Autumn had begun to settle across the island, showing in the smallest things like leaves yellowing among the green and the sharper bite carried upon the wind. Summer had not surrendered entirely, but Elske could feel its retreat beneath her paws.

Skjǫldrheim was unlike anywhere she had known before, the island seemed caught somewhere between destruction and rebirth, lush forests swallowed much of what the sleeping mountain had once burned. Sometimes Elske found herself staring toward that distant rise through breaks in the trees, wondering how something capable of such ruin could sleep so peacefully beneath them. It was not home. But still she had begun to recognize its paths.

That morning found her wandering beneath the trees with no particular destination in mind, a few fallen leaves crunched beneath her paws as she moved, her gaze wandered through the undergrowth before inevitably lifting toward the canopy. And something fluttered down ahead of her, bringing her to pause.

A feather had caught among the roots of an old tree trembling when the wind reached it.

She lowered her nose toward it, inspecting the little thing before carefully plucking it free — one more for the collection.