Ten years later.
The world did not heal overnight.
The ice still melts.
The cities still burn.
The air still carries the taste of machines.
But something has changed.
Not in the sky.
Not in the laws.
But in the silence between breaths.
In a valley deep in the northern wilds — a place not on any map —
a fire burns.
Not in a hearth.
Not in a stove.
But in a ring of stones,
fed with driftwood and wolf-bone,
just as it was centuries ago.
Around it, three figures sit.
One — older, scarred, his hair streaked with gray —
feeds the flames with steady hands.
His back is bare.
No runes.
No glow.
Just skin, wind-worn, alive.
He does not speak much.
But when he looks at the woman beside him,
his eyes soften —
not with sorrow,
not with memory,
but with now.
She leans into him.
Her arm bears a mark —
not carved,
not burned,
but grown —
a silver vine that pulses faintly, like a second pulse.
She hums sometimes,
not songs,
but notes —
one here,
one there —
as if listening for an answer.
Between them,
a child.
Not theirs by blood.
But by choice.
By firelight.
By song.
She is eight.
Dark-haired.
Quiet.
She does not ask many questions.
But when she dreams,
she wakes with snow in her hair —
though the sky is clear.
Tonight, she sits with a piece of birch bark on her lap,
a piece of charcoal in her hand.
She draws not pictures,
but symbols.
Runes.
Not from any book.
From memory.
The man — Kai — watches her.
Finally, he says, "What are you writing?"
She doesn't look up. "The Oath."
The woman — Lena — smiles. "You've never heard it spoken."
"I've heard it sung," the girl says.
"In the ice.
In the wind.
In your breath when you sleep."
She looks up.
"Can I learn it?"
Lena reaches out.
Touches her forehead.
"You already know it."
Then, softly, she begins to hum —
a single, clear note,
low, steady,
like a mother to a child.
Kai joins in — not with voice,
but with breath,
matching her rhythm,
his chest rising and falling in time.
The girl closes her eyes.
And without thinking,
she answers —
a third note,
higher,
brighter,
like snow catching the first light.
The fire flickers.
The wind stills.
Even the stars seem to lean closer.
And for a moment —
just a moment —
the air thrums,
not with power,
not with fear,
but with balance.
When the song ends,
no one speaks.
Finally, the girl says, "Will the Wolf come back?"
Kai looks into the fire. "It never left.
It just stopped being afraid."
He turns to her.
"And neither should you."
She nods.
Goes back to her drawing.
Lena rests her head on Kai's shoulder.
He wraps an arm around her.
Not to hold her.
To feel her.
Above them,
the sky is clear.
The stars are bright.
And if you listen closely —
not with your ears,
but with your blood —
you might hear it:
A single, distant howl.
Not from the north.
Not from the past.
But from the ridge,
from the trees,
from the earth itself.
And beneath it —
faint,
steady,
unbroken —
a woman's voice,
singing a lullaby
to a world
that had forgotten
how to dream.