The Night Of The Full Moon

Now, Olrun—no longer worshiped by anyone in Nastrand, nor in Nordenheim.

That moon, symbolizing Manafreya, daughter of Olrun and mother of all priestesses.

The full moon rose above the horizon, shining brightly over the silhouettes of birch and fir trees.

Bathed in the moon’s mysterious energy, Elin stepped onto a large boulder.

With Elin’s movements, her necklace of reindeer, rabbit, goat, and bird bones rattled and danced.

Elin played a willow flute, weaving a melody that was pure, clear, and slightly joyful.

The wind brushed her cheeks, distant wolves howled, stars poured across the sky, and the scent of fir trees and sweet wild grass filled the night air.

Setting down the willow flute, Elin sang in a beautiful voice.

Beneath the night sky, a hymn to Olrun, to Manafreia, and to the heroes who fought alongside the gods resounded.

“Bright moonlit sky,

“shine, shine.

“Warriors who worship Olrun.

“Sing, sing.

“Maidens who yearn for His daughter.

“Dance, dance.

“Trees and flowers in bloom.

“Pour down, pour down.

The radiance of moon and stars.”

It was the unbroken nightly devotion offered as a priestess.

Below, Ingmar chewed dandelion leaves while sharpening arrowheads and a sword. Rabbit meat sizzled over the flickering fire and curling smoke.

“What a beautiful voice. How could Olrun not be enchanted by that song? Surely the moon goddess Manafreya herself would favor it.”

Ingmar smiled as he turned the skewer of meat.

That evening’s meal was potatoes, barley bread with raspberry jam, and roasted rabbit.

Before the splendid meal, Elin and Ingmar looked at each other and smiled.

“Thanks be to Olrun.”

“Thanks be to Olrun.”

Ingmar pulled the rabbit from the skewer, tore it apart, and placed it on Elin’s plate. Steam rose, hot enough to burn, yet he filled her plate without so much as a frown.

“I can’t eat this much, Ingmar. You need to eat too.”

“I already snuck plenty while roasting it.”

“Fool, once you’ve told me, it’s no longer a ‘secret’.”

“That wisdom of yours—I love it, Elin.”

“And this purity of yours—I love it, Ingmar.”

After their joyful meal, Elin and Ingmar lay upon a bed softened with hay and wool.

Ingmar gazed intently at Elin.

“The North Star is there in your eyes.”

“Ingmar, say that again. I’ve heard it countless times, yet no words thrill me more.”

“Your hair is the first snow upon Yotun Mountain.”

“More.”

“And your profile is more delicate than the Canyon of Mandelsong.”

Elin’s face flushed at the pure praise.

“And now your face is the color of the raspberry jam we ate. Hahaha.”

“Oh my, that last one is the truest of all.”

Ingmar gently kissed Elin’s forehead. She embraced him.

“As always, Ingmar, your waist is like the thickest fir in this valley. I can never wrap my arms fully around it.”

“I am a warrior of the Gods.”

“Yes, true. And to me, you are also a bard.”

“You are the last priestess of Nordenheim…”

“And you are the last divine warrior of Nordenheim…”

Their kiss lingered long.

As their breaths mingled, Elin’s sweet sighs enthralled Ingmar. Tasting her small, red lips and tongue, he exhaled in wonder.

“You must have just eaten a Mendelsia flower, Elin—didn’t you?”

“No, Ingmar, I ate and drank the same as you.”

“Lies—nothing could be this sweet.”

Ingmar’s lips brushed Elin’s earlobe.

“Ingmar, whisper into my ear.”

“Elin, it is the night of the full moon. A night to revel in all of you. Tonight, I’ll do as I please.”

“Good. Then next—kiss my neck!”

Ingmar’s large hands caressed Elin’s back. His lips grazed her neck, breath tickling as he whispered words of love.

Their love was more sacred than anything. Profoundly holy.

Upon Elin’s vow to continue the lineage as Nordenheim’s last priestess, and Ingmar’s resolve to protect her as the last divine warrior, lay their pure longing and love for one another.

In contrast to the cool night, the air inside the hut grew hotter. They shared a time unbearably sweet.

Elin’s longing for a child was immense. Ingmar knew this well. Yet strangely, no child had come between them.

But,

recently, Elin faintly felt changes in her body. But she kept silent until she was certain.

In Ingmar’s arms, Elin quietly closed her eyes.

‘Inside me—perhaps Ingmar’s child is within me!’

At the same time.

Within the depths of Nastrand Castle, the Ducal Council convened.

There were four attendees.

Lord Yodel, Knight Commander Morten, High Priest Kraf, and Captain of the Guard Fynel. No one else could attend the Ducal Council.

These four, the pillars of the Duchy of Nastrand, fell silent before a small vial.

As the candles flickered, their shadows swayed—mirroring their restless hearts.

“My Lord, now is the time to root out the false prophecy—the curse of our land—once and for all. If you let this pass, the Lord (the god of the foreign faith that displaced Nordenheim’s traditional deities) will never forgive the Duchy of Nastrand for harboring the blood of filthy heretics.”

The gaunt, hook-nosed High Priest Kraf urged Lord Yodel to decide.

“Mmm…hard to believe. That a priestess still lives? I thought twenty years ago, on the Day of Judgment, my father had them all put to death.”

As Yodel sighed, Knight Commander Morten sought to console him.

“In the end, it is flawed mortals who carry out the Lord’s will. This is not your fault, My Lord—merely a small oversight. In fact, we should be glad, for it is still within our power to set right.”

Captain Fynel of the Guard added his support.

“Indeed. If there is only one, the Knights aren’t even needed. Just give the order, and with the priests, one squad of the Guard will be enough.”

Wrinkles of torment deepened on Yodel’s brow.

“Fine. But if we capture her, what then?”

At Yodel’s words, Morten and Fynel fell silent.

It was not theirs to answer. That role fell to Kraf. And everyone present already knew what the answer would be.

The scenes of twenty years ago returned vividly to their minds.

The stench of burning flesh, screams tearing through the air. Sons and daughters of priestesses hoisted upon spearpoints. God’s warriors—those who resisted—cut down by swords or crushed by axes, lying scattered as corpses.

It was the day when Knights and Guards, under the Cathedral’s order, scoured the duchy, seizing every priestess, their families, and all who still clung to faith in Olrun.

In the blood-red square, silver and lead boiled in cauldrons. Priests of Judgment moved about with grotesque instruments, chanting in voices that sizzled like hellfire.

These had been fellow citizens of Nastrand only yesterday. But the Holy Empire, the Papal See, decreed Judgment, and in a single day condemned all who carried the old faith and its stories to hell.

That dreadful day.

Young Yodel, serving as his father’s heir, shook as he covered his eyes and ears. Morten, only just freed from his squire’s status, helped drag an unconscious priestess before the priests.

‘Is this truly right?’

Bewilderment flickered in the young knight’s eyes.

Priests swept fir branches over the knights, murmuring prayers of purification. Among them was Kraf.

Meanwhile, Fynel, stacking corpses, met the lifeless eyes of a girl no older than four or five.

She had been the daughter of a priestess who lived near his home. So cute that, when off duty, he would sometimes pick fruit from the checkpoint trees and place them into her tiny hands.

‘How did it come to this…’

Even the young guard’s eyes were clouded with shock.

“You there! Come help pour the silver and lead! We need more hands!”

The shout struck their chests like a hammer.

A day never to be forgotten. A night never erased.

It was Kraf who broke the silence.

“This matter will be handled by the Duchy’s Cathedral. As you know, such tasks are the duty of the Cathedral. Only then will the foul, unspeakable prophecy that tainted this land vanish. Give the order.”

“But then again…”

Yodel started to speak, then fell silent.

‘The prophecy—when the full moon turns blood-red. Could it be…that we ourselves are fulfilling it?’

It was a thought he dared not voice.

For before him sat a man wielding a power equal to—no, greater than—his own, backed by zealots and their madness.

It was Kraf, the High Priest, destined to succeed the ailing archpriest as head of the Nastrand Cathedral.

His ruthlessness made every hair stand on end.

Even Lord Yodel was compelled, again and again, to profess his faith before that divine-backed superiority.

The Lord’s command—the commandments every believer must keep.

“You shall worship none but me. If your neighbor clings to idols, pour molten silver into his eyes and split his belly to fill with molten lead. Listen well to the wailing of the suffering and the dying—for their cries shall be your greatest reward, your crown in heaven.”

High Priest Kraf recited the gospel’s commandment with deliberate clarity. It was less a reminder than a threat to Yodel.

No other choice was ever granted to Yodel.

Yodel sighed.

“Tomorrow, root out this last evil from our land completely.”

The opinions of Morten or Fynel were not even worth hearing.

Kraf nodded with a look of smug satisfaction, as if to say, Of course.

The Ducal Council ended with his benediction.