“Have him sit before he falls,” Cern said to Salem. “You’d think he’d never seen an old god before.”
Salem chuckled and helped Aurin sit. He was still, very clearly stunned. “Cern’s true form,” Salem explained.
Aurin nodded, not taking his eyes off Cern. “But you’re... you’re...”
“Cernunnos,” Cern answered. “Yes. You did not listen to the treaty?”
Aurin blinked then and shook his head as if to clear it. He squeezed Salem’s hand, sparing him a glance before looking back at Cern. “Uh, yes, of course. I knew, yes. As much as your name and the rumours allowed, but to see you now, here, like this...” He sighed. “You are... magnificent.”
Cern laughed, the sound echoing through the trees like the embrace of an old friend. His antlers looked fierce in the firelight, and the metal around his neck gleamed. Salem couldn’t deny that what Aurin had said was true.
Cern truly was magnificent.
Bells began to tinkle, much like a wind chime, gentle at first, then a deep humming that seemed to reverberate from the ground itself.
“Oh,” Aurin said, alarmed. He looked around them, trying to find the source. His hold on Salem’s hand tightened.
“Are you ready?” Salem asked with a smile.
He knew what was coming.
And he knew Aurin was about to witness something he’d never forget...
The humming grew louder, the night grew still, and the fire died right down as if holding its breath in anticipation. Then there was a jostled trampling noise, getting louder, closer...
And the first figures came out of the dark.
It was Pax at the front, as always, his herd following in single file to trot around the fire until they had all joined in, two smaller ones at the rear. They made a constant circle, completing several rotations around the fire, the flames growing tall once more.
Salem glanced at Aurin, wanting to see his face reacting to what he was witnessing, and he wasn’t disappointed. Aurin was transfixed. Amazed, shocked, yes, but with wonder and not fear as he watched the scene before him.
He finally saw them in their true form. He saw them for what they actually were, something very few outsiders had ever been privileged enough to witness.
They were faun.
Half human, half goat.
Their forms varied—some were slender and almost delicate, others broad-shouldered and imposing—but all bore the same unmistakable fusion: human torsos, furred legs, cloven hooves, and horns that curved or branched in intricate, individual patterns. Their eyes caught the light in a way that made them seem deeper than they should be, as if something older than the forest itself looked out through them.
They continued to trot around the fire. The humming was loud, even above the trample of their hooves, the sound building and building until they stopped in unison, as if adhering to a cue only they heard, leaving a profound silence. Not even the fire dared to make a sound.
One stepped forward toward Cern. It was Pax, of course. Salem expected nothing else.
He was taller in this form, his horns sweeping back like polished wood, his posture calm but deliberate. When he spoke, his voice was low and textured; it sounded like the feeling of running your hand over an old tree trunk.
“Our offering to you,” he said, his head lowered, arms outstretched, holding a bowl to Cern. “May this winter be merciful, and our bounties fertile and fruitful. May we know only peace, and above all, our secrecy kept.”
Cern took the bowl in both his hands, and with deep gravitas, he held it up. “Mercy, kindness, prosperity and peace are yours.”
Everyone watched as he drank, then almost theatrically, he gestured to Salem and Aurin. “And for our honoured guests,” Cern said. He rose from his throne and strode toward them, offering Salem the bowl. “Drink with me, kin. To time, past and present. To the future and what she brings.”
Salem took the bowl. “May she bring what our hearts desire,” Salem said.
Everything stilled. Even the fire held its breath as Salem drank. The honey mead was sweet and cold yet somehow warmed his chest as it went down. He handed the bowl to Aurin, who took it with a gracious nod. He sipped the mead, his eyes lighting up as he tasted it, and once he’d swallowed, cheers went up and the fire roared, its embers joining the stars in the sky.
Fyn put his flute to his lips, and the music he played was light and poetic, filtering through the trees like magic. One by one, the fauns began to move. They danced around the fire, smiles wide and proud.
The ceremony had truly begun.
