To the skies with danger. To the skies with Urnäsch. She should have gone back to the chalet.

In the draughty barn, Freya crouches by the fire. It’s far too feeble; her skin has grown thin. She would have been cold by Karliquai, but at least it was atmospheric. Strong. Here, she’s far too human.

Like the men she used to consume. They’d huddle this way, in forest shelters, holding their hands to the flames. They’d know there were dangers, but they wouldn’t hear her coming, far too focused on warmth. It was pitiful.

And now, she’s pitiful, too.

Fat chance. Hands on her knees, Freya stares through the fire, pushes to her feet, and stamps out the flames.

She was done with waiting anyway.