Fian and the White Queen of the North stood face-to-face as his glassy eyes slowly darkened. Her claws were buried deep in his throat, and warm, crimson blood spilled over the vivid green moss.
Traveler, we tuned the lute and whistle for you:
The Red Tribute by Fian the Bard
She whispered softly against his ear:
“I claim the tribute and take your soul-debt upon myself. By the pale moon, your journey ends, and your burden is mine.”
His body went limp within her iron grip. The last thing he felt was the brush of her breath against his muzzle. Then, the world collapsed into silence.
A single heartbeat later, something shifted.
Unaware of the silent body left behind on the moss, Fian rose to his feet. He casually brushed the forest dust and dried pine needles from his fur, picked up his beloved lute from the earth, and adjusted the strap over his shoulder. The wound was gone; the pain had vanished like morning fog.
A few paces away, the great white wolf paused, watching him with eyes like glowing, frozen glass. In her mind, the ancient pact was fulfilled, the debt collected, and his spirit set free to rest within the roots of the Mistwood. She took in his scent one last time before turning away, vanishing into the heavy mist like flowing water.
Fian merely smiled, blinded by the uncanny lightness in his chest. He looked up at the silver moon, convinced she had granted him mercy—convinced he had survived. With quiet, weightless steps, he slipped between the ancient trees, humming a forgotten tune as he disappeared deeper into the forest.
The White Queen believed she had done everything right. The ritual was complete. The soul was meant to sleep.
Until that fateful evening weeks later, when she sat in the shadowy corner of a crowded roadside tavern, the scent of ale and wet timber heavy in the air. The heavy oak door swung open, accompanied by a gust of autumn wind.
A bard walked in.
He shook the rain from his cloak, ran his claws across the strings of his lute, and stepped into the warm glow of the hearth fire to sing.
It was him.
Not a ghost seeking vengeance, not a phantom of malice—merely a wandering soul that had never understood it was dead. A bard so tethered to his songs and his strings that he had completely failed to find his eternal peace beneath the trees.
And now I ask you, travelers…
What if…
… Fian had never lied?
… he had been singing the truth all along?
… it was merely his living understanding that was broken?
… and her arrival at the tavern was never a coincidence but an unfinished hunt?
Perhaps you should sit by the hearth and listen to the tales once more. Sometimes, the truth does not hide between the lines; it stands right out in the open, singing to a room full of strangers.
Or perhaps you brush this thought aside. It is up to you to decide where your path begins—and where the truth of the forest truly lies.
It is just a thought. Nothing more, nothing less.
Thy start is right here:
Part 1 – The Echo of the Night
Part 2 – The Echo of the Night
About Different Points of View
… From there, it is up to you to find a path.
Traveler, not all stories told can be found right here, so follow the call, explore, and find your path.
