Vaesen: Of Stone & Steel: 03
Celeste and Sigrid exchanged a glance. “Bergs-Erik doesn’t seem like the kind of man you’d want looking for you,” Celeste said cautiously.
Agnes’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Bergs is not someone you want seeking you out.”
A long silence followed before Agnes let out a slow, shuddering breath. “August deserves it. He murdered my son.”
Her words hung in the air like a lead weight. Celeste instinctively reached for Agnes’s trembling hand, but the old woman pulled away, her eyes sharp despite her fragile frame.
“That man is no victim,” she muttered. “And if Bergs-Erik finds him, maybe that’s justice.”
Reeling from Agnes’ shocking accusation against August, Sigrid took a steadying breath, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of her cloak. She hesitated, then leaned forward, her voice low and careful. “Agnes, do you know anything more about Bergs-Erik?”
Agnes was silent for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know much about Bergs-Erik,” she finally admitted, “but I can share a tale my sister once told me.”
She adjusted the blanket in her lap, inhaled deeply, and began.
“Once, there was a girl who lived on a struggling farm. Her father had been injured in an accident and could no longer work, leaving the family desperate. The weight of their misfortune hung over the household like a dark cloud. One evening, her mother sent her to take the goat to graze. The girl hesitated—she knew wolves roamed the woods—but her mother insisted, and she had no choice but to go.
At first, all seemed well, but as night fell, distant howls sent the goat into a panic. It bolted, vanishing into the thick trees. Frantic, the girl chased after it, calling its name, but the deeper she went, the more lost she became. The darkness seemed to stretch endlessly, wrapping around her like a living thing.
Then, she saw him—a man standing in the trees. He was tall, his heavy coat wrapped tight against the chill, and his eyes gleamed in the moonlight.
‘Have you seen my goat?’ she asked, breathless.
‘No,’ the man said, ‘but why are you out here? The woods are dangerous at night.’
She explained, and the man nodded. ‘Go home,’ he told her. ‘I will find your goat and return it to the paddock by morning.’
Relieved, she went home and told her father. But instead of being grateful, he grew furious. He smashed his drink bottle against the table and roared, ‘You trust a stranger?! Go back and find that goat yourself!’
Frightened, the girl obeyed. She wandered the dark woods until she found a ravine with a large boulder nearby. Exhausted, she sat on a fallen log and began to cry.
Then, the man appeared again, emerging from the shadows. ‘Why are you still here?’ he asked, his voice unreadable—somewhere between concern and irritation.
She explained her father’s anger.
The man reached into his coat and pulled out a medallion. ‘Take this token,’ he said. ‘Tell your father I have given my word. Go home, rest, and your goat will be there in the morning.’
Clutching the medallion tightly, she rushed back and showed it to her father. But he only grew angrier. ‘This is meaningless! That man is playing tricks on you! Get back out there—don’t come home until you find the goat!’
So, she returned to the woods, her feet dragging with exhaustion. As she walked, she caught a strange scent—food cooking, warm and inviting, though no home or hearth should have been nearby. The scent made her stomach tighten with hunger, but she pressed on.
She found herself at the ravine again, the boulder looming in the pale light. And there was the man once more, waiting, his expression sharper than before.
‘Why are you still here?’ he asked, his voice now edged with frustration. ‘I told you to go home.’
She explained—her father still refused to trust him, and he would not let her rest.
The man sighed deeply. ‘Trust me,’ he said firmly. ‘Go home, sleep. Your goat will be waiting for you.’
She hesitated but obeyed. When she reached home, an eerie stillness had settled over the house. Her father was missing. The rest of the family said he had simply stood up and walked out in the night, without a word, leaving no trace.
Shaken, she crawled into bed, too exhausted to think.
When she woke the next morning, her father had still not returned.
Rushing outside, she ran to the goat’s paddock.
There, standing side by side, were two goats. One was hers. The other, unfamiliar. Around its neck, neatly tied, was the medallion the man had given her. Its eyes, dark and knowing, seemed to study her.
She looked back at the house, at the empty doorway where her father had once stood. A quiet realization settled over her like the first frost of winter.
Her father was never seen again. And from that day forward, the second goat remained—watching, waiting, as if it knew something she did not.”
Agnes sighed, gripping the edge of her blanket a little tighter. “The story is about respect,” she murmured. “You should never dismiss those who offer help.”
Celeste’s vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in as a sharp ringing filled her ears. A strange pressure pressed against her temples, growing heavier with each second. Her grip on the arm of her chair tightened as the world tilted slightly. Across from her, Keenan stood rigid on the bed, his gaze locked onto her with an unsettling intensity. His fur bristled, his ears flattened, and his entire body remained unnaturally still as if sensing something invisible moving through the room.
Sigrid noticed the shift immediately. “Celeste? What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice sharp with concern as she reached toward her.
Celeste tried to answer, but the pressure in her skull made forming words impossible. The ringing intensified into a piercing shriek, drowning out all other sounds. Her breath caught in her throat. Then, as quickly as it came, the sensation passed, like a heavy wave pulling back into the sea. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as her vision cleared, though the lingering feeling of something unseen remained.
But Agnes didn’t react. Her expression remained neutral, her gaze fixed on the fire as if she hadn’t noticed anything at all. She simply adjusted her blanket and continued staring into the flames, lost in thought or something far deeper than either woman could perceive.
As Sebastian and Gottfried descended from the church, a strange pressure filled the air, a subtle but growing weight that neither of them could quite place. It was as if the world around them was holding its breath. The streets were eerily quiet, the usual sounds of village life absent.
Sebastian stopped, rubbing his temple as if shaking off a fleeting headache. Gottfried exhaled sharply, sensing the same unnatural shift. Before either could voice their unease, movement in the distance caught Sebastian’s eye. Across the village, near the forge, a figure suddenly darted into the open, her blonde hair flashing in the fading light.
“Margareta?” Sebastian murmured, narrowing his eyes. Even from a distance, he could see something was wrong. Her posture was unsteady, her hands clutching her head as she stumbled forward, moving blindly through the streets.
Then, the sensation in the air shifted. The pressure spiked for a brief moment, and in the next instant, the earth beneath them gave a deep, resonating tremor.
Margareta faltered mid-step, her body locking up before crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
Before they could react, the rumble grew into something heavier, rolling through the village like distant thunder. Windows rattled, the cobblestones beneath them trembled, and a flock of birds shrieked as they burst from the rooftops, vanishing into the darkening sky.
Gottfried stiffened. “That didn’t feel like an ordinary tremor.”
Sebastian’s frown deepened, his hand drifting instinctively toward the revolver beneath his coat. “No, it didn’t.”
Celeste exhaled as the dizziness passed, her vision clearing completely. The tension that had built inside her felt as though it had finally been released, leaving behind an unsettling calm. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, trying to steady her breathing.
“That was… strange,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sigrid watched her carefully. “What did you feel?”
Celeste hesitated. “Like something had been pressing down on me. Then it just—let go.”
Sigrid straightened, sensing that their conversation with Agnes was coming to an end. She turned to leave, but before she could step away, Agnes’s hand shot out, bony fingers wrapping around her sleeve with surprising strength.
“There are more stories,” she whispered, her voice suddenly urgent. “They might be written down. My old home, in the woods… you may find them there.”
Sigrid hesitated. “We’ll see what we can do.”
Agnes’s grip tightened. “Let Bergs-Erik do what he must. August deserves what is coming.”
Sigrid and Celeste exchanged a glance. “We can’t promise anything,” Celeste said cautiously. “If others might get hurt, we have to step in.”
Agnes’s expression darkened, but she said nothing more. Her grip finally loosened, and she sank back into her chair as if the weight of their conversation had drained what little energy she had left.
As they stepped out into the cold night air, the tension of the conversation lingered between them. The house behind them felt heavier somehow, as though the walls had absorbed their words.
They had barely taken a few steps when the door to a storage shed swung open, and Lasse emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of them, his posture stiffening.
“What are you doing here?”
Sigrid gave him a relaxed smile. “We brought buns for fika. And stories of Bergs-Erik.”
Lasse’s expression flickered—was it unease? Recognition? He nodded stiffly, muttered a quick pleasantry, and hurried into the house without another word. The way he moved was almost too controlled as if he was suppressing the urge to run.
Sigrid and Celeste watched him disappear inside. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words.
“That was odd,” Celeste muttered.
Sigrid folded her arms. “I think we just rattled him.”
“Or maybe he knows more than he’s letting on.”
The two women exchanged a knowing look before turning back toward the path. The night air felt colder now, the wind whispering through the trees like a warning.
Sebastian and Gottfried saw Margareta collapse in the village square. Without hesitation, Sebastian grabbed Gottfried and sprinted toward her. As they raced through the streets, startled villagers turned to watch, some whispering in hushed tones while others simply stepped aside, unsure of what was happening. The weight of the earlier tremor still lingered in the air, making every step feel heavier.
Sigrid and Celeste, already moving in the same direction, spotted the commotion and quickened their pace. The air felt charged, like the moment before a storm, and a sense of urgency pushed them forward.
As they reached Margareta, three horses thundered past, their hooves sending up clouds of dust. One of the riders, a well-dressed man in his mid-twenties, had an expression of sheer terror. His pale face was taut with fear, his grip on the reins unsteady. He looked over his shoulder as if something unseen was pursuing him, his horse galloping at a breakneck pace. The sight sent an uneasy ripple through the gathered onlookers.
Sigrid wasted no time, hurrying to the river to dampen a cloth. She returned swiftly, kneeling beside Celeste, who pressed it gently against Margareta’s forehead. The girl, now sitting on a bench, took deep, measured breaths, her colour slowly returning. Her hands were still shaking slightly as she wiped at her face.
Celeste crouched beside her, concern evident in her voice. “Did you feel like your head was going to explode?”
Margareta, still shaken, nodded quickly. “Yes! I thought I was the only one who experienced things like this. I—I’ve felt strange before, but never like that.”
Gottfried met her gaze with a calm, steady look. “You are not alone. We belong to a group that investigates unusual occurrences.”
Celeste gave her a reassuring smile. “We have a sight that allows us to perceive things others cannot. You may have the same ability.”
Gottfried took a moment to explain the nature of the Sight—the way it often emerged through trauma, how those afflicted with it could perceive things that others dismissed as superstition. Margareta listened carefully, her brow furrowed in deep thought.
“Have you noticed anything else strange recently?” Gottfried asked.
Margareta hesitated. “No… but what exactly do you mean by ‘strange’?”
Gottfried exchanged a glance with Celeste before continuing. “Do you know the name Bergs-Erik?”
Margareta shook her head. “No, I’ve never heard that name before. Should I have?”
Gottfried sighed, then launched into a brief explanation of what had happened in Stegeborg, carefully omitting some of the more terrifying details but making it clear that forces beyond human comprehension were at work. Margareta listened intently, her expression shifting from confusion to something bordering on fear.
Sigrid returned with another damp cloth, sitting beside Margareta as she spoke. “Have you ever heard of Nisses?”
Margareta’s expression darkened slightly. “My father doesn’t like it when I ask about them. He gets angry if I even mention those creatures. Says they’re nothing but fairy tales. But I always felt like there was more to it.”
Celeste and Sigrid shared a look. “And what about August?” Sigrid pressed.
Margareta’s posture stiffened. “He rarely stays at the manor. He spends most of his time in the city.”
Gottfried’s tone was measured but firm. “Do you dislike or even hate August?”
Margareta frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t hate him. I just don’t like how he keeps asking for me—keeps asking me to leave with him. And I’m not the only one who feels this way. The whole village doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t belong here.”
She slowly got to her feet, brushing off her skirt as if trying to shake away the lingering discomfort of the conversation. “Thank you for your help, but I should go.”
As she walked away, Sigrid turned to Celeste. “Before we leave, you and Margareta should talk.”
Celeste raised an eyebrow. “Because she can sense things?”
Sigrid nodded. “Exactly. You two might have more in common than you realize. If she has the Sight, she’s going to need guidance.”
Celeste watched Margareta disappear into the crowd, her mind already racing with possibilities. If the girl truly had the Sight, she was in danger—whether she knew it or not.
The group approached the manor house with purpose, their minds still reeling from the day’s events. As they passed the stables, they spotted the three horses that had thundered through the village earlier. Their sides heaved with exhaustion, manes matted with sweat. It was clear they had been pushed to their limits, their flanks trembling with each laboured breath.
Gottfried and Celeste exchanged a glance before quietly breaking away from the others. Keeping to the shadows, they moved cautiously around the side of the manor, pressing themselves against the stone wall as they peered through the windows. Inside, the soft flicker of candlelight illuminated the rooms, casting long shadows against the walls. Figures moved within, their shapes distorted by the glass.
Gottfried focused on one room in particular—a well-furnished lounge where three men had gathered. Two of them wore well-tailored suits, not unlike Sebastian’s, while the third stood out, dressed in finer, more expensive clothing. Gottfried recognized him immediately—it was the same man they had seen racing through the village on horseback earlier. His posture was stiff, his expression drawn with tension as he spoke in hushed tones to the others.
With a mischievous smirk, Gottfried tapped lightly on the glass. The finely dressed man turned toward the window, his brow furrowing in confusion. Gottfried raised a hand and gestured toward the front door, then quickly ducked out of sight. The man hesitated, clearly unsettled by the silent message, before turning away and continuing his conversation.
Meanwhile, Sigrid knocked on the manor’s heavy wooden door. The wait stretched uncomfortably long before it finally creaked open. A stern-faced maid peered out at them, her expression unreadable.
“The Lord is not receiving visitors at this time,” she stated flatly.
Gottfried offered a pleasant smile. “We may have a business proposition for him. If he’s unavailable, we’d be happy to leave a message.”
The maid’s expression remained unchanged. “I will see that he receives it.”
Celeste took a step forward, her voice light but probing. “We saw men arrive at the manor in quite a hurry. Are they business associates of his?”
The maid’s face remained blank. “I wouldn’t know, miss. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
The door closed firmly in their faces.
Frustrated but undeterred, Sigrid turned her attention to the stables, thinking another approach might yield better results. She approached the stable boy, who was carefully brushing down one of the exhausted horses. He barely looked up as she stepped closer.
“They were ridden too hard,” Sigrid observed, her voice both gentle and firm. “They need proper rest.”
The stable boy hesitated before nodding slightly. “Yes, miss. They shouldn’t have been pushed like that.”
“Did the men say anything when they arrived?” she asked, keeping her tone casual.
“Just to clean the horses,” he replied, his voice low. “Then they rushed inside. Didn’t say why.”
As the group regrouped near the manor’s entrance, Gottfried caught sight of the finely dressed man from the lounge peeking out from a window. Without missing a beat, he gave an exaggerated wave. The man visibly tensed before quickly retreating further into the house, disappearing.
Sigrid crossed her arms. “We need someone to watch the manor. If August leaves, we need to know.”
Celeste’s gaze drifted across the village square, where a young boy was playing with a hoop and stick, completely engrossed in his game. An idea formed, and she nudged Gottfried, who smirked as he approached the child.
Drawing his walking stick, he playfully engaged the boy in a mock sword fight, dramatically allowing himself to be “defeated” in a flurry of exaggerated movements. The boy grinned widely, standing tall in victory.
Sigrid knelt beside him. “We need a favour,” she said. “Can you watch the house for us? Let us know if August leaves?”
Gottfried reached into his pocket and tossed the boy a silver coin. The child caught it easily, his eyes gleaming with excitement. He hopped onto a nearby stump, his expression shifting into something serious, his gaze fixed intently on the manor.
“Consider it done!” he declared, his small frame completely still as he took on his new role with great importance.
The group exchanged glances, satisfied for now. They had a watchful pair of eyes on the manor. Now, all they had to do was wait.
After ensuring someone was watching the manor, the group set out north, determined to investigate the source of the mysterious rumbling. The air was eerily still, the ground firm beneath their boots—an unsettling contrast to the tremor that had shaken the village earlier. The road felt unnaturally quiet, their footsteps the only sound against the hard-packed earth.
As they reached the outskirts, the source of the disturbance became alarmingly clear. A massive section of the hillside had collapsed entirely, exposing raw, fractured bedrock beneath. The landslide had buried the road leading to the very place where they had first encountered Bergs-Erik. The destruction was immense, the earth looking as though it had been violently torn apart by something far beyond the forces of nature.
Gottfried and Sigrid moved forward cautiously, stepping over loose debris and carefully navigating the unstable ground. The jagged edges of the fallen earth and deep fissures running through the exposed rock told them everything they needed to know—this was no ordinary landslide.
“This shouldn’t have happened on its own,” Sigrid muttered, brushing her fingertips along the fractured stone. The breakage patterns were unnatural, the cracks looking more like scars left by an unimaginable force rather than the results of erosion or weathering. “It’s as if something shattered the hill from within.”
“Something powerful,” Gottfried agreed, his brow furrowed as he took in the extent of the devastation. “This wasn’t just a tremor.”
Sebastian stood slightly apart from them, arms crossed, studying the terrain. “What if Bergs-Erik did this?”
Gottfried smirked, the weight of the moment not enough to suppress his amusement. “Ve’ll make an investigator of you yet.”
Sebastian sighed, rubbing his temple. “Not with these rolls, sir.” He muttered the last part under his breath, shaking his head as if blaming fate itself for whatever invisible force had decided to burden them with this mystery.
As they continued examining the wreckage, Keenan suddenly darted up the slope, his nose to the ground, sniffing with purpose. His body tensed, his ears perked, and his tail lowered as he came to a halt at a specific point along the ruined hillside. Sigrid followed quickly, her boots sliding slightly on the loose dirt before she reached him.
She crouched beside the dog and immediately saw what had caught his attention—a small, inch-wide hole in the rock, surrounded by blackened scorch marks. The edges of the hole were too smooth, too precise as if something had burned through the stone itself. Beside it, half-buried in the dirt, lay a tiny golden bead, glinting against the dull earth.
Sigrid carefully picked up the bead, rubbing the dirt from its surface. It was warm to the touch, its surface covered in intricate, swirling patterns. The designs looked oddly familiar, though she couldn’t quite place why. Keenan wagged his tail expectantly, waiting for the treat he knew would come. Sigrid chuckled softly, reaching into her pocket and handing him a strip of jerky.
Returning to the others, she held out the bead. “Look at this.”
Gottfried, Celeste, and Sigrid examined it closely. Recognition flickered in their eyes. The intricate engravings, though delicate, bore a striking resemblance to the markings on the metalwork Margareta had crafted at the forge.
Celeste narrowed her eyes, staring at the bead with intense focus. A strange feeling stirred within her—a deep, unsettling familiarity that sent a shiver through her spine. Fleeting, fragmented memories surfaced—nothing concrete, just an eerie sense that she had seen something like this before, though she couldn’t remember where or when.
Gottfried reached into his satchel and pulled out one of his books, flipping through the pages with swift, practised ease. He scanned every passage, every symbol, searching for anything that resembled the strange patterns. After several tense moments, he let out a frustrated sigh and shut the book.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “No record of these markings in any human culture I know of.”
Sigrid slipped the bead into her pocket. “Then we need to find Agnes’ old house. If there are more stories about Bergs-Erik, they might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”
Gottfried nodded. “Agreed. Something—someone—did this, and we need to figure out why.”
Sebastian cast one last look at the ruined hillside, his expression unreadable. “Whatever happened here… it wasn’t just an accident.”
With that, the group turned back toward the village, their minds heavy with the implications of their discovery. The bead, the unnatural destruction, the scorch marks—something powerful had left its mark here. And if it was connected to Bergs-Erik, then time was running short. They needed answers before the past came crashing into the present.
With the mystery of the landslide still weighing on their minds, the group made their way back into town, searching for more answers. As they neared the village, the familiar scent of burning coal and hot metal filled the air. The forge was alive with activity, flames flickering in the dimming light, the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal echoing through the streets.
Pausing near the entrance, Celeste and Sigrid scanned the forge. It didn’t take long to spot Lasse. He wasn’t working but stood outside the building, his arms crossed, his jaw tight, staring into the forge with an unreadable expression. The firelight flickered across his face, casting sharp shadows that only deepened the tension in his posture.
Gottfried and Sigrid exchanged glances before deciding to continue toward Agnes’ farm, leaving Sebastian and Celeste to handle Lasse.
Sebastian and Celeste moved carefully around the forge, approaching Lasse from the back to avoid startling him. His stance was rigid, his fists balled at his sides. Whatever was running through his mind, it wasn’t good.
Sebastian kept his tone light but direct. “Are you alright?”
Lasse barely moved, his shoulders tensing. “I’m fine.”
Sebastian studied him for a moment before shaking his head. “You don’t look fine.”
Lasse exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair but refusing to meet their eyes. “I’m just thinking. That’s all.”
Sebastian wasn’t convinced. “I’m an investigator,” he said smoothly. “We’re looking into August and the strange things happening in town.”
Lasse’s head snapped up, caught off guard. “Investigator? What, like the government? An official inquiry?”
Sebastian smirked slightly, giving Lasse a look that clearly said, “Yes, I’m very aware this is strange.” “In a manner of speaking.”
With a steady, measured tone, he continued, “A lead has taken us to your grandmother’s old home. We believe something there may help our investigation.”
Lasse frowned. “Why would my grandmother’s house have anything to do with August?”
Sebastian shrugged. “It’s an ongoing investigation. I can’t share details at this time.”
Lasse’s suspicion didn’t fade entirely, but something in his stance shifted. He seemed to be considering his options before he finally nodded. “Fine. I’ll take you to her. You can ask her yourself.”
As they turned to leave, Lasse suddenly stopped and fixed Sebastian with a hard stare. “Tell me something truthfully—will August ever face justice for what he’s done?”
Sebastian met his gaze without hesitation. “If our investigation proves that he’s responsible for any of this, he will face justice—one way or another. That, I promise you.”
Lasse studied him for a long moment, then gave a single nod. “Let’s go.”
By the time they arrived at Agnes’ farm, Gottfried and Sigrid were already waiting outside. As the group reunited, Sebastian subtly relayed his conversation with Lasse, ensuring the others understood without raising Lasse’s suspicions.
Lasse led them inside. The cottage was warm, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and dried herbs. Agnes sat in her usual spot, wrapped in a heavy knitted blanket, her gaze sharp despite the exhaustion in her features.
Sigrid stepped forward first, carefully pulling the golden bead from her pocket and placing it on the table. “We found this outside the town, near the landslide. Do you know what it is?”
The moment Agnes saw the bead, her face paled. She inhaled slowly, then turned to Lasse. “Go fetch more firewood.”
Lasse hesitated. “Grandmother—”
“Go,” she repeated, her voice firmer than before.
Lasse lingered for a moment, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but eventually, he nodded and stepped outside.
Once the door shut, Agnes turned back to the group. Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced the bead’s intricate markings. “Margareta’s mother was my sister’s child,” she murmured. “Hilma Parsson’s daughter.”
Gottfried leaned forward slightly. “Go on.”
Agnes sighed, her gaze distant as she continued. “Hilma was with Margareta’s supposed grandfather for a few years after the child was born. They had planned to marry, to finally make things official. But on the day of the wedding, she disappeared. She was seen leaving her home, heading toward the church… but she never arrived. No one ever saw her again.”
Celeste frowned. “You think she was taken?”
Agnes hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t think she died then. But I believe she’s dead now.”
A heavy silence settled over the room. The golden bead gleamed faintly in the dim candlelight, carrying a weight none of them had fully understood until now.
Agnes’s voice dropped lower. “And if she is… then something has changed. And not for the better.”
