Beyond the copse of trees is something that could not be the case. An impossibility, something fundamentally incapable of being true. And yet, our eyes do not deceive us.


    A tree—no, no, not a tree; that word doesn''t nearly do the monument before us justice. To call this a tree would be to call the ocean a puddle, a mountain a hill. This could no more be confused for an ordinary tree than I could a frog.


    Its branches reach towards the heavens, all beneath it in heavy shade. Its trunk towers high over all lesser beings, stretching further into the sky than any building—mortal or otherwise. Its roots drive deeper through the earth than any mine could ever sink, yet still they find the time to form the walls of a natural spring at the base of the trunk.


    This is an Anchor Ash. This is one of the nails keeping Midgard bound to Yggdrasil. This is the Heart of the Hading.


    And it is wounded. It is sick. It is dying.


    Upon its trunk is an injury like no other, a terrible gash carving a chasm through bark and deep into the wood. Like some impossibly large giant had taken an equally impossibly large axe to its surface, the wound yawns wider than any sea wave. Rot eats away at the edges of the wound, eager mouths devouring vital flesh. Sparks of spiritual power drive away what it can, yet it is only a matter of time until the Anchor Ash meets its end.


    "You who enter my home," a voice like the wind through the leaves, like light filtering through the canopy, like the gentle rustling of swaying branches, greets us with a cold suspicion. There can be no mistaking this voice as belonging to anything save the owner of these lands, as belonging to the Hading herself, "name your persons and state your purpose. I give you this one warning: any hand raised against my husband will be all that''s left of your corpse."


    Eric stands frozen, completely stilled by terror. Bear''s lips move but no words fly free, his mind struggling to find the words to say. The task of answering the Hading falls to me, then.


    Swallowing my fear, I square my shoulders and lift my head. While the full formal introduction is normally only reserved for the courts of Kings and Jarls, an Askafroa deserves no less than the best, so no less than the best she shall have.


    "My name is Halla, the youngest daughter of Steinarr Freedfire, himself the youngest son of Hallr Blackhand, Master of the All-Fire, Ruler of Gotland, and through his blood I and my kin are Volsungs. Beside me stands my older brother, Eric, and my friend, Abjorn, youngest son of Vidar Smash, himself the only son of Farbjorn World-Treader, and through his blood Abjorn and his kin are Askkennings." I take a deep breath as I proceed to the next step, "We come with peace in mind and with intent to apologize as our purpose."


    My words rumble through the leaves of the Anchor Ash while the Hading prepares a response of her own.


    "I am Hading, Askafroa, and guardian-wife of my husband, Anchor Ash Seven-Zero-Two." The Hading''s voice takes a softer tone as her next question ripples through the air, "For what grievance would you apologize, Granddaughter of the Blackened Hand?"


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    Taking another deep breath, I keep my shoulders square even as I start to tremble. This is it, this is the moment that makes or breaks this entire journey. If the Hading doesn''t accept our apology, then all is lost.


    But I have never been a coward; I sacrificed my hesitation long ago.


    "I apologize on behalf of both myself and my father, who I was separated from on the journey here. I, under the orders of my father, felled many of your trees in the outskir–"


    The Hading''s sudden laughter cuts my words to ribbons.


    "Child, are you really apologizing for taking that which was there to take? Those trees I planted for you, your kin, your kith, and all the humans of the world to use as they see fit. More trees will grow in their place, the forest remains for you to use. There is nothing to apologize for."


    I blink, jaw slack alongside Bear and Eric alike.


    It... It is said that the Hading has a soft spot for humanity... But I never realized how far that soft spot truly went.


    So, wait, this whole thing—the cow, the sacrifice, the entire journey—it was all for nothing? Then what was with the battling beasts and the separation of kin and kith? And, for that matter, what of the warning for a witch?


    "You say there is nothing to apologize for, o'' great Hading, but why then have you sent beasts to assault us if we have not offended you?"


    "Sent beasts to assault you?" The Hading''s confusion is genuine, even I can tell as much, "Dear child, the beasts of my woods are hunting for my enemy, an unwelcome invader of my lands."


    Eric grabs his courage with trembling hands as he lifts his head and speaks aloud, "Is... Is this enemy of yours a witch? We heard your whispers when we were separated from our Dad."


    The Hading pauses and, if she had lips, I imagine they would be pursing right about now, "I suspect I know what misfortune has befallen you, dear children, and wish for you to kno–"


    "Hading! Give me back my children!”


    To call this sound a mere shout would be an even greater disservice than calling an Anchor Ash a mere tree. It rumbles over the horizon like an all-encompassing avalanche. It batters through the trees like a ship at ramming speed, ripping roots from earth and trunks asunder with voice alone. Rage hotter than any mortal flame drips from each syllable like molten metal, scorching the ground black with its passage. Grass uproots itself to escape the wrathful words as the waters of the grotto begin to boil on the spot. Steam rises as boil-bubbles pop and churn with fear and terror.


    From the edge of the grotto comes a figure draped in flame and splattered by blood. In one hand is a sword caked in heavy layers of gore yet still as sharp as any tongue; in the other is a bundle of food-starved fire, eager to gorge itself on the flesh of man and meat of timber. Sweat-drenched and dirt-crusted hair falls around his shoulders, the brilliant red hue almost indistinguishable from the blood soaking his body. Great, heavy clouds of coal black smoke billow from his maw, gathering in his wake like the wings of a cloak as his steel-gray eyes reflect the blinding light of fury.


    The figure walks forward, his trail told by the scorched-earth of his footprints. The grass sobs as it struggles to get away, eggs hatch long before their time as newborn birds attempt to take to the air, and trees beg the heavens for mercy that could never come.


    Steinarr Freedfire, Captain of the Varangian Guard and Keeper of Plants, has come for his children.