Vaesen: Of Stone & Steel: 05
Sebastian stood by the shattered window, his gaze scanning the bright midday landscape beyond the ruins of the house. The golden sunlight cast harsh shadows across the clearing, illuminating a massive brown bear that stood at the edge of the forest. A deep, guttural roar shattered the stillness of the afternoon. The bear’s hulking form was tense, its eyes gleaming with an unsettling intelligence, as if it recognized them.
The beast reared onto its hind legs, its muscles rippling beneath thick fur before it struck. With a single swipe, its massive paw tore through the crumbling wall, splintering wood and sending debris flying across the room. Dust billowed into the air as the ground trembled from the sheer force of the blow.
Sebastian reacted instantly, shifting into a defensive stance, his muscles coiling as he readied himself. His sharp eyes locked onto the incoming strike, his mind calculating the precise moment to counter. He pivoted on his heel and drove his boot into the bear’s extended limb with forceful precision. A sickening crack echoed through the room as bone gave way beneath the impact. Yet, the creature barely faltered, its breath huffing in short, agitated bursts.
A guttural snarl tore from its throat as it surged forward, its massive bulk collapsing the weakened structure. Sebastian braced for impact, but the sheer weight of the beast sent him hurtling across the room. He collided with the broken remains of a wooden beam, pain lancing through his ribs as he hit the ground hard.
Gottfried, ever calculating, reached into his coat and pulled out the Holy Mackerel. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it toward Sebastian. “Catch!”
Sigrid took a cautious step forward, her voice steady but careful. “Hilma, I presume?”
The bear’s heavy head turned toward her, nostrils flaring as it locked eyes with her. It hesitated, its massive form oddly still for a moment, its breath labored and deep. There was a recognition in its gaze, but whether it was from intelligence or instinct, Sigrid couldn’t be certain.
Celeste, standing behind the others, moved swiftly. She knelt, grasping a handful of dirt and letting it slip through her fingers as she whispered an incantation. The dust lingered unnaturally in the air, swirling as an eerie darkness crept through the space. Shadows stretched unnaturally, pressing in around the bear with an almost sentient malice.
For a fleeting second, the bear trembled. Then, with a violent shake, it threw off the creeping dread, its muscles tensing once more.
From the depths of the forest, a low, haunting howl pierced the air.
Two shapes slunk out from the tree line, their sleek forms gliding effortlessly over the terrain. Wolves. Their eyes glowed like embers, sharp and alert, their bodies poised like coiled springs as they flanked the bear.
Sebastian groaned, pressing his palm against the floor as he forced himself upright. His ribs screamed in protest, but he clenched his jaw and pushed forward, stepping between the bear and the others. “Not done yet,” he muttered, steadying himself as his torn suit fluttered slightly in the wind that rushed through the broken wall.
The bear let out another roar and lunged forward. With a single, devastating swipe, it struck Sebastian, sending him flying once more. He crashed hard, rolling across the debris-littered floor. His breath came in sharp gasps, his body aching from the sheer force of the blow.
Gottfried, still unshaken, reached into his coat and retrieved a small pistol—one modified for a peculiar purpose. He aimed and squeezed the trigger, releasing a fine stream of holy water toward the bear.
The bear was now slightly wetter.
Sigrid’s gaze darted over the beast’s limbs, searching. No iron bracelet. Her stomach twisted. In their vision, Hilma had worn one. If this bear bore no such mark, was it truly Hilma at all? Or was it something else, something ancient and wild, drawn to them by forces beyond their understanding?
Making a split-second decision, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the bead they had found earlier. She extended it toward the bear, her fingers trembling slightly. “Take this, and let us go.”
The bear’s gaze snapped toward the bead, its nostrils flaring. For a moment, everything was still. Then, with shocking speed, the bear lunged—not just for the bead, but for her hand.
Pain exploded through Sigrid’s body as the beast’s teeth clamped down, tearing away part of her pinky finger along with the object. A sharp, agonized cry escaped her lips as blood spattered onto the wooden floor. The bear recoiled slightly, then turned and bolted toward the forest, the wolves following close behind, their movements eerily synchronized.
Sigrid gasped, staggering back as her legs gave out beneath her. The pain was a distant thing, drowned out by the sheer ferocity of what had just happened.
Celeste was already at her side, hands moving quickly as she tore a strip of fabric from her sleeve. “Stay still. I’ve got you.”
Sebastian groaned, shifting slightly before forcing himself upright. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his body, his ribs protesting violently. His once-pristine suit was in ruins, shredded and barely holding together.
Gottfried stepped toward him, offering a hand. He pulled Sebastian up but stopped short of fully supporting him, letting him bear the weight himself. “Don’t think I’m going to carry you.”
Sebastian let out a weak chuckle, wincing as he adjusted his posture. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
The group moved carefully through the dense forest, their bodies aching from the harrowing encounter with the bear. As the adrenaline that had carried them through the fight faded, exhaustion and pain settled in its place. Though the wolves’ howls had long since dissipated, an unease lingered in the air, clinging to them like the dampness of the woods.
As they neared the village, a palpable tension set in. The outskirts were eerily silent, fields abandoned, livestock conspicuously absent. The usual sounds of life—the distant hammering from the forge, voices carrying over the farmland—were missing. Instead, the village’s attention was drawn to the town square, where a crowd had gathered near the inn.
Celeste, still tending to Sigrid’s wounded hand, furrowed her brow. The stillness, the emptiness—it was unnatural. “Something’s wrong,” she murmured, tightening the bandages. The deeper they moved into town, the heavier the air seemed, as if the entire village was holding its breath.
The first undeniable sign came into view: the flag outside Ida’s inn fluttered at half-mast, a stark announcement of death.
Sebastian exhaled sharply. “That’s never a good sign.”
Further ahead, Lasse stood outside his family’s farm, watching them approach. His stance was rigid, his jaw clenched with an expression unreadable. Then, with quiet determination, he turned on his heel and strode purposefully into the barn, disappearing inside without a word.
Gottfried’s gaze drifted toward the manor, where another flag had been lowered in mourning.
“Well,” he muttered, “that narrows it down.”
“The Director’s dead,” Sigrid surmised grimly. “Either it was natural… or someone made sure of it.”
Stepping into the inn, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The low murmur of conversation hushed as every pair of eyes turned toward them, a mixture of curiosity, concern, and something else—caution.
Ida, standing behind the counter, straightened as she took in their battered appearances. Her expression softened, but there was a nervous edge to her voice. “What in the world happened to you?”
Celeste, direct as always, answered in a single breath. “Bear attack.”
A ripple of unease spread through the gathered villagers, some exchanging wary glances, others muttering among themselves.
She turned back to Ida. “Is there a doctor in town? We need medical attention.”
Ida hesitated, fingers gripping the cloth she’d been using to wipe the counter. “There is a physician… well, the Director had his own personal doctor. Given what’s happened…” She exhaled, choosing her words carefully. “With his passing, the doctor may be available now. I can send for him.”
Celeste nodded. “Please do.”
Gottfried, who had been unusually quiet, leaned against the counter and exhaled. Then, in a voice carefully measured but deliberately loud, he spoke. “So, how did the Workmaster kill the Director?”
Silence fell. A heavy, oppressive silence.
The words hung in the air, suffocating in their implication.
All eyes turned toward him, expressions flickering between shock, confusion, and unease. Low murmurs spread through the room like embers in dry grass—uncertain but growing. A few villagers exchanged glances, their reactions varied. Some looked outright offended, others bewildered. And then there were those whose expressions turned pensive, as if the question merely voiced a suspicion they hadn’t dared say aloud.
Before the murmurings could escalate, Ida quickly stepped out from behind the counter, her voice firm but quiet. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs. You need rest and time to clean up.”
She ushered them toward the staircase, subtly steering them away from the now-whispering crowd. As they ascended, the weight of the villagers’ scrutiny pressed against their backs. Just as they reached the upper landing, a voice from the gathering below muttered, “Strangers stirring up trouble… blaming the Workmaster like that. Who knows what their game is?”
Inside their rooms, Celeste let out a slow breath, rubbing her temples. “That went well.”
Moments later, a quiet knock at the door signaled Ida’s return. She stepped inside, shutting it behind her before addressing Celeste in a hushed but urgent tone. “Please, have a word with the professor. We can’t have rumors like that spreading through the village.”
Celeste arched a brow, folding her arms. “If you had heard our conversation with the Director this morning—especially with the Workmaster likely listening in—you’d be asking the same questions we are.”
Ida’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That may be, but the future of this village is uncertain now. The Director kept things in order. Without him… we don’t know what happens next.”
She glanced toward the window, where the flag still hung at half-mast, its fabric fluttering weakly in the wind. “People are scared, and fear makes them look for someone to blame. If things spiral, it won’t matter what’s true—only what they believe.”
Sebastian lay in bed, shifting slightly as pain lanced through his ribs. Every breath was a struggle, a reminder of the brutal encounter. His usual composure was worn thin by exhaustion, but he masked it well, hands resting over the bandages that bound his chest. Across the room, Gottfried sat at the desk, his posture rigid as his eyes swept over the pages of the journal, absorbing every detail with intense focus. The dim candlelight cast flickering shadows over the walls, the silence between them filled only by the occasional turn of a page or Sebastian’s quiet, pained exhale.
In the next room, Sigrid remained curled beneath thick blankets, her wounded hand tucked close. She had barely spoken since the bear had taken her finger, retreating into herself, distant and withdrawn. Whether it was the pain, the shock, or something deeper, she seemed lost in thought, tangled in an internal reckoning. Celeste moved between the two rooms, tending to Sigrid and Sebastian as best she could. She worked with quiet precision, her fingers deft as she changed bandages, checked for fever, and did what little she could to ease their discomfort. Yet fatigue was beginning to show—her movements were a little slower, her sighs a little heavier. The weight of the day bore down on her, but she pushed through, her duty to them overriding her own exhaustion.
The atmosphere in the inn was different, thick with something unspoken. Through the wooden floorboards, the murmur of the townspeople below filtered up, their voices hushed, edged with uncertainty. The Director’s death had sent ripples of tension through the village. Though they were recovering, they could feel the balance shifting. The air carried the weight of suspicion, and they knew their every move was being watched.
A soft knock on the door broke the silence. Ida stepped inside, carrying a tray of food. Her expression was carefully composed, but concern lingered in her eyes.
“My messenger returned,” she said, setting the tray down. “The doctor will be here soon.”
Celeste exhaled, relieved. “Good. They need proper care.”
Ida gave a small nod, her gaze flicking to Sebastian’s bandages, then to Sigrid’s closed door. “And you? Are you holding up?”
Celeste forced a small smile. “We’ll manage.”
Ida hesitated, gripping the tray a little tighter. Her eyes darted toward Gottfried, who remained utterly engrossed in the journal. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, lips pressing into a thin line. Whatever was on her mind, she chose not to say it. Instead, she offered Celeste another small nod and quietly excused herself.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Celeste turned her attention to Gottfried. “What does it say?” she asked, curiosity laced with apprehension.
Gottfried finally looked up. “It’s Hilma’s.”
The words hung between them for a moment before he continued. “The first entry speaks of her belief in the old story—the one we’ve all heard. She describes the bead she keeps tied to her wrist as proof of its truth. She spent years searching for any sign of the Wandering Man, Bergs-Erik.”
He flipped forward. “Then, there’s an entry about her engagement. An arranged marriage to a local farmer. She wasn’t entirely opposed to it, found it acceptable. Everything seemed fine… at first.”
His fingers traced the page before he continued. “Then, a shift. A new entry—excited handwriting. She met him. Bergs-Erik. He warned her about the man she was engaged to, told her that in time, he would become just like her father. She dismissed it.”
The air in the room grew heavier.
“Hilma became pregnant. That’s when everything changed. Her fiancé’s demeanor darkened. He grew cold, distant. And then—violent. Just as Bergs-Erik had predicted. When she brought her daughter, Alma, to him, he lashed out, shoving her against the wall before leaving them both.”
Celeste inhaled sharply, and from the next room, Sigrid stirred but said nothing.
“Bergs-Erik returned,” Gottfried continued, his voice quieter now. “Told her he had warned her. Described the path that lay ahead. And she made her choice. She left Alma with her mother and ran away with Bergs-Erik.”
Another page turned. “She knew what he was. That he was not human. But she wasn’t afraid. If anything, she seemed… resolute.”
Gottfried frowned slightly, his grip tightening on the journal. “She writes it so plainly. As if it was never a question to her.”
Celeste exchanged a glance with him, intrigue flickering in her eyes. “Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe, to her, it never mattered.”
Gottfried continued. “She was pregnant again. Another daughter. And she and Bergs-Erik had a conversation—one unlike any she had ever had before. Their child would be different. Half-human, half-whatever Bergs-Erik was. They decided she would be made fully human. Or at least, as much as possible.”
His voice carried a weight as he leaned back in his chair. “Hilma chose to give her humanity to her daughter.”
Celeste’s breath caught, and even Sebastian, despite his pain, furrowed his brows.
“The ritual would take seven hours and seven minutes,” Gottfried continued. “Bergs-Erik promised that Alma would raise her half-sister. And he told Hilma one last thing—never to go to the church ruins at Stora Tuna.”
He reached the final page and let out a slow breath. “Her last entry states that she would leave this journal at the old house, along with two iron nails—one for each daughter she could never see again: Alma and Margareta.”
Silence pressed against the walls, thick with unspoken thoughts. The revelation settled like a stone in their stomachs. Margareta was not Hilma’s granddaughter. She was her daughter. The truth reframed everything they had assumed, shifting the foundation of the mystery they had been unraveling.
Celeste ran a hand through her hair. “So all this time… Margareta wasn’t just raised by Alma—she was Alma’s sister. Hilma’s child.”
Gottfried’s fingers drummed against the journal cover. “Which means Margareta carries whatever remnants of Bergs-Erik’s nature that Hilma tried to suppress. She was never just another villager. She’s something else.”
Sebastian, still wincing from his injuries, muttered, “And she has no idea. Does she?”
Sigrid sat at the small writing desk in her room, a sheet of paper before her, pen in hand. Writing had always been second nature to her, yet now, each stroke of the pen felt unfamiliar, almost foreign. The absence of her pinky made it difficult to grip the pen properly, and the ink smudges and small bloodstains on the page were evidence of her struggle. She frowned, rubbing the bandaged remnants of her finger absently as frustration welled inside her.
A quiet knock broke her focus. Celeste stepped inside, her gaze immediately drifting to the letter on the desk. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice gentle. “Struggling?”
Sigrid sighed, staring down at the words she had managed to write. “It’s different now.”
Celeste sat across from her, her expression steady but understanding. “You don’t have to get it perfect right away. It’ll take time.”
Sigrid nodded but didn’t reach for the pen again.
“Gottfried’s been reading Hilma’s journal,” Celeste continued. “From what we can tell, she wasn’t just tangled in the world of the Vaesen—she may have willingly become part of it. She chose Bergs-Erik, knowing exactly what he was.”
Sigrid’s eyes flickered over the journal before meeting Celeste’s. “If she became something else,” she mused, “then what does that mean for Margareta?”
Celeste exhaled, rubbing a thumb over the edge of the journal. “That’s what we need to figure out.”
The group reconvened in Gottfried and Sebastian’s room, the journal open on the desk as they pieced together what they knew. Gottfried leafed through his books, cross-referencing details as they spoke.
“Sensitivity to iron,” he noted. “A known trait of many Vaesen.”
“The landslides and lightning strikes,” Celeste added. “Bergs-Erik told Hilma not to go to the church ruins—what if that place weakens him or his kind?”
“Humanity transference,” Sigrid murmured. “She gave hers away, meaning it was something tangible, something that could be taken and given. That’s not just magic, that’s a fundamental reshaping of what a person is.”
“Shapeshifting,” Sebastian muttered. “Bergs-Erik clearly isn’t bound to one form—he looks human enough, but he’s not. If he could turn Hilma’s father into a goat, could he have changed her too? Could that bear have been her, or just another creature reshaped by him?”
Gottfried’s gaze sharpened as he flipped through another book. “These traits… they point to something specific. A Troll.”
Sigrid arched a brow. “A benevolent Troll? That’s new.”
“Not necessarily benevolent,” Gottfried clarified. “But different from the ones in most tales. A Mountain Troll, perhaps. Some were known to interact with humans, even form bonds with them. They weren’t always the violent monsters people feared.”
Celeste crossed her arms. “If that’s what Bergs-Erik is, then it makes sense why he warned Hilma about the church ruins. Trolls don’t mix well with sacred ground. It’s consistent with what we’ve heard before—legends say iron, sunlight, and holy places weaken them. If the church ruins still hold any lingering sanctity, it could be a place where Bergs-Erik’s kind is vulnerable.”
Sigrid tapped a finger on the table. “Then maybe we should heed his warning, too. Bergs-Erik wanted August brought to him. That might be the best way to end this.”
The room fell into contemplative silence before they all nodded in agreement.
A knock at the door announced Dr. Svante Wergelius’s arrival. He stepped inside, a tall, lean man with neatly combed silver-streaked hair and thin, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His sharp eyes flicked over the room, assessing its occupants with clinical precision before adjusting his cuffs in a practiced motion. There was a sense of detached efficiency in his posture, each step deliberate, as though he had already categorized their conditions before even examining them. His dark coat was pressed and pristine, his every movement precise and efficient. With a practiced air of detachment, he carried a small, well-worn medical bag, his demeanor professional and brisk as he scanned the room, assessing the injured before even speaking.
He assessed Sebastian first, carefully inspecting his ribs and injuries. “You’ve been well cared for so far,” he noted. “These bandages were done skillfully.” He glanced at Sebastian’s wounds again, his brow furrowing slightly. “I was told this was a bear attack? If so, you’re fortunate—these wounds could have been far worse. Most who encounter a bear at that range don’t walk away at all.”
Celeste folded her arms. “I did them.”
The doctor raised a brow, clearly surprised. “Impressive. Most wouldn’t have managed as well.” He studied Celeste for a moment, his tone carrying both approval and curiosity. “You have a steady hand. Not many with formal training would have done better under the circumstances.”
Gottfried watched the exchange before speaking, his tone casual but deliberate. “Doctor, if someone offered you a handful of silver to alter a diagnosis, would you accept? What about twice that amount? Enough to buy a fine horse?” He leaned back slightly, studying the doctor’s face. “A whole year’s salary? Surely, at some point, the price is worth the trouble?” He let the question hang in the air before his expression sharpened. “Would you take a bribe to tell a lie?”
Dr. Wergelius blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. His posture stiffened, and for a moment, he studied Gottfried as if trying to determine whether the inquiry was genuine or some kind of trap. Then, regaining his composure, he adjusted his sleeves and replied firmly, “Of course not. My duty is to my patients—ensuring their well-being comes first, regardless of what anyone is willing to pay.”
Gottfried held his gaze for a moment before giving an approving nod. “Good answer.” A rare flicker of something resembling satisfaction crossed his features as he clapped the doctor on the shoulder. The doctor stiffened slightly, caught off guard by the gesture, before giving a curt nod in return. Without another word, Gottfried turned on his heel and left the room, leaving the doctor momentarily puzzled before refocusing on his work.
Ida appeared at the top of the stairs, her expression tense, eyes darting between them as if gauging their readiness. “August is about to give a speech. He’s gathered most of the town outside the Manor. No one’s quite sure what he’s going to say.”
The group exchanged glances. Whatever came next, they would have to be ready for it.
