for something," Ein said. "Maybe some bread and mutton."

"I'll take wolf," Evaine said. "I feel a bit sick eating my own sheep."

"Of course. And the drinks?"

"Ale or cider mixed in with some water, I suppose," Ein said. Evaine nodded in agreement. "Nothing too strong. I'd prefer to keep my head tonight."

"Of course, of course. I'll have your meal prepared right away. In the meantime, why don't you take a seat? I'm sure you'll find plenty in the way of entertainment."

The Mistress left them, rushing off to take orders from another table while collecting a platter of empty mugs from a third.

"I've never seen this place so busy," Evaine said.

"I don't suppose your parents let you come here often, huh." Ein spotted a familiar face and dragged Evaine to the fireplace where they sat down at a table full of villagers and troupers alike.

Bran Sutherland greeted them, his face flushed redder than Ein thought possible.