Dawn broke clear and cold over the mountain camp, painting the snow-covered peaks with hues of rose and gold. Fynnarin woke to find the tent empty, Kitra's sleeping furs already neatly arranged. Outside, the camp hummed with activity despite the early hour—children hauling water from a nearby spring, hunters preparing for the day's excursion, elders tending the communal fires.
He dressed quickly in the warm clothing the tribe had provided—supple leather trousers lined with rabbit fur, a thick wool tunic, and a vest made from the pelt of some mountain predator. The garments fit surprisingly well, as though crafted specifically for him.
When he emerged from the tent, Essra was waiting. She wore ceremonial garb today—a long leather coat adorned with intricate beadwork depicting flowing water patterns and what he now recognized as stylized River Wolves. Her facial tattoos seemed more prominent in the morning light, the indigo spirals drawing attention to her pale, assessing eyes.
"You slept deeply," she observed, handing him a wooden cup filled with steaming herbal tea. "No nightmares?"
Fynnarin accepted the beverage, recalling his vivid dreams of transformation and battle. "Dreams, yes. But not exactly nightmares."
She nodded, unsurprised. "The Old Blood often speaks through dreams, especially as the Change approaches. Did you see yourself transformed?"
"Yes. Completely." He sipped the tea, finding it both bitter and sweet, with an invigorating effect that spread quickly through his limbs. "I saw the hunters, too. And the Bound Ones you mentioned."
"Visions, perhaps. Or merely fears given form." Essra gestured for him to follow. "Either way, today we begin preparing you to face whatever comes. Elder Corvus awaits in the ceremony lodge."
As they crossed the camp, Fynnarin scanned for Kitra. "Where is my friend?"
"With Talgath, our master smith. She expressed interest in learning our metalworking techniques." A hint of amusement touched Essra's stern features. "Your shield-sister is practical. While you seek to understand your heritage, she seeks to improve her craft. Different paths, but both valuable."
Fynnarin felt a twinge of guilt. In his focus on his own transformation, had he been neglecting Kitra's needs? She had left everything behind to accompany him, yet she had no Wild-Blood, no mystical heritage to discover. Her reasons for coming had been purely loyal—to protect him, to help him survive the journey.
"It was her idea," Essra added, seeming to read his thoughts. "She said you would need space to focus on your training. Wise woman, that one. Rare to find such clear sight in one without the Old Blood."
They approached a structure larger than the other tents—a permanent lodge built from timber and stone, its entrance flanked by totem poles carved with animal figures, many of which Fynnarin now recognized as transformation aspects of the Wild-Blooded. Steam rose from vents in its roof, suggesting warmth within.
"The ceremony lodge," Essra explained. "Sacred ground for our people. Here, the first transformation is often guided, the space between worlds made thin by ritual and the presence of those who have walked the path before."
She paused at the entrance, fixing Fynnarin with an intent gaze. "What awaits inside is not merely instruction, river-child. It is initiation. You will be challenged in ways you cannot anticipate. Some who enter the ceremony lodge emerge transformed in more ways than the physical."
"I'm ready," Fynnarin said, though uncertainty fluttered in his stomach.
Essra's expression remained grave. "We shall see."
She pulled aside the heavy hide covering the entrance, releasing a wave of humid, herb-scented air. Inside, the lodge was dimly lit by a central fire pit where stones glowed red-hot among the flames. The walls were lined with wooden benches arranged in a circle, upon which sat five tribal elders including Corvus. All wore ceremonial attire similar to Essra's, though each featured different animal motifs in their beadwork and adornments.
The atmosphere was solemn, expectant. Fynnarin felt as though he had stepped into a space outside ordinary time, where ancient powers held sway and the mundane world receded into insignificance.
"Welcome, river-child," Corvus greeted him, his voice resonating in the enclosed space. The old man sat cross-legged despite his age, his raven-feather cloak cascading around him like a pool of midnight. "Are you prepared to meet your other self?"
Fynnarin swallowed hard, nodding. "I am."
"Are you certain?" challenged another elder—a broad-shouldered woman with silver-streaked hair tied in intricate braids. "The Change, once embraced, cannot be undone. You will never again be only human. Never again see the world through solely human eyes."
"I haven't been only human since the moment of my birth," Fynnarin replied with sudden conviction. "My elven mother, my human father with Wild-Blood in his veins... I've always existed between worlds. Perhaps it's time I learned to embrace that reality rather than hide from it."
His answer seemed to satisfy the elders. They exchanged glances, and Corvus beckoned him to the center of the lodge where a shallow depression had been carved into the stone floor. It was filled with clear water that reflected the firelight in shimmering patterns.
"Remove your garments and enter the pool," Corvus instructed. "The water comes from the sacred spring above our camp—the source of the river that will flow through your transformation."
Fynnarin hesitated only briefly before complying. He disrobed, acutely aware of the elders' evaluative gazes, then stepped into the pool. The water was unexpectedly warm, heated by stones that had been placed beneath its surface. It reached only to his calves, but as he sat as directed, it rose to his waist.
"Bring forth the book," Corvus commanded Essra, who produced Mirwen's leather-bound text from a pouch at her belt. The elder accepted it reverently, then addressed Fynnarin once more. "This treatise was created by our ancestors to guide those of mixed blood. Its wisdom has saved many who might otherwise have been lost between forms. Today, it will serve as your anchor as you journey between worlds."
He opened the book to a page Fynnarin had never seen before—one filled with flowing script surrounding an illustration of a human figure partially transformed into a River Wolf. The image seemed to move slightly as Fynnarin focused on it, the transformation flowing back and forth as though capturing the moment of change in perpetuity.
"The Wild-Blood awakens differently in each person," Corvus explained. "For some, it comes gradually, building over years. For others—particularly those of mixed heritage like yourself—it often erupts in moments of extreme danger, as it did during your battle with the bear."
The elder dipped his fingers into a bowl of red pigment and began drawing symbols on Fynnarin's bare shoulders and chest—spiraling patterns that matched some of the carvings he had seen in the stone crevice during the storm.
"These are the ancient signs of flowing water and transformation," Corvus said as he worked. "They help thin the boundary between forms, making the Change easier to accept and control."
When the markings were complete, the elder stepped back. Essra approached next, carrying a wooden bowl filled with a steaming liquid. The pungent aroma that rose from it reminded Fynnarin of the tea he had been given earlier, but stronger, earthier.
"The awakening draft," she explained. "Herbs gathered under the full moon, steeped in spring water for nine days. It will open your mind to the Change, quiet the human doubts that might impede transformation."
Fynnarin accepted the bowl, looking to Corvus for guidance.
"Drink," the old man instructed. "Then close your eyes and seek the spark within—the seed of your other self that you glimpsed during your meditation in the stone shelter."
Fynnarin raised the bowl to his lips and drank. The liquid burned going down, bitter and sweet simultaneously, with an aftertaste like wild honey and mountain herbs. Almost immediately, warmth spread through his body, similar to what he had experienced during the bear attack but more controlled, more focused.
He closed his eyes as instructed, turning his awareness inward as he had in the crevice. The warmth intensified, concentrating in his chest before radiating outward along his limbs. His heartbeat slowed, then strengthened, each pulse sending a wave of heat through his body.
Around him, the elders began to chant in a language he didn't recognize yet somehow understood—ancient words of power invoking the spirits of water and wilderness, of transformation and balance. The chant built slowly, its rhythm matching the pulse of heat flowing through his veins.
Within his mind, Fynnarin sought the spark—that core of wild energy he had glimpsed before. It seemed to retreat as he approached, dancing just beyond his reach like a will-o'-the-wisp in a midnight forest. Frustration built within him as he pursued it, trying to grasp something that refused to be captured.
"You seek to control," Corvus's voice cut through his concentration. "This is the lowlander way. The Wild-Blood cannot be controlled, river-child. It must be embraced, accepted, welcomed as part of yourself."
Fynnarin adjusted his approach, relaxing his mental pursuit. Instead of chasing the spark, he opened himself to it, inviting rather than demanding. The effect was immediate—the wild energy surged toward him, no longer fleeing but seeking union.
As it reached him, the warmth in his body became a flood of fire—not painful but overwhelmingly intense. His senses sharpened beyond anything he had experienced before. He could hear the elders' heartbeats, smell the unique scents of their bodies beneath the ceremonial oils and incense. He could feel the weight of the mountain above them, sense the currents of air swirling through the lodge.
Then the physical changes began.
His muscles tensed and flowed, reconfiguring themselves beneath his skin. His frame grew stronger, his limbs acquiring a powerful, lupine quality while maintaining his upright stance. The sensation was strange but not unpleasant—like stretching after a long sleep, his body finding a more natural arrangement. He felt his face changing, his jaw extending somewhat into a partial muzzle, his teeth sharpening into canine points. His hands remained mostly human but developed subtle claws, while a faint shimmer of magic surrounded them—the power that would allow him to part waters and breathe beneath the surface. Most striking was the appearance of silvery-blue fur that sprouted along his arms and chest, with a distinctive pattern that seemed to flow like water currents.
Throughout the transformation, Fynnarin remained conscious, aware of both what he had been and what he was becoming. The boundary between forms blurred, then dissolved altogether as he realized a profound truth: this was not becoming something else. This was becoming more fully himself.
The River Wolf was not separate from Fynnarin of Thornvale. It was Fynnarin of Thornvale, expressed through the ancient blood that flowed in his veins.
As this understanding crystallized, the transformation stabilized. He opened his eyes to find his vision transformed—sharper, with an enhanced ability to detect movement and a different perception of color that emphasized blues and silvers.
The elders had fallen silent, watching him with expressions ranging from approval to awe. Essra had moved closer, holding a polished metal mirror that she now raised so Fynnarin could see his new form.
The face that looked back at him was both familiar and strange—recognizably himself but altered in striking ways. His normally emerald eyes had taken on a luminous blue-silver sheen with vertical pupils, his features sharper and more defined with hints of a lupine muzzle. Silvery-blue fur with flowing water-like patterns had sprouted along his jawline and down his neck, continuing over his shoulders and along his spine. His ears had shifted position, becoming pointed and wolf-like. Most remarkable was the subtle blue glow that seemed to emanate from beneath his skin where the fur was thinnest—the manifestation of water magic now flowing through him.
It was a partial transformation—not the complete change into animal form that he had witnessed the previous night, but a balanced state between his human and Wild-Blood aspects.
"The half-form," Corvus explained, seeing his confusion. "The bridge between worlds. For many with mixed blood, this is the easiest transformation to maintain—and often the most useful. You retain human thought and speech while gaining many advantages of your beast-aspect."
Fynnarin raised his hands, examining the subtle claws that had formed and the faint blue shimmer that surrounded them—the water magic manifesting physically. He flexed his muscles, feeling the new power that flowed through them.
"Stand," Essra instructed.
He rose from the pool, water streaming from his transformed body. Movement felt different—more fluid, more balanced. His center of gravity had shifted somewhat, making him naturally adopt a slight forward lean that would facilitate running on all fours if needed.
"You have passed the first threshold," Corvus announced with evident satisfaction. "Many with diluted bloodlines never achieve even this much on their first attempt. The River Wolf runs strong in you, despite your mixed heritage—or perhaps because of it."
"What now?" Fynnarin asked, his voice lower and slightly rougher than normal.
"Now you learn to control the shift," Essra replied. "To move between forms at will rather than through crisis or ritual. To maintain awareness whether fully human, half-formed, or completely transformed."
"The complete transformation—" Fynnarin began.
"—will come later," Corvus interjected firmly. "Master this state first. Learn its strengths and limitations. When you can shift to the half-form and back to human with ease, then we will guide you toward the full Change."
The old man gestured to a bundle of fresh clothing that had been placed near the entrance. "Dress yourself. We will continue the instruction outside, where you can test your new capabilities. The half-form tires quickly at first, so do not be discouraged when you must return to human shape. With practice, you will extend the duration significantly."
As Fynnarin donned the new garments—specially designed to accommodate his altered physiology—he felt a mixture of exhilaration and disorientation. He had sought understanding of his abilities since leaving Thornvale, but the reality of transformation was more profound than he had imagined. It wasn't merely a physical change but a shift in perception, in his sense of self.
*Balance must be restored,* whispered that now-familiar voice at the edges of his consciousness. But with this partial transformation came a new understanding: the balance wasn't only external—between human and natural world, between kingdom and wilderness—but internal as well. Between the various aspects of his own being.
Once dressed, he followed the elders outside where the morning had advanced toward midday. The camp's residents had gathered at a respectful distance, curious but not intrusive. Fynnarin felt their gazes—some awed, some accepting, a few wary. Children pointed and whispered, their reactions ranging from excitement to shy retreat behind their parents.
Among the gathered tribe members stood Kitra, her expression carefully neutral though her eyes widened slightly at the sight of his transformation. Beside her was a broad-shouldered man with heavily muscled arms—Talgath the smith, presumably. Both were dusted with soot and metal filings, evidence of their morning's work.
"The river-child emerges," announced Corvus to the assembled tribe. "The River Wolf awakens in the blood of many waters. Witness and welcome."
A ripple of murmured greetings spread through the crowd. Several of the Spirit-Walkers from the previous night's demonstration stepped forward, inclining their heads in a gesture of respect that Fynnarin instinctively returned.
"Now," said Essra briskly, dispelling the ceremonial atmosphere, "we begin the practical instruction. Raven, Lynx, Wolf—you will guide today's training."
Three of the Spirit-Walkers nodded and moved toward a clear area at the edge of the camp. The crowd began to disperse, returning to their daily tasks now that the momentous event had concluded.
Kitra approached, her gaze taking in his altered appearance with careful assessment.
"So," she said after a moment, "this is what all the fuss is about."
Despite everything, Fynnarin found himself laughing—a rougher sound in his half-formed state. Trust Kitra to cut through ceremony and mysticism with her practicality.
"Apparently so. How do I look?"
"Like yourself, but... more." She circled him, examining the changes with the same methodical attention she would give a piece of metal in the forge. "Does it hurt?"
"No. It feels... right. Natural." He flexed his clawed fingers, the blue shimmer of water magic dancing around them. "Though I'm still getting used to the differences."
She nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good. Talgath has been showing me their metalworking techniques. They forge tools specifically adapted for those in half-form—weapons that can be used effectively with altered hands." Her eyes gleamed with the excitement of new knowledge. "I might try designing something for you, once you've mastered this form."
Her matter-of-fact acceptance lightened something in Fynnarin's chest. Despite his transformation, despite all the changes they had endured since fleeing Thornvale, their friendship remained constant—a human anchor in his increasingly complicated existence.
"I'd like that," he said simply.
"Fynnarin!" Essra called from the training area. "The day grows short, and there is much to learn."
With a nod to Kitra, he joined the waiting Spirit-Walkers. The three trainers—introduced as Soren (Wolf aspect), Nima (Lynx aspect), and Kallen (Raven aspect)—spent the remainder of the day guiding him through the basics of his new form. They taught him how to move efficiently with his altered physiology, how to use his enhanced senses without becoming overwhelmed by input, and most importantly, how to sustain the half-form despite growing fatigue.
By late afternoon, Fynnarin was exhausted, his muscles trembling with effort. As Corvus had warned, maintaining the transformation drained his energy quickly. Just as he thought he would collapse, the Change reversed itself—not abruptly but gradually, his body flowing back toward human form with the same strange fluidity it had shown during transformation.
"Well done," Soren commended him, offering a water skin. "Most new-changers can't hold the half-form nearly so long on their first day."
Fynnarin drank deeply, surprised by his intense thirst. "Will it always be this draining?"
"No," Nima assured him. The woman was slight but wiry, with the coiled energy of her lynx aspect evident even in human form. "Like any muscle, the ability strengthens with use. In time, you'll maintain half-form for days if needed, with minimal fatigue."
"And the full transformation?" Fynnarin asked.
The three trainers exchanged glances. "That's... more complicated," Kallen said carefully. The tall, angular man had an unsettling intensity to his gaze—a remnant of his raven aspect, perhaps. "The complete Change requires total surrender of human identity, temporarily becoming the beast in mind as well as form. It's disorienting at first. Some never fully master it."
"But I will," Fynnarin stated, surprising himself with his certainty.
"Perhaps," Soren acknowledged with a slight smile. "Your confidence is promising. But first, rest. Eat. Recover your strength. Tomorrow, we continue."
As they walked back toward the main camp, Fynnarin noticed a commotion near the outer perimeter. A small group had gathered around someone who appeared to have just arrived—a slight figure leaning heavily on a walking staff, wrapped in travel-worn furs crusted with snow.
Curiosity drew him closer. As he approached, the newcomer looked up, and recognition flashed across exhausted features.
"Fynnarin," gasped Mirwen, her weathered face pale with fatigue and cold. "Thank the ancient powers I found you."
"Mirwen?" Shock rooted him to the spot. "How—why—"
The old healer swayed alarmingly, and he rushed forward to support her. Up close, he could see that her journey had taken a severe toll. Her hands were chapped and raw from cold, her lips cracked, dark circles shadowing her eyes.
"The magistrate," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "He took them. All of them."
"Took who?" Fynnarin asked, dread building in his chest.
"Everyone in Thornvale with even a hint of magical ability. The children who recovered too quickly from the fever. Old Jarin with his weather-sense. Jormund, whose metal never breaks." Her eyes filled with tears. "They found your cabin empty, found the tunnel beneath my hut. The alderman told them everything, hoping to spare the village from reprisal."
Fynnarin felt as though he'd been plunged into ice water. "And did it? Spare the village?"
Mirwen's expression told him everything before she spoke. "They burned it. Called it a nest of traitors for harboring and then helping magical fugitives escape. Some got away into the forest. The rest..." Her voice broke. "The rest were taken for questioning or killed where they stood."
The news hit Fynnarin like a physical blow. Thornvale destroyed. His home, the only community he had ever known, reduced to ashes because he and Kitra had fled the king's conscription. Because he carried Wild-Blood in his veins.
"How did you escape?" he asked numbly.
"I wasn't there when they came." Mirwen had regained some composure, though she still leaned heavily on his arm. "I'd gone to gather winter moss from the high slopes. When I returned, I found... what was left. Followed your trail as best I could through the storm." A ghost of her usual dry humor surfaced. "I may be old, but I was a fair tracker in my day. And I had help."
"Help?" Fynnarin repeated, confused.
As if in answer, a familiar trill sounded from the edge of the clearing. There, watching with luminous eyes, stood the foxin from the hunt—its golden fur unmistakable. The crystalline emblem on its forehead glowed softly in the fading light, and the line of smaller crystals running down to its shoulder blades caught the last rays of sun.
"My guide," Mirwen confirmed, following his gaze. "It found me on the trail, led me through the worst of the storm."
*Balance must be restored,* came that whispered voice in Fynnarin's mind. The foxin's gaze met his across the clearing, conveying an urgency that transcended words.
"The hunters," Fynnarin realized aloud. "They're not just a random patrol. They're specifically tracking us—tracking me."
"Yes," Mirwen confirmed grimly. "The magistrate seemed particularly interested in you after they found evidence of your... abilities... in the bear carcass. They have trackers who can sense the Wild-Blood, hounds bred to follow magical emanations. And they're close, Fynnarin. Very close."
As if to punctuate her warning, a horn sounded from one of the tribe's lookout positions on the ridges above the camp—three short, sharp blasts that sent the gathered people into immediate action.
"Attack signal," Soren explained tersely, already moving toward his tent, presumably for weapons. "The hunters have been spotted approaching the valley."
Corvus appeared beside them, his ancient face grave but composed. "How many?" he asked Mirwen.
"Twenty soldiers. Six Bound Ones. The magistrate himself." Her expression darkened. "And something worse—something I've never seen before. A man who is not a man, with eyes like empty pits and skin that shifts like smoke. The soldiers call him the King's Shadow."
A ripple of dismay passed through the gathered tribal members. Even Corvus, usually unflappable, appeared disturbed by this news.
"Then the rumors are true," the old man murmured. "The king has bound spirits to human form for his service." He turned to address the tribe in a carrying voice. "Prepare for evacuation! Women, children, and elders by the secret path. Warriors and Spirit-Walkers, make ready to defend the retreat."
The camp erupted into organized chaos as people hurried to follow these instructions. Kitra appeared at Fynnarin's side, her face grim.
"I heard," she said simply. "What now?"
The question wasn't directed solely at him, but Fynnarin felt its weight nonetheless. The destruction of Thornvale changed everything. There was no home to return to eventually, no waiting for the king's interest to fade. The danger had found them despite their flight, despite the storm and the remote mountain wilderness.
"Now," Essra said, joining them, "we fight. Or we flee. The choice is yours, river-child. The tribe will defend its own regardless, but your presence here is what draws the hunters most strongly. Your Wild-Blood calls to their trackers like a beacon."
The implication was clear: Fynnarin could leave with the evacuating non-combatants, drawing the hunters away from the tribe. Or he could stay and fight alongside the Spirit-Walkers, facing the very force he had fled Thornvale to avoid.
Mirwen straightened despite her exhaustion. "I didn't come all this way to watch you run again, boy. Whatever you decide, I stand with you." She patted a pouch at her belt. "I saved what herbs I could. My magic may be quieter than yours, but it has its uses in battle."
"And I've just begun to learn their metalworking techniques," Kitra added with forced lightness. "Be a shame to leave now."
Their loyalty humbled him. Despite the danger, despite his role in bringing destruction to Thornvale, they stood with him still. Not because of what flowed in his veins, but because of who he was—who he had always been, even before the Wild-Blood awakened.
Fynnarin of Thornvale. Hunter. Provider. Protector.
The decision crystallized within him with unexpected clarity. He turned to Corvus, who had been watching this exchange in silence.
"I will not bring further destruction to those who have helped me," he stated firmly. "But neither will I continue running from this threat. The hunters pursue me specifically—their quarry. Perhaps it's time the quarry turned on the hunters."
"What do you propose?" the elder asked, his expression suggesting he already knew the answer.
"I'll go to them. Alone. Draw them away from your people, lead them into terrain of my choosing." As he spoke, a plan formed in his mind—not fully realized yet, but taking shape. "The Wild-Blood gives me advantages they won't expect, especially in these mountains I now know better than they do."
"Absolutely not," Kitra objected immediately. "That's suicide, Fynn."
"Not alone," Essra agreed. "But perhaps not entirely misguided either." She exchanged glances with Corvus. "A small group could move more quickly than their force, lead them into an ambush where our advantage would be greatest."
"The high canyon," suggested Soren, who had returned with a wickedly curved hunting knife and a short bow. "Narrow passages, multiple levels for attack from above. And close to the old ravine—"
"—where even those in pursuit might find themselves pursued," Corvus finished, nodding slowly. "Yes. This has possibility."
Fynnarin felt a surge of gratitude for their willingness to fight alongside him, to put themselves at risk for someone who had been a stranger mere days ago. The solidarity of the Wild-Blooded, perhaps—or simply the mountain people's fierce independence and resistance to the kingdom's expanding control.
"I'll need to transform again," he said, aware of the fatigue still lingering in his muscles from the day's training. "I'll be more effective in half-form."
"Rest first," Mirwen advised, her healer's instincts asserting themselves despite the urgent situation. "Even briefly. Eat something. The hunters are close but not yet at our doorstep. Better to face them with some strength restored than to collapse at the critical moment."
"She speaks wisdom," Corvus concurred. "Two hours. Eat, rest, prepare. Then we move to draw them away from the evacuation route."
As the others dispersed to make their preparations, Fynnarin found himself facing Kitra. Her expression was complicated—concern warring with determination, fear with resolve.
"You don't have to come," he told her quietly. "This is my battle. My heritage that's drawn them here."
She snorted derisively. "And leave you to face it alone? Not likely." She adjusted the hammer at her belt—a formidable weapon in her skilled hands, despite its utilitarian origins. "Besides, I've seen what the king's justice looks like now. Thornvale is gone, Fynn. Our home burned because someone was born different." Her eyes hardened. "I may not have magical blood, but I know which side I'm on in this fight."
Her certainty steadied him. Whatever happened in the coming confrontation, he would not face it alone. And perhaps that would make all the difference.
*Balance must be restored,* whispered that persistent voice. But the meaning seemed clearer now—not just the balance between human and Wild-Blood within himself, not just between civilization and wilderness in the world around him, but between tyranny and freedom, between those who would control power and those who would live freely with their gifts.
Somewhere beyond the camp's boundaries, the foxin watched and waited, its mission not yet complete. And somewhere on the approaching trails, the king's hunters advanced, unaware that their quarry now prepared to hunt them in return.
The Wild-Blood stirred in Fynnarin's veins, ready to flow freely once more when the moment came. This time, he would not resist its call. This time, he would embrace it fully, becoming what he was always meant to be—not merely a man with unusual abilities, but truly the Blood of Many Waters, flowing between worlds and forms with the power of his ancient heritage.
The coming battle would determine whether that heritage would remain free or be bound to the king's service. Whether the Wild-Blooded would continue to exist as they had for centuries, or be hunted to extinction or enslavement.
Balance indeed needed restoration. And perhaps it would begin here, in this remote mountain valley, with one half-elven hunter who had finally found his true nature.