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Lauma awoke to the sound of panicked tweets, barks, and huffs.
It was strange for the animals at Hiisi Island to be perturbed, especially since just yesterday, they seemed calmer than ever. Nevertheless, Lauma quickly donned her garments and left her room to see what the fuss was about. She hadn’t gone far when a young priestess with soft green eyes and hair like moonlight came rushing towards her, gathering her skirt up as she ran.
“Ylva,” Lauma said gently. The normally pale girl was red, panting as she tried to recover her breath.
“Moonchanter Lauma!” she exclaimed. When she finally came to, she immediately started combing her hair with her fingers, suddenly aware of her dishevelled appearance. “Ah, I’m so sorry for appearing in front of you in such a state, but—but…!”
“Calm dowm, Ylva,” Lauma said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “There’s no rush. Collect yourself before speaking. Surely, what you’re about to say can wait until you can breathe properly.”
Ylva quickly shook her head, the white strands she had just fixed returning to their former messes. “It can’t! The animals—they’re scattering everywhere! The elders are trying to calm them down, but they won’t stop trying to run away. There’s a strange man outside, too. They say he’s looking for you!”
Instantly, Lauma felt her chest tighten. It wasn’t rare for people outside Hiisi to come in search of her—after all, the title of Moonchanter was well-known all across Nod-Krai. It could simply be that they were looking for a chat, or something important had happened…
…but for a man to spread such fright among both the animals and humans alike…
“Where is he?” Lauma asked.
“Outside! By the statue of Kuutar!”
Lauma placed her hand on the girl’s face and gave her a soft smile. “Do not worry yourself too much, Ylva. Help the others calm the animals, and ensure no further disturbances occur among them. I’ll return shortly.”
With that, Lauma made her way outside. The usual calm and order of the Enclave had vanished, and in its place was a discordant and chaotic scene. Animals were running all around, panicked—the finches flying about, wings fluttering erratically, unsure where to head. The Rimehorn deer were practically running into each other in their hastes, knocking over furniture and plants alike. The humans were no different—struggling to keep the animals in check while also battling against their own panic.
“Moonchanter Lauma is here!” said one of the priests after spotting her. And soon, a wave of relief spread across the crowd. Even the animals seemed to calm down a bit with her presence. However, it wasn’t enough, as shortly after, they resumed their frenzies, sending the others back into chaos.
Lauma headed to the statue of Kuutar—and there, right at the stone foot of the goddess statue, the second she crossed the threshold of the clearing, she understood why nothing would calm.
The air itself resisted her. The wind curled wrong around the stone, stubborn and catching on nothing, whispering where it should have been silent. With each step, the noise grew sharper and more strained, as though every creature present were reaching the limit of their endurances. Hooves struck the ground, rhythmlessly pounding on the stone. Wings beat too quickly. And that same stubborn wind seemed to falter, too, catching ever so strangely between the frost-laden trees.
Her gaze returned to the figure by the statue: amidst the disorder, still, his presence seemed at odds with everything around him. Where the rest of the clearing moved in panic, he remained… composed. Almost unnaturally so. A man clad in dark leather robes, frayed at the edges, pale, almost ash-grey skin, carrying a lantern with blue flame…
Lauma knew the man well. Today, he wore his hair braided and his boots covered with blood.
“Mr. Flins?” she called out, the lilt in her voice more hesitation than uncertainty. What was Flins doing here, of all places?
The man turned, and Lauma confirmed that it was indeed the elegant Ratnik—though she needed no confirmation at all. Flins bowed, the small smile he always wore on his lips now stained with blood and grime.
“Hello, Miss Lauma,” he said curtly upon lifting his head. “It is a pleasure to see you here.”
“It’s… a pleasure to see you, too, Mr. Flins,” Lauma replied with a nod. “What brings you to the Frostmoon Enclave?” Her eyes dropped to the lantern he carried. Despite how everything on his person was dirtied with blood, the lantern remained clean, the blue flame flickering untouched in its iron cage.
“I just happened to be passing by,” Flins said, “when I noticed traces of the Wild Hunt heading near the Enclave. Naturally, it is my duty as a Ratnik to eradicate such entities, and so I ended up here. Though—” He looked down at his clothes, as if suddenly aware of his appearance. “The horde was an unusually large bunch. About thirty or so—tore my coat a bit.”
“Thirty?” Lauma gasped, her hand flying over her mouth as if to restrain herself from showing too much of a reaction. She never took herself as someone who judged based on appearance, no, but something about how both animals and humans react to him compared to the other Ratniki…
Flins nodded. “I apologise for my, ah… dishevelled appearance. And it seems everyone has gone and scattered about, too…” He turned his head towards the Enclave, then back to Lauma and gave her a small nod, though it was apologetic in its nature. “I apologise for that, too. I was just about to leave, anyhow, so I won’t be causing you any further disturbance.”
Lauma found that no matter how hard she tried to move, she did not. The gesture in itself was barely noticeable to anyone watching, but it was enough to halt him before he could take even a single step past her.
“Mr. Flins,” she said softly, “you need not hurry to leave just yet.”
Silence followed suit. Behind her, the unrest had not ceased—though it had changed. The panic lingered instead of the earlier surging force, pressing at the edges of the clearing, as though something unseen kept it from spilling further. Flins’s gaze shifted, if only so slightly, toward the surrounding trees.
“I would prefer not to impose further,” he replied. “It seems my presence is already unwelcome enough.”
“That is not the reason,” Lauma answered, taking a step closer. The difference in their states became clearer with the distance closed. Not merely the blood, though there was more of it than she had first thought, but the way it remained. It did not behave as it should. It did not dry, nor flake, nor fall away. It held, instead, as though it had not yet decided to leave him.
Lauma lifted her hand. This time, there were no cries from behind her. Only a strained quiet as those watching held their breaths. Her fingers brushed lightly against his cold, bloodsoaked sleeve. Beneath it lay a faint resistance, the surface of still water disturbed just enough to ripple. Flins’s hand tightened around his lantern’s handle.
“Is something the matter?” he asked.
Lauma’s gaze remained lowered for a moment longer. “They have not gone.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The ones you encountered,” she continued, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. “The Wild Hunt. You said you eradicated them.”
“Yes.”
“You did not.”
The words came out of her lips gently, and yet Flins’s expression still did not falter. But something in his stillness shifted—subtle enough that it might have been missed by anyone not looking for it.
“I’m quite certain that I did,” he said.
“No.” Lauma’s hand moved, this time resting lightly against his arm, grounding. “They are still here. I can feel it.”
It was Flins’s turn to lower his gaze. Slightly, not at her, but at the space between them, pale gold staring thoughtfully.
“That would be unusual,” he said at last, “don’t you think?”
“It is.”
The wind stirred faintly around them, pushing inward. The clearing seemed to be drawing breath. Flins’s grip on the lantern shifted, ever so slightly. The blue flame flickered but did not waver.
“I see,” he murmured. There was no alarm in his voice, which unnerved Lauma. No disbelief of any kind. Though their encounters with each other were scarce, whenever she did see Flins, she realised he adjusted more than he talked.
“You said there were many,” she continued. “Thirty or so, you said.”
“That is what I said.”
“And none fled?”
“No.”
Lauma’s gaze softened, but her voice did not. “Then they had nowhere to go.”
Flins looked at her again. “I suppose so.”
His eyes did not leave hers, but something in them shifted. A slight narrowing, perhaps, but Lauma could not tell. It was as if he were aligning her words with something he already understood. There was no resistance in his agreement, nor was there an attempt in correction. Simply an acknowledgement.
Lauma’s hand remained where it was, light against his sleeve. “You did your duty, then. You stopped them before they reached the Enclave, and yet they did not pass on.”
“In my experience, they do not linger once the encounter concludes, Miss Lauma. I was not aware they could pass on… they rarely do.”
“Not like this?”
Flins did not answer the question with words. His gaze drifted briefly to his own hand, to the dark staining his glove.
“No,” he admitted.
“They are bound to you, Mr. Flins. You carried the end of them with you. They are still—” Her fingers pressed slightly into the fabric at his arm. “—here. Not in the forest, but with you. This encounter did not conclude. You’ve dealt with the Wild Hunt for years. Surely, you must know how they behave.”
“I would like to think so.”
“And yet, you walked into the Enclave like this.”
“In my defense,” Flins said, almost lightly, glancing at his sleeve, “I was not expecting an audience.”
“This is not about appearances. You didn’t feel it?”
Flins’s gaze returned to her. “Feel what?”
“The difference.”
He was quiet for a bit. “Something was… off, I suppose. I assumed it was the number—you know, the Wild Hunt usually appears in teams of sixes or tens when we patrol. I also thought perhaps it may be the terrain. Or…”
He stopped himself. Lauma waited.
“...or perhaps I had grown careless,” he finished.
Lauma shook her head. “You are not careless.”
“That is kind of you to say.”
“I don’t think it’s much kindness. You noticed it wasn’t finished, didn’t you? That’s why you came here. But why… still, why here?”
The pause lasted longer. Flins’s eyes drifted past her toward the edge of the clearing where the animals lingered uneasily. Slowly, gold returned to look back at the twinkling, pale blue.
“I suppose it felt quieter. Just a little. Not entirely.” He shifted his grip on the lantern, the blue flame still steady. “I thought perhaps I had misjudged something or that there was something here I had… overlooked.”
“And instead, you found that it followed you.”
“So it seems.”
Lauma’s hand did not leave his arm. “You shouldn’t leave like this.”
Flins gave a small, amused exhale. “I had gathered as much.”
"This is not a problem you can solve independently."
“No matter. I have resolved similar matters before.”
“But not like this.”
He met her gaze. “No?”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, Flins tilted his head slightly.
“What would you suggest, then?” he asked. “I would prefer not to continue alarming the entire Enclave.”
“They are not aftaid of the blood,” she said, glancing behind her—at the priestesses and priests, the villagers, the animals, the tension that had yet to break. “They are reacting to what remains, from what I see. It’s not separating from you.”
“Evidently not.”
Lauma looked back at him. “So you’ll stay.”
It wasn’t quite a command, but it wasn’t a suggestion either. Flins seemed to consider her for a moment, then inclined his head.
“I am a terribly busy man,” he said, “but if that is what you ask…”
“It is.”
Another small silence. Then, softer—
“We’ll help them pass properly,” Lauma said. “I am not versed, but… you did clear out the Wild Hunt, even if you’ve not quite. If you hadn’t arrived, then with that large of a horde, perhaps the Frostmoon Enclave would be no longer. If I, as the Moonchanter, can help you with anything at all…”
“You are thanking me for something incomplete?”
“Of course I am. You still came.”
“Hm.”
His expression softened, though not visibly and not enough for anyone else to name it. A slight loosening at the edges, easing.
The wind shifted again. Lauma felt it more clearly, as presence now rather than resistance. Not one, not many—something layered, overlapping, uncertain of where to rest.
“They are listening,” she said.
“To you?”
“To us.”
Flins smirked. “How odd.”
Lauma almost smiled.
“You speak of them as though they are a crowd,” he said.
“They often are.”
“They are not, right now.”
Another pause. Flins tilted his head. “No?”
“No.” Her voice softened further. “They are confused.”
The word lingered. Strange, perhaps, to assign something so human to what they were—but it fit too well to dismiss. And Flins did not argue.
“…that would explain the noise,” he said.
Lauma nodded faintly. “You did not give them an end, only a stopping point.”
“That is typically sufficient.”
“Not this time.”
Lauma drew a slow breath. “May I try something?” she asked.
Flins looked at her. “You have already done more than most would attempt; I see no reason to object.”
It was permission, as much as he would ever give. Lauma stepped closer.
Her hand moved from his sleeve, rising—hesitating only a moment before settling lightly against his chest, just over where his heart should have been. Cold. Still cold. But not empty, not really. Flins stilled completely.
“Stay as you are,” she said quietly.
“I was not planning to move.”
“I know.”
The faintest hint of something—humour, perhaps—passed between them, brief and gone.
Lauma closed her eyes.
The clearing did not quiet. But it changed. The sharp edges of panic dulled. The restless movement at the edges slowed. Watching and waiting.
Lauma exhaled slowly.
“You can go,” she murmured.
Not to him entirely. Her voice was soft, but it carried—not outward, but inward, threading through the space between breaths, between heartbeats, between whatever unseen thing lingered too close.
“You do not have to stay here.”
The wind stirred. Flins did not move.
“Is something happening?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” Lauma’s hand remained steady against him. “You were stopped, but not finished. You may go now. There is nothing left to hold you here.”
A long moment passed. Then another.
Lauma’s brow furrowed slightly.
“They’re hesitating,” she murmured.
Flins’ voice came, softer than before. “They are not used to being given permission.”
Lauma’s eyes opened. She looked up at him. “And you are?”
A beat.
“No,” he said simply.
Something in her expression changed then, warmer than pity, perhaps. She could not name it, but she knew that it… settled, yes, rather than reached.
And still her hand did not move.
“Then listen as well,” she said.
Flins did not respond, but he did not look away.
Lauma’s voice softened further. “You may go, too.”
Flins’ breath caught—barely. So faint it might have been missed.
“I do not believe I was the one being addressed,” he said.
“You were.”
Behind them, the animals shifted.
Settling, too.
Flins’ shoulders lowered. The lantern’s flame flickered once before steadying.
“I see,” he said, but his voice had changed. Only a little, though. Only… enough.
Lauma’s hand slowly withdrew. The cold remained—but it no longer felt as deep. As though something that had been pressing inward had eased, leaving space behind.
She studied him carefully.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Lighter, I believe,” he said. “Though I cannot say I noticed the weight until now.”
Lauma smiled. “That is often how it is.”
Flins looked at her. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Thank you,” he said.
The words were unadorned. Quiet, yes, but real all the same. Lauma inclined her head slightly.
“You came here for a reason,” she said. “Even if you did not know it yet.”
Behind them, the clearing had stilled. The wind moved as it should. The animals no longer recoiled. The tension that had held everything in place had loosened, leaving only the quiet aftermath. Flins adjusted his grip on the lantern.
“Then I will take my leave,” he said.
Lauma did not stop him this time. But as he stepped past her—
“Mr. Flins.”
“Yes?”
Lauma met his gaze. “You do not always have to carry it alone.”
A small silence followed.
Flins regarded her, golden eyes filled not with confusion, not quite with understanding… but with something closer to… consideration.
“I will keep that in mind,” he said. “I thank you again... Moonchanter Lauma.”
It was not a promise.
But it was not nothing.
Lauma watched as he walked away from the statue, the blue flame of his lantern steady in the growing quiet.
This time…
…nothing followed him.