A fireplace tirelessly burns away in a meditation room lit by crepuscular rays. Generations of Kjerag Saintesses sat here deep in thought upon deciphering their ancient scriptures, digesting the ideas and their meaning to the people of the Snow Realm. 'Enya. Enya!' Enya awakens from her slumber, wipes her mouth, and touches her warm cheeks heated by the fireplace. She flashes an embarrassed smile. 'Sorry, Kjarr...' 'Enciodes, Head of Clan Silverash, was just here.' 'Now? To see me?' 'No. He had only a few words of blessing for the Saintess and asked me to deliver this to you.' Enya takes a small, delicate bell with intricate engravings from the maid. She lifts the thing and gently shakes it, filling the room with a pleasant and melodious ringing. 'He called it a gift for the Saintess, a product of the factories now operating in Silverash territory. There are many more such bells, hanging in the fields down below.' Enya fixes her gaze on the gift. She fully understands Enciodes's meaning. When she was a child, he joined her in making bells from the scrap iron discarded by their father's factories. They hung the bells together with Ensia in the vast fields, waiting for the wind to ring them. 'Would you kindly stow it for me? Along with the other gifts from before.' She hesitates for a moment before stopping the maid. 'I recall something in the bottom cabinet at my bedside. Do please bring it to me. Thank you.' The maid returns with a half-finished scarf, clearly made for a man. The soft threads intertwine, the fabric thick, the needlework flawless. What is done can be described as no less than perfect. 'This must be...' 'I began making this for Enciodes when he was away in Victoria. I intended to finish it and gift it to him when he returned. For various reasons, it has remained incomplete.' 'You've kept it with you all these years... You still hold a glimmer of hope for him?' 'Kjarr, over the course of my life as the Saintess, I've read all the scriptures in the sanctuary. The texts document a thousand years of Kjerag history. And yet, there is one question the scriptures do not appear to answer.' 'And what is that?' 'How to knit.' Enya falls into silence. She recalls a time, long ago, when her father sat by the window, knitting scarves for his children. Sunlight bathed his face. Her brother was practicing his swordsmanship outside, and her sister was perusing a book of mountain landscape paintings. She quietly watched by her father's side, one needle at a time, committing it all to the deepest part of her memory. This is how she learned to knit. The texts contain plenty of knowledge, but there are some questions they will never answer. Or perhaps she already knew the answer to her knitting question, her family questions, her questions about the future. 'Tomorrow is the Tri-Clan Council, yes?' 'Indeed. The other two clans are likely to unite against Clan Silverash. I do wonder how Enciodes will respond.' 'No matter how he does, in the end, the matter will no doubt fall to me.' 'Are you so certain?' 'He is a Silverash, as am I.' Enya punctuates her statement by standing up, startling her maid. She uses all her strength to throw open the heavy curtains. For the first time in a thousand years, sunlight floods the dim room. She stands in the light, needles dancing between her fingers. The new thread merges with that already woven. She continues her needlework, not for any man in particular, but for the future the scarf represents. 'The children of Clan Silverash each walk their own paths.'