We marched for days through wet earth and crooked pines.
No birds sang.
Even the wind seemed lost.
We found the lake at twilight.
Low mist crawled over the water.
Trees leaned too close, as if listening.
At first, it was quiet.I lifted the tagelharpa, letting the bow drift across the strings.
Low. Slow. Finally, some peace, we thought.
Then something stirred.
Beyond the harpa, a second sound joined in.
Small.
Beautiful.
Almost not there.
I slowed.
Listened.
It followed itself.
Growing.
Clearer.
Closer.
I stopped playing.
The melody grew warmer, kinder, wrapping around the heart.
We all turned to the lake.
The mist had parted over one thin stretch of water.
Like it was waiting.
Then it struck, not a song, not a voice.
Something worse.
Something that knew.
For me, it was simple.
A small figure in the mist. “Luna,” I whispered, stepping toward her.
For Illena, shapes emerged behind the lake: her animals, her fields, the rhythm of a life untouched by war.
A goat she once raised.
A hound long gone.She stepped forward in peace.
Behind us, the others shouted, distant, unimportantAs we entered the lake.
Something beneath watched.
“BACK!” Robin roared.
Too late.
Pale, thin arms surged upward, wrapping around Illena, then me.
Cold hands pulled us into the dark.
We didn’t fight. We wanted to go.
Then Jacky moved.
Already in the fight, already there.
He slammed limbs against boulders, twisted spines, crushed jaws.
Every strike bought us time.
Every brutal blow measured.
Finally, we were pulled free.
The arms reached one last time, desperate, but Robin severed them.
The lake stilled. Flat. Silent.
We scrambled out, soaked and trembling.
Jacky stood bloodied, unbowed, a storm in human form.
Every muscle, every scar, every drop of blood spoke of what he would do if it returned.
We didn’t speak.
The forest was quieter, the wind colder.
The Nøkken hunts cracks, longings, fears.
And when it comes… it is not mercy you will meet.
But for now, Jacky had made sure we would live to see another dawn..
