When the hunter takes to the wilds, rarely does he pay any heed to the minds of his prey. Though the hunter will deny this, stating that he knows his prey well, the truth still eludes him. Though he is certainly aware of their habits and mannerisms, he does not truly comprehend the mind of the prey.


    That is, unless he finds himself another hunter''s prey.


    Glowing yellow twins gleam from the shadows, each lacking the mark of a pupil or iris yet making their identity clear all the same. Eyes formed from lumps of rough-carved rock sit tight within shadowed sockets, nestled in the embrace of their master''s hidden face.


    In the eyes of a man, you can find an untold number of thoughts and feelings, lies and truths. They are the window of the soul and show all the desires and opinions of a man far swifter and far more truthfully than through his mouth.


    These ancient eyes bear nothing but a cold, bone-chilling lust. Not for the pleasures of the flesh or anything so banal, but for a very simple desire, a primal truth of the beast. There is no great treasure or forgotten mystery that garners this lust, no; he wants, so he shall have.


    Seal''s barks, owl''s hoots, and bear''s growls ring in our ears yet the eyes stare unblinking, uncaring for the warnings of lowly spirit-beasts.


    And yet...


    All men die. When a man is born, when he takes his very first breath, the Norns decide the day he will die. Fate is certain, there is no escaping it, but no man may know the day of his demise. Any day could be his end, so he must greet each as if it were his last.


    When faced with the unavoidable uncertainty of one day dying but never knowing when it will come, there''s nothing left for a man save holding his head high and staying true to his word.


    With shield and sax in hand, I fix the beast''s yellow eyes with my own stare of steel, "My name is Halla Steinarsdottir and I will have the name of he who holds my gaze!"


    Silence reigns supreme over the land as my beating heart fills my ears. Stone-carved eyes flicker for a moment before that same beastly voice filters through the leaves.


    "My name is all around you. It is in the air you breathe and on the winds you taste, child of the char." The air dries my throat and the wind tastes of nothing but salt. "It seems the Norns have plans for you, o'' walker of two worlds, for your father and his father before him performed for me a great favor. A debt I owe, a debt half-paid, a debt now fully squared away."


    Moisture returns to the air as wind-borne salt stops stinging my eyes. The eyes of death glint once as power hums through the trees.


    "Go Free"


    And then nothing. The eyes disappear, the oppressive aura with them, and I can finally breathe again.


    "Gods," Eric whimpers as a shiver runs head-to-toe through his body. His spear shakes, numb fingers somehow keeping hold of his weapon, "is it gone?"


    "No," Bear says, his nostrils flaring wide as he sucks down deep pulls of air, "but it will not bother us anymore."


    A frown lingers on all our faces as worried eyes keep to the shadows.


    "Eric," I eventually begin, my brother twitching at my voice, "it said you met it once before."


    "I thought it a bad dream," Eric mutters as he shakes his head, "now I know it wasn''t."


    "What do you know of that thing?"


    "Nothing, no more than you." He swallows as he takes a breath, "Let''s... Let''s just move on, okay?"


    Nobody feels much need to argue against such a suggestion.


    It is said that the Hading is full of evil spirits, and I guess we just met one of them.


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    But... But what was that about Dad, and my grandfather, doing that thing a favor?


    When the opportunity presents itself, whenever that may come, I will ask Dad about this favor he did.


    <hr>


    In the aftermath of our meeting with the beast, our petty fears and worries seemed like so much ash on the wind, made insignificant compared to those citron eyes.


    The Spirit World just... It''s just not as scary anymore, and so we walk with heads held as high as we can muster. There are still threats in the Spirit Hading, yes, but they just don''t seem quite so terrible anymore.


    With that said, and though our passage is swift and unfettered, we still lack much in the way of directions. We have a goal yet no path to react it.


    And yet...


    "Does..." Eric pauses, head cocked as he looks askew at a certain patch of lichen, "does that look like an arrow to anyone else?"


    I arch a brow as I follow his gaze. Sure enough, surrounded by thick layers of lichen, is a patch completely devoid of flora. Sharp edges meet in right angles as the stark shape of an arrow points us away from the direction we travel.


    "That is an arrow," Bear asserts with a solemn nod.


    "Do we... Do we follow it?" Eric seems a great deal more subdued after our encounter with the beast, always pausing after he starts to speak as if worried he might say the wrong thing. His eyes flick to me, seeking certainty in a wild, untamed world.


    Could Eric be suffering from a spirit in his heart, like how Dad was?


    ...I''ll give him a few weeks before bringing it up, just in case I''m thinking too far into it. I might not remember much from my womanly lessons, but I do know that for every time a spirit is responsible for something, countless more occurrences have nothing at all to do with the spirit world.


    "Well," I frown as I look between the arrow and the path we''re on. While there might not be much in the way of great differences between the two, that doesn''t mean that there won''t be further down the line. Still, "we might as well, right? It''s not like we''ve got much in the way of alternatives."


    "That''s true," Eric mutters as he sighs, "damned spirits."


    Turning off the path takes us up and over a hill, where we''re met with a long tree branch jutting out from an otherwise branchless trunk. Leaves cover only a single side of the branch, resembling something like a particularly hairy arm. The resemblance is only strengthened by the gnarled group of twigs forming the shape of a hand pointing the way.


    After exchanging a glance, we continue following the will of the Hading. Are we on the path to freedom or are we just following the whim of some evil spirit''s games?


    ...The only way to find out is by seeing it to the end. May the Gods smile on us.


    <hr>


    The oak-borne hand led us to a dilapidated signpost pointing back the way we came, which only muddied the waters further as the tree was nowhere to be seen when we returned. In its place was a birch stump and an earth-carved line leading away from the birchy grave. Following the line led us to a storm-snapped tree, its blackened limbs pointing the way forward.


    For hours we followed the Hading’s whims, for hours we wandered without a clue of where we were going. And yet, even as the sun travelled across the sky, even as the moon climbed in its wake, and even as the twilight beasts observed our passage with their glinting gaze, our bellies rumbled not and our eyes kept bright and ready.


    Eventually, however, all things must come to their ends.


    A twisted, bramble-formed hand leads us into a thick copse of trees. Surrounded on all sides by birch and elm, we look carefully for the next signpost in our journey.


    Unfortunately…


    “There’s nothing here!” I level a scowl at the darkening sky while kicking at the earth, my shoes cleaving away great clumps of dirt with every swinging strike. “All that wandering, all that trust, for nothing!”


    “No, no,” Eric chuckles, his eyes showing no hint of mirthful vigor, “We’re just not looking hard enough, that’s it!” Turning on the nearest birch, he starts peeling away at the bark with an almost animalistic ferocity. Fingers bloodied by nervous chewing claw at the trunk, his lack of nails lending little aid to his effort.


    I scoff, readying a salvo of insults at my foolish brother’s stupidity, only to pause as the glint of an eye catches my attention. In the branches of the tree Eric mauls is a black-clad figure, a feather-cloaked shape perched within the leaves.


    A raven meets my gaze as I tense; a mix of boredom, idle curiosity, and a deep desire to see its duty through gleams strong behind its eyes.


    “Raven,” the word slips free of my dry lips, the single syllable stalling my companions’ motions as they too tense.


    Something akin to humor sparks behind the raven’s gaze before it suddenly flaps its wings and takes to the air. Wings spread wide, it makes a lazy loop of the copse before disappearing beyond the trees.


    This… This is it, isn’t it? This is the last direction we’ll get, the last signpost on our journey.


    One way, or another, we will see the end of this story.