The slate tiles of The Slaughter Lamb's roof were still warm from the vanished sun, holding the day's heat against the creeping chill of the evening. Dáinn stood at its peak, a silhouette of brooding intensity against the bruised purple sky. His gaze was fixed on the distant, unseen wound in the world—the gate in Mag Mell—his scowl so deep it seemed carved from stone.
A shadow detached itself from the chimney stack, resolving into a sleek, black form that padded its way across the roof with insolent grace. Casper sat, wrapping his tail neatly around his feet, and followed Dáinn's line of sight for a moment before letting out a theatrical sigh.
You're looking broodier than usual, my lord, the cat's voice murmured in Dáinn's mind, rich with sarcasm. Something on your mind? Or, perhaps, someone?
Dáinn cut his eyes toward the cat, a flash of gold in the gloom. "I have grown too comfortable in this world. Complacent. And she is a significant part of the reason why."
A tragic fate, Casper mused, licking a paw. To be distracted by a pretty mortal. So, what's the grand plan? Cast the girl aside, return to your lofty duties as the Great Huntsman, Lord of the Wild Hunt? Or will you, for once in your interminable existence, break from what is expected and pursue… other options? The cat's telepathic voice was dripping with insinuation. Now that you have them.
Dáinn's eyes narrowed. "She cannot come to my world. It would devour her."
'But you,' Casper interrupted, 'seem to be navigating this one with increasing, albeit grumpy, frequency. A curious asymmetry.'
A low groan escaped Dáinn. He dragged a hand down his face, the weight of realms seeming to press on his shoulders. "What would even come of such a thing?"
Yes, what? Casper's mental voice was mock-thoughtful. There's only one way to figure that out, you know. He paused, then muttered aloud, the sound a raspy complaint, "If it wasn't so pathetically obvious to everyone but the two of you."
Just then, the air was split by two harsh, echoing calls. A pair of ravens, their feathers the color of a starless midnight, circled overhead. Their eyes glittered with a cold, ancient intelligence, and their voices scraped against the mind as much as the ear. "Dáinn Herne Cernunnos!," they croaked in unison.
Dáinn looked up, and a fresh, more potent curse hissed through his teeth. He knew them. "Huginn. Muninn."
They landed on the rusted weathervane of the steeple, the metal groaning in protest. Their heads cocked in identical, jerky motions, taking in the pub, the graveyard, the modern world with an air of profound, disdainful assessment.
"What does Woden require?" Dáinn's voice was a low growl.
Muninn, Thought, spoke first, his voice like the rustle of old parchment. "Your presence is required in Valhöll. A great theft has occurred. You are summoned to testify."
"Testify?" Dáinn's brow furrowed. "What was taken?"
Huginn, Memory, shifted his weight. "The wolf, Fenrir, is gone from his bonds. A new gate has formed where the fetters lay. The malefactor must be brought forward."
Muninn interjected, his tone sharpening. "You knew of a gate first. You told no one. You…"
Dáinn's jaw flexed, a muscle ticking under his skin. The pieces—the gate in the crypt, the distractions, the missing hounds—slammed together in his mind with the force of a thunderclap.
"Oh," Casper commented from the roof tiles, his tail twitching. "Looks like things are getting complicated."
"You must come at once! Post haste!" Huginn insisted, his voice rising to a caw.
Dáinn began to pace, the slate tiles cracking faintly under his boots. "Fenrir was taken," he breathed, the magnitude of it settling on him. "How?" He shook his head, then stopped dead. His eyes widened. "That's why."
Why what? Casper asked, his curiosity genuine now.
"The spells at the yew tree, at the river… they were complex, deliberate. But last night, with the hare… it was simple. She was right. They weren't just gathering components; they were distracting us from the real work being done elsewhere." He whirled to face the ravens, his decision made, his expression turning to flint. "Tell Woden I am currently on a mission for Gwyn ap Nudd, Lord of Annwn. It will be concluded shortly."
"Unacceptable!" the ravens screeched in unison, their feathers ruffling in outrage. "You are needed now!"
From the shadows beneath a gnarled oak in the graveyard, a deeper shadow stirred. Skógr materialized, his hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones as he tossed his great head. Without a word, Dáinn stepped off the roof, landing smoothly in the saddle. The horse needed no command.
What are you going to do? Casper asked, leaping to the gutter to watch.
Dáinn's gaze swept from the ravens to the distant horizon, his voice cold and resolved. "What I should have done from the beginning."
As Huginn and Muninn took flight in a furious flurry of wings, their protests lost to the wind, Dáinn kicked his heels. Skógr leaped forward, not along the road, but upward, charging into the sky as if it were a solid slope, leaving a trail of shimmering air and a very amused crypt cat in his wake.
"Well," Casper purred, settling back on his haunches. "This looks like a disaster in the making."
The sky tore open around them. Skógr's hooves did not merely tread upon the air; they shattered it. Each galloping stride sent concussive waves through the clouds, the resulting thunder a continuous, roaring applause for their passage. Jagged forks of lightning, born of the stallion's fury, lit the bellies of the clouds in great, sudden flares of violet and white. This was not travel; it was a declaration of war upon the distance itself.
And in the heart of the storm, Dáinn's mind was a cold, clear ledger. He pushed aside the memory of Eris's warmth against his back, the sound of her laughter, and focused instead on the ghost of a map she had once shown him on that glowing little rectangle she called a 'phone'. Linville Caverns. A hollow place in a stone tooth. The memory was a pinprick of data, nothing more.
Their descent was a controlled avalanche. Skógr plunged from the roiling heavens like a falling star, striking the earth before the cavern entrance with a impact that cracked the bedrock and sent a shockwave through the surrounding pines. Before the dust had settled, Dáinn was moving, a streak of shadows and resolve.
He did not acknowledge the tourist path, the metal railings, or the dormant electric lights. The mountain was a body, and he took the most direct route to its heart—through fissures that stank of wet stone and ancient darkness, down vertical chimneys where only echoes lived. The air grew thick and heavy, the cold a physical presence that seeped into the bones. Water dripped with a slow, maddening rhythm, each drop a tiny hammer on stone. It was the antithesis of the vibrant, chaotic world above, a realm of simple, patient geology.
In the deepest chamber, where the silence was so absolute it felt like pressure on the eardrums, he stopped. The only light was a faint, eldritch glimmer from his own eyes, glancing off stalactites that hung like the petrified tears of the earth. He produced a small lead vial from his attire. He did not wave his hands or chant. He simply held the open vial aloft, and the very essence of the place—the still, frigid air that had not stirred for a thousand years, the cold that was less a temperature and more a state of being—coalesced and flowed into the container like smoke drawn to a vacuum. It was the breath of winter, captured.
He corked the vial. The act was simple. Basic. There were no funny stories about anime pirates, no need to explain, no one to protect from the crushing weight of the deep earth. There was only the task, and its completion.
He retraced his path upward, a specter fleeing the underworld. When he emerged back into the night, the air felt thin and tawdry by comparison. Skógr stood waiting, steam rising from his flanks in great plumes, his hooves having scorched the grass into a blackened circle. The horse tossed his great head, snorting, a question in his dark, intelligent eyes.
"This is how it has to be!" Dáinn growled, the words meant as much for himself as for his steed. His voice was rough, stripped of all warmth, echoing the barren efficiency of the cavern he'd just left.
He mounted in a single, fluid motion. His heels touched Skógr's sides, and they became a bolt of darkness shot back into the weeping sky, leaving only the scent of ozone and the profound, unsettled silence of the violated mountain behind.
The return to the Mag Mell Memorial Grounds was not an arrival, but an assault. Skógr hit the earth like a meteor, his hooves carving fresh wounds into the hallowed ground. Before the reverberations had faded, Dáinn was on his feet, his movements sharp and economical as he tore through the saddlebags. The components were retrieved: the shard of shattered yew, the sorrow-soaked river stone, the blood of the black hare, and the newly captured breath of winter in its leaden prison.
A shadow rippled at the edge the entrance of the crypt, and Casper trotted into view, his tail a languid question mark. You appear to be in a bit of a hurry, the cat's voice purred inside Dáinn's skull. Did you forget to turn off the iron in Annwn?
Dáinn didn't grace him with a glance. He was already arranging the items on the grass before the unstable, shimmering wound of the gate, his hands moving with a grim certainty that brooked no interruption.
I see, Casper continued, leaping onto a moss-covered headstone to observe. Not even going to say goodbye? No tender farewell for the track star? She'll be devastated. Or, more likely, furious. I'd invest in a good lock for that apartment door.
Ignoring him, Dáinn began the chant. His voice was low and guttural, each syllable a stone dropped into a still pool, sending ripples through the fabric of the world. The yew shard splintered into black dust, the shadow-heart stone wept a dark mist, the hare's blood sizzled on the air, and finally, he uncorked the lead vial. The breath of winter rushed out, a silent, expanding wave of cold that flash-frosted the grass in a perfect circle and made the very air ache.
As the last word fell from his lips, the sky above the graveyard tore open. It was not a sound, but a cessation of all sound, followed by a cacophony that felt like the death of silence. A pack of hounds poured from the rift, their forms woven from solidified night and star-fire. They were a rolling, baying avalanche of primal energy, their cries the sound of lost souls and the thrill of the chase given voice.
Dáinn watched them for only a heartbeat, his face a mask of grim triumph. In one fluid motion, he was back in Skógr's saddle. The great horse surged upward to meet the chaotic pack. Dáinn's voice cut through their wild music, a single, echoing command that was less a word and more a law of nature. He wheeled Skógr around, a shepherd turning his flock, and drove the hounds toward the glowing gate.
With a final, unified howl that shook the roots of the trees, the Cŵn Annwn became a river of darkness and light, pouring into the tear in reality. Dáinn and Skógr were the last to cross, a huntsman and his steed swallowed by the flash of rushing, ancient power. The gate flared, then settled back into its unstable, silent shimmer.
The graveyard was suddenly, profoundly quiet. The only evidence of the cosmic roundup was the circle of frost-burned grass and the ringing in the air.
Casper let out a long, put-upon sigh from his perch on the stone angel.
Well, he mused to the empty night. This is not going to go well at all.
With a flick of his tail, he turned and trotted off into the shadows, already dreading the inevitable fallout.