Frae grinned and blushed. It made Sidra remember a time when she was Frae’s age. How many days she had spent in the pastures as she watched over the flock, weaving wildflowers into crowns.

“Before we go,” Mirin said, breaking Sidra’s reveries, “is there anything more we can do for you?”

“The plaid and the pie are plenty,” Sidra said, honestly. “But thank you for asking.”

She watched the weaver and her daughter depart, the sun breaking through the clouds. Sidra decided to leave the front door open to welcome the rain-washed air into the cottage.

She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. It was an odd size, a bit too large for a typical shawl, but it made her feel safe. She reached for a spoon and sat at the table, eating Frae’s pie. The tart berries melted on her tongue, summoning memories of long summers with her grandmother, foraging amongst the hills and woods.

Sidra closed her eyes, the remembrances bittersweet. Knowing she could get lost in those old days, she brought herself back to the present. To the table strewn with materials that had turned powerless in her hands.

And she thought, How do I find my faith?

Torin knew he was dreaming, because he was looking at the men he had killed.

He saw the mortal wounds he had given them. They bled and bled, their throats sliced open and chests gaping, exposing splintered bones and sputtering hearts, and the men beseeched him with requests. Feed their wives, their children, their lovers, because the northern wind would soon come with ice and darkness and hunger in his breath.

“They are not mine to feed!” Torin replied, angry. He was tired of the guilt he felt. “You should have stayed in the west. You should have known better than to raid the innocents of the east. We have wives and bairns and lovers to feed and protect here, as you do on your lands.”

“Why did you kill us?” one of them asked.

“You take a life,” another said, “then you must take care of the ones your violence marks.”

Torin was exasperated. It was frustrating, speaking to dead men, and it was grim, having to look their ghosts in the eye, even if it was in the boundary of a dream. He shouldn’t care about what they were saying to him, for he had done his job, he had completed his task. They had raided, they had stolen, they had trespassed with ill intent. He had defended his clan, as he had been raised to do. Why should he feel guilt over this?