The fire in the humble hearth had burned low, its last embers casting a dull, flickering glow along the wooden walls of the house. The night’s chill still lingered inside, creeping through the cold, hard earth, curling around the edges of the room like an unwelcome guest. Amara had not slept.

  She had spent the long hours of the night pacing, listening to the wind whistle through the gaps in the walls, her thoughts a restless storm. Waiting. Watching the door. Praying she wouldn’t have to go searching for his body in the morning.

  And then, just after dawn, he came stumbling in through the door—alive, whole, but exhausted.

  Now, as the morning light seeped through the smoke hole in the roof of their hut, Valdrik sat before her at the rough-hewn table, his hands curled around a steaming cup of mead. His fingers were still stiff from the cold, his eyelids heavy with weariness, but he was here.

  She let the silence stretch between them for a long moment, watching him. She had known him long enough to see past his attempt at nonchalance, the way he slumped just slightly, how his fingers flexed against the cup as if trying to rid them of lingering numbness. Something more profound than a mere lack of sleep lay veiled behind his eyes.

  “Explain yourself,” Amara demanded sternly.

  “I spent the night in the Hrafnsvithr,” Valdrik began. “Gorm and Snorri called me a coward in front of everyone and then challenged me to spend the night in the woods. I couldn’t back down or everyone would think me a coward forever.” Valdrik had been watching his mother’s face as he spoke, but her look had not softened after hearing his explanation as he had hoped. He looked sheepishly at the floor.

  "Do you have any idea how foolish that was?" she finally said, her voice measured, but firm.

  Valdrik swallowed, looking down at his drink. "I do, but I did it and know they know I’m not a coward."

  She folded her arms across her chest. That wasn’t enough.

  "Why bother with those simpletons, Val? You don’t need to impress them," she pressed.

  A flicker of something crossed his face—not regret, but frustration. Not with her, but with himself. For having to explain.

  "It wasn’t about them," he muttered, though even he didn’t sound convinced. "Not really."

  Amara arched a brow.

  Valdrik exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his tangled hair. "I had to do it. You wouldn’t understand."

  "Try me."

  Valdrik hesitated, his jaw tightening.

  He wanted to tell her—wanted her to understand what it was like to stand on the outside looking in, to feel like he had to prove himself, to fight for a place in a village that barely tolerated his presence. But the words felt too raw, too tangled to say out loud.

  Instead, he met her gaze and said simply, "I don’t have the words to make it make sense, but I am sorry I worried you, moeir."

  She sighed, rubbing her fingers against her temples. She didn’t want an apology—not yet, anyway. She wanted assurance that he wouldn’t do something like this again. There was so much that he didn’t know, so much that she didn’t know how to tell him. If he knew what kind of danger lurked in the shadows and hidden places of Ranvara, he would have never run off without telling her a thing, he wouldn’t have made her sit up all night, wondering if he was already frozen stiff beneath the boughs of the Hrafnsvithr—or worse.

  "I need you to promise me something, Valdrik."

  He nodded. "I’ll think twice before I do something like that again."

  It wasn’t exactly the promise she wanted, but it was something. “Okay, I’ll take that in writing, but that’s not what I was going to say,” she replied. “I want you to promise that you’ll talk to me before you do something like that again.”

  Amara watched as Valdrik brought his eyes up to meet hers. She could see that he was sorry, but more than that, she could see that same something lurking behind his eyes. Something had happened in those woods and Valdrik’s thoughts appeared fixated on whatever it was.

  Amara studied him for a moment longer before stepping away from the table, moving to pour herself a cup of mead. She let the silence settle again before speaking, her voice softer this time.

  "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

  Valdrik froze just slightly, his fingers tightening around his cup.

  The image of the gaunt figure in the trees came unbidden to his mind—the way the cold had seeped into his bones, unnatural and suffocating, the way its gaze had fixed on him with something beyond human malice.

  For a split second, he considered telling her.

  But what would he even say? That he had seen something out there? That he had felt something in those woods that had no place in the waking world?

  He could already hear her sighing, her lips pressing into a thin line—telling him that he was being foolish by believing in ghost stories and superstition.

  "No," he said finally, shaking his head. "Nothing else."

  She studied him for a moment longer, tinges of disappointment coloring her overwhelming concern for her son, before nodding. How had she lost the closeness with her boy?

  "Alright,” she said with a hint of sadness in her voice. “I’m going to try and get some sleep before tending to our chores. Go warm yourself by the fire before you start your chores."

  “Uh, I was actually hoping I might be able to get some sleep too,” Valdrik said hopefully.

  “Sleep? You didn’t think you were going to get off that easy, did you?” Amara asked with a wry smile on her face. “You chose to stay up all night, so now you can deal with the consequences, my son.”

  Valdrik muttered a mournful submission and stood, making his way toward the hearth. He could still feel her eyes on him as he walked away.

  ***

  The morning sun rose pale and reluctant, doing little to warm the snow-laden roofs of Askholm. Valdrik had spent the morning feeding goats and tending to the plants that his mother kept inside during the long Uppsalan winter. It shouldn’t have taken long, but the exhaustion took its toll and his chores took longer than they would have normally. He had been able to sleep for a short time after his chores were finished. Amara had taken pity on her boy, but she wasn’t about to let him sleep the entire day away.

  As Valrik picked his way slowly toward the village square, exhaustion weighed on him like wet wool. Each step sent sharp jolts through muscles still stiff from the cold night spent in the Hrafnsvithr.

  As usual, the square bustled—fishmongers shouted their wares, carts rattled across the frozen ground, and villagers gathered to trade news or gossip over steaming cups of sour ale or mead. Valdrik had expected some change, a difference in the way people looked at him after his night in the woods, but nobody spared him a second glance. Life flowed onward, unchanged, indifferent.

  Earlier that day, in the small hours of the morning, Einar and Liv had agreed to keep quiet. No one needed to know that they had come to his aid. More importantly, no one needed to hear—nor would anyone have believed— about the unnaturally tall, cloaked figure that had penetrated their hearts with frozen dread. If anyone found out he'd had company in the forest, the whole dare would be meaningless. More than that, he feared what people would say if he mentioned the ghostly figure they'd encountered. Crazy or coward—it would surely be one or the other.

  Valdrik had offered to visit the market to grab things for his mother—a penance for the grief he had caused his mother. In truth, he was hoping to cross paths with Liv and Einar. He was fairly certain that they would be dealing with the fallout of their night in the woods as well. Einar’s mother would have been occupied with Einar’s younger siblings, but that wouldn’t have kept her from fretting over Einar’s failure to return home that night.

  Liv, on the other hand, might have avoided trouble. Her parents were used to Liv being gone on hunting expeditions with Torhild, the village huntress. Those excursions didn’t normally happen overnight and in the dead of winter, but it was possible that Liv could have convinced her parents with a bit of luck. Either way, Valdrik wanted to see how Liv and Einar were holding up, and more importantly that they knew he was grateful for their company last night.

  But Valdrik didn't have much time to ponder before he caught sight of Gorm and Snorri lounging by a weathered wooden fence, leaning casually as though they'd been waiting all morning for him to appear.

  “Well, well,” Gorm said, eyes narrowed and arms folded across his chest. “Still alive, I see.”

  “Oh, Gorm. Your doubt wounds me. I mean, you shouldn’t be surprised,” Valdrik replied evenly, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “I told you I'd do it.”

  Snorri laughed humorlessly, throwing a glance at Gorm. “Didn’t exactly look difficult. Anyone can hide under a log and sleep off a cold night.”

  Valdrik felt the sharp sting of irritation crawl up his neck. “I guess you’d know something about that, eh, Snorri? Your father spends half his nights passed out in ditches. At least you didn’t have to pull two people out of their own piss last night.”

  A few villagers nearby chuckled quietly. Snorri’s eyes narrowed, but Gorm held up a hand, silencing his friend.

  “Doesn't matter,” Gorm said, smirking faintly. “It was a stupid dare anyway. Anyone with half a brain would realize spending a night in the woods means nothing.” He leaned forward slightly. “And it certainly doesn't make you any less of a coward.”

  Valdrik felt his fists tighten reflexively at his sides. His jaw clenched, and for a split second, he considered throwing caution aside and striking Gorm anyway. But he knew better. Gorm was baiting him again, pushing him toward a fight he knew he couldn't win.

  He took a slow breath, forcing himself to remain calm. “I never said it made me anything,” he replied quietly. “But I did exactly what you challenged me to do. Next time, think harder if you want to embarrass me.”

  A ripple of murmurs passed through the villagers close enough to hear. Snorri opened his mouth to retort, but Valdrik had already turned his back on them, moving calmly through the square, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

  Inside, he felt foolish. Deep down, he’d known it wouldn't change anything. Yet, some small part of him had hoped—against reason—that proving his courage might earn him at least a measure of respect. Instead, he felt emptier than before.

  But at least he hadn't walked away with a bloodied nose or bruised ribs this time. At least he still had his dignity.

  Valdrik shook his head slightly, his breath misting faintly in the crisp air as he left the square behind.

  ***

  Amara knelt quietly by the hearth, her knees pressing into the woven wool rug that lay across the hard, compacted earth that made the floor of their hut. Early afternoon sunlight filtered through cracks in the walls, catching on motes of dust floating gently through the still air. Outside, the world was well into their routines, but hers was only just beginning because of the night she had spent desperately hoping for Valdrik’s safety. Inside, the only sound was her soft breath and the crackle of dying embers.

  She had slept poorly, despite her exhaustion. Her mind was too caught up in her recent conversation with her son. When Valdrik had finally stumbled home, safe but clearly shaken, relief had flooded her chest—but it hadn’t soothed her anger. How could he have been so reckless? Yet anger had never helped her guide him before, and it wouldn’t now.

  Closing her eyes, she took another long, slow breath, centering her thoughts. A prayer formed silently, shaping itself around the quiet ache in her heart.

  Kin of all, watch over him. Keep him safe—not only from evil but from himself. He is searching for acceptance. Please, reveal to him he already has it with me.

  Amara paused, listening to the subtle whisper of silence that lingered in the empty hut. Her heart stirred with a quiet sense of knowing, as though an unseen presence had settled close by, gently touching her shoulder.

  A phrase rose in her mind, clear and calm as a quiet stream:

  Don’t preach. Teach. Invite, don’t compel.

  She exhaled slowly, feeling tension release from her shoulders. She had been too harsh, too strict at times. Her anxieties and fears over his future had made Valdrik feel stifled and caged. Valdrik was not a child anymore; he was standing at a crossroads, uncertain and restless. She couldn't afford to alienate him any further.

  Amara opened her eyes, gazing thoughtfully at the embers as they shifted and sparked in the hearth. The answer was clear. She needed a lighter touch. She couldn't force Valdrik to share her beliefs, but perhaps she could invite him to understand. Perhaps, she thought carefully, there was a way she could become more involved in the Uppsalan ways without betraying her own traditions. It wasn't about abandoning the truth, but about showing Valdrik a path forward—one he might walk with her.

  Don’t preach. Teach. The words echoed softly within her mind, carrying the quiet weight of truth.

  She stood slowly, brushing the dust from her knees. Valdrik needed patience, not sermons. She had been so afraid of losing him to the fierce, reckless pride of Uppsalan ways that she had forgotten the best lessons weren’t shouted—they were lived.

  Perhaps it was time to let him see that she could bend without breaking.

  She glanced toward the doorway through which her son had walked earlier that morning, determination filling her chest. She wouldn't lose him to fear or stubbornness. If Valdrik needed to embrace Uppsalan customs to feel like he belonged, then she would stand beside him—guide him from within rather than trying to shield him from outside. Maybe there was a compromise to be found in the customs of her people and the traditions and culture of her adopted home.

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  Amara straightened her shoulders and began gathering things for a meager meal, determination settling in place of anxiety. She would be firm yet gentle. She would be wise enough to let him choose his path—but strong enough to walk it with him.

  Yes, she thought, glancing once more toward the door, her heart steadied by renewed resolve. They would find their way forward—together.

  ***

  The days before Hjol stretched long and gray, each one blending quietly into the next. Winter had settled heavily upon Askholm, blanketing the village in an unbroken stillness that seemed to seep into every home and heart.

  Outside, the wind gnawed at his bones and clawed through layers of wool and fur. The river that snaked past the village slowed, its surface thickening beneath a thin, brittle crust of ice that cracked and groaned beneath the sun’s weak glare. Askholm itself was strangely quiet. Few ventured far from their hearths, and when they did, their footsteps were hurried, eyes cast downward, eager to return indoors.

  Valdrik busied himself around the house, tending the few animals they kept—a pair of goats that stubbornly refused to yield much milk, an aging rooster whose crow grew weaker with each passing dawn, and watering his mother’s potted plants that needed to be kept warm inside the house. He stacked firewood methodically, piled neat rows of logs and kindling by the door, swept out the soot and ash from their small hearth, and patched any drafty seams he could find in the walls with thick mud and straw. Anything to keep himself occupied, anything to keep him from thinking about the forest, the figure, and the cold night he’d spent trying to prove himself to people who cared nothing for him.

  And yet, even busy with mundane chores, Valdrik’s thoughts kept returning to Ragnar and the Band of the Ravens. He imagined them sailing back upriver, their ship laden with treasure, boasting tales of adventure and victory around roaring hearthfires. That was the kind of glory he longed for—the kind that silenced doubts and proved his worth. The kind that would garner the respect of all those who had sought to keep him on the margins, looking in on an identity and belonging that was just beyond his grasp. As the winter chill deepened, anticipation tightened its grip, becoming something palpable in the quiet stillness of the village.

  On the morning before Hjol, Valdrik was pulling fresh water from the river when the sound he had been waiting for finally pierced the silence. A deep, resonant blast of horns echoed faintly along the Silfrflod, cutting through the morning mist and sending shivers of excitement down his spine.

  He straightened sharply, breath hitching. Ragnar.

  Quickly finishing his chore, Valdrik dumped the last bucket of water into the wooden trough and sprinted back toward home. His mind raced, imagining what stories Ragnar might bring this time. Perhaps he’d even let Valdrik hold one of his axes again, or describe the faraway lands—Nyashembe, Elbion—the Band had raided and the battles they'd fought.

  At the doorway, his mother appeared suddenly, stepping out and blocking his hurried path. Amara watched him quietly, a faint smile curling at her lips, but something in her eyes made Valdrik slow down.

  “Where are you running off to?” she asked gently.

  “Didn’t you hear? Ragnar’s back,” Valdrik said breathlessly. “The horns just sounded—they’re on their way.”

  She gave him a soft, patient nod, her eyes searching his face as if considering something carefully. “Very well,” she said at last. “Go and greet your friends—but promise me something.”

  He hesitated, bracing himself for whatever request would follow.

  “Be back before dark,” Amara said quietly. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Valdrik paused, hand already gripping the wooden doorpost. His heart still raced at the thought of Ragnar’s return, yet something in his mother’s tone made him pause. “Is something wrong?” he asked carefully.

  “No,” she replied quickly, though her smile wavered. “Nothing is wrong. But please promise me you’ll be home before nightfall.”

  He nodded, giving her a reassuring grin, eager to be off again. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

  With that, he turned and bolted toward the river docks, feet crunching across frosted earth, excitement surging once more through his chest.

  As he ran, he didn’t notice the way Amara’s gaze lingered after him, her eyes shadowed with quiet concern.

  Valdrik hurried his way back to the river as the afternoon sunlight cast its pale gold across the docks, glinting off the frozen crust at the edge of the river. Villagers gathered in clusters along the shore, their breath curling upward in white clouds against the biting chill. Valdrik squeezed through the crowd, peering over heads and shoulders, straining to see clearly through the gathering dusk.

  Excitement buzzed among the villagers, tempered only by quiet whispers of concern. There should have been horns blowing proudly, warriors shouting boasts from the decks of their longships as they neared home. Instead, a silence hung heavy over the watching crowd—a silence that tightened painfully in Valdrik’s chest.

  When the first longship finally appeared around the river’s bend, Valdrik's heart leaped—but it quickly sank again when he realized how few figures stood silhouetted against the sky. The second ship followed, equally sparse. There should have been three or four more, their holds laden with furs, treasure, and food to get them through the long, cruel winter. Yet only these two vessels approached, gliding solemnly toward shore.

  As the ships drew nearer, the villagers began to murmur softly, exchanging worried glances. The men aboard moved with the weary, deliberate steps of warriors returning from defeat rather than triumph. Gone were the proud, booming voices, the victorious roars, the raised weapons that usually greeted them. Instead, the returning raiders were silent, their faces shadowed by sorrow or exhaustion—or both.

  Valdrik searched anxiously, scanning each face in turn, his heart pounding faster with each man he saw who wasn't Ragnar. A knot formed in his stomach, cold and heavy, until at last he spotted the familiar broad shoulders and thick mane of tangled blond hair. Ragnar stood at the prow of the second ship, steadying himself against the mast. He had returned, but even from a distance, Valdrik saw the fresh gash along Ragnar’s cheek, an angry line of red bisecting his rugged features.

  A village elder stepped forward, lifting a horn in greeting. His voice trembled slightly as he called out, “They have returned! Welcome home, the Hrafnsgild.”

  The gathered villagers echoed the call, but their cheer was muted, tinged by relief rather than triumph. Family members surged forward, eyes scanning desperately for their loved ones. Some found joyful reunions, embracing fiercely on the docks; others stood frozen, hands clutching at their chests, realizing the names they hoped to hear would never be called again.

  Ragnar stepped heavily onto the dock, his boots crunching loudly against the frost-covered wood. He stood tall despite his wound, meeting the villagers’ solemn gazes one by one. His eyes found Valdrik and a weary smile broke through his solemn expression. Ragnar strode forward, ignoring the whispered condolences and muted greetings, and reached out to clasp Valdrik’s shoulder warmly.

  "Ah, little wolf," Ragnar rumbled, arms opening as Valdrik took small steps toward him.

  "Did you miss me?"

  Valdrik grinned, breathless, the winter chill forgotten.

  "Of course I did," he admitted.

  Ragnar clapped a heavy hand on Valdrik’s shoulder, his grip firm, reassuring. “You’ve grown,” he said, giving him a quick once-over. “Another year and you’ll be taller than old Jorund.”

  Valdrik smirked. “Jorund’s barely taller than a goat.”

  Ragnar let out a bark of laughter, deep and rolling like distant thunder. “Ja, that he is.”

  Ragnar tousled Valdrik’s dark hair, his grin fading slightly as his gaze drifted toward the village behind them. Valdrik wanted to ask what had happened—what terrible things had taken place across the seas in Nyashembe or Elbion—but the haunted look behind Ragnar’s eyes stilled his tongue.

  Instead, he stood quietly, listening as families reunited and others mourned openly, grief spilling freely onto the docks. Valdrik knew better than to ask questions now. Ragnar would tell him when he was ready. Until then, it was enough that he had returned, battered but unbroken.

  The silence stretched on, interrupted only by soft cries and murmured condolences. Askholm had been reminded once again of the price its warriors paid for the village’s survival. A chill wind tugged at the edges of cloaks and tunics, whispering mournfully through the village square. The excitement of the Band’s return had dissolved quickly into heavy silences and quiet weeping. Valdrik stood beside Ragnar, heart still twisted with worry, as his mentor’s weary eyes stared out at the river, distant and lost in memory.

  After a lengthy silence, Ragnar turned toward Valdrik, exhaling deeply as though the weight of the entire world rested upon him.

  “I have something for you,” Ragnar said, his voice low and gruff. “Halfdan asked me to see that you got it.”

  He drew forth a seax, its blade wrapped carefully in rough linen. Valdrik took it hesitantly, feeling the solid weight of it settle into his hands. The blade was sturdy and battle-tested, etched faintly with runes Valdrik couldn’t fully read.

  “Why—” Valdrik began, then stopped as realization struck him. He lifted his gaze to meet Ragnar’s eyes, hoping, begging silently that he was wrong.

  Ragnar’s expression hardened with sorrow. “We were retreating back to the boats when the Nyashembe arrows found us. Halfdan—he took an arrow meant for another man, right in his chest.”

  Valdrik’s fingers tightened around the seax. “Did he suffer?”

  Ragnar’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Not for long. He fought bravely. He was still smiling—telling jokes—right until his last breath. He died well, Valdrik, steel still in his hand.”

  Valdrik nodded slowly, his throat tightening painfully. “He was kind to me,” he whispered softly, turning the blade over and tracing the intricate runes with his thumb. “Even when others weren’t.”

  “Aye,” Ragnar said heavily. “He was a rare sort, Halfdan. Good heart. A fine warrior, but an even finer friend. He’d have been glad you remembered him that way.”

  The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant sound of quiet weeping from elsewhere in the village. Valdrik looked up at Ragnar again, noticing the fresh wound along the warrior’s face, still red and raw.

  “What about you?” Valdrik asked cautiously. “Are you all right?”

  Ragnar managed a small, humorless laugh, his hand brushing lightly over the fresh wound. “This is nothing. A scratch to remind me I’m still mortal.” He hesitated, looking away toward the boats and the somber gathering of villagers. “I’m afraid there’s more bad news, though—news Einar needs to hear.”

  Valdrik felt his heart clench tightly in his chest. “Sigmund?”

  Ragnar nodded slowly, eyes shadowed by sorrow. “He fell early in the fighting. A warrior’s death—he faced a Nyashembe chieftain in single combat. He took the man with him, at least. He’ll be feasting and fighting in Velheim as we speak. I’ve never known a man to possess more honor.”

  Valdrik swallowed, nodding numbly. He glanced across the square to where Einar stood beside Liv, his friend’s face pale and stricken. Einar already knew, Valdrik realized. Already knew, and was waiting to see his father’s remains unloaded and prepared for the skipgraf, or ship’s burial in the Common Tongue.

  Ragnar laid a heavy hand on Valdrik’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Come, lad. We’ve still got to send Sigmund Yronside home properly.”

  ***

  As dusk fell, a cold mist drifted low over the banks of the Silfrflod. A small wooden vessel lay at rest along the shoreline, Sigmund Yronside’s body wrapped gently in wool and leather, his shield resting proudly upon his chest, his sword clasped between strong, lifeless hands. His expression, stern and proud in life, was peaceful now, as though sleeping deeply.

  Einar stood stiffly near the shore, eyes red-rimmed but dry. Liv stood close, her hand gently touching his shoulder, saying nothing but providing strength simply by standing beside him. Valdrik felt his own sorrow tighten his throat painfully. He knew all too well the ache of losing a father, even if he had never known his own.

  “He died bravely, my boy,” Ragnar said quietly, placing a hand on Einar’s shoulder. “Struck down his enemies and went to Valheim a warrior true. None could ask for more.”

  Einar turned slowly, meeting Ragnar’s gaze with damp eyes. “I know,” he managed, voice barely more than a whisper. “I just wish—I wish I could’ve seen him one last time.”

  Ragnar squeezed his shoulder firmly, nodding gravely. “Your father was proud of you, Einar. He talked often about how one day you’d become twice the warrior he ever was. Honor him now by living well.”

  Einar’s jaw clenched, and he nodded sharply, fighting hard against the grief threatening to overwhelm him. Valdrik stepped forward quietly, Liv close behind.

  “We’re here for you,” Valdrik said softly, feeling the inadequacy of his words even as he spoke them. Einar didn’t reply, but his eyes softened in gratitude, his shoulders relaxing just slightly beneath the weight of his loss.

  As dusk fell heavily over Askholm, the villagers gathered solemnly at the riverbank. A village elder raised his voice, intoning solemnly into the gathering twilight:

  “We send Sigmund Yronside into the arms of our ancestors, into the eternal feast halls of Valheim. Let his name be honored among the warriors who have come before.”

  A lit torch was touched to the oil-soaked kindling in the small boat. Bright orange flames flickered to life, casting dancing shadows upon the faces gathered along the shore. As the vessel drifted away, carried gently downstream by the river’s current, the fire grew brighter, the flames reaching hungrily upward toward the darkening sky.

  Valdrik stood close to Einar, his friend trembling silently at his side. Liv leaned gently against Einar’s shoulder, tears slipping silently down her face. They stood in quiet vigil as the boat drifted away, flames growing smaller, swallowed by the darkness, until only a faint glow remained on the horizon.

  “Thank you,” Einar whispered, voice rough with grief, as the last embers vanished into the night.

  Valdrik squeezed his friend’s shoulder gently. “Always.”

  The villagers dispersed slowly into the gathering darkness, heavy-hearted but resolute. Valdrik lingered a moment longer, staring at the spot on the darkened river where the funeral fire had vanished, feeling the weight of Halfdan’s seax still tucked firmly at his belt. Death always had been, and always would be a part of this life—a life so rooted in bloodshed and conquest. Even at his tender age, he had been well acquainted with death and loss. Maybe this time felt different because, in his own mind, he was closer to the threshold that, when crossed, would place his own life in the hands of fate.

  Standing on the banks of Silfrflod, Valdrik suddenly realized the night had deepened fully and the cold had settled heavily upon Askholm He shivered beneath his layers of wool and fur, his teeth chattering involuntarily. Suddenly he realized—Amara had asked him to be home before dark. He set off quickly toward home, wondering about the severity of the tonguelashing he was poised to receive.

  By the time Valdrik made his way back home, darkness had settled firmly over Askholm, cloaking the village in quiet shadows. He walked slowly, his breath misting lightly in the cold night air, feet crunching softly across frost-covered ground. Every step felt heavier than the last as if each stride dragged behind him the weight of Halfdan’s death, Sigmund’s funeral, and the haunted look lingering in Ragnar’s eyes.

  He pushed open the door, pausing as warm firelight flickered across his face. Inside, Amara sat quietly near the hearth, hands clasped loosely in her lap, her dark eyes reflecting the soft glow of embers. Her gaze lifted immediately as he stepped inside, warmth and quiet relief softening her features.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said softly, closing the door gently behind him.

  Amara regarded him quietly for a moment, her eyes filled with gentle understanding. “You don’t need to apologize,” she said quietly. “Today was difficult. For all of us.”

  Valdrik nodded slowly, surprised by his mother’s reaction. He walked over to the rough, makeshift table and sank down onto the bench across from her, his shoulders heavy beneath his cloak. He stared silently at his hands, the calloused fingers wrapped tightly together.

  “Einar’s father,” he began, his voice rough. “He—”

  “I know,” she interrupted softly, her tone gentle but steady. “I heard. Sigmund was a good man.”

  Valdrik’s throat tightened, and he drew a careful breath before speaking again. “And Halfdan…Ragnar brought back his seax. He gave it to me.”

  Amara’s eyes softened further, deep sadness pooling in them. “I’m sorry, Val. Halfdan was always kind to you.”

  He nodded quietly. “I keep thinking about all the times he stepped in when Gorm and Snorri were harassing me. He never asked for anything in return—he just did it. And now he's gone. Just like that.”

  Amara rose slowly from her chair, stepping closer to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Halfdan’s kindness is not gone,” she murmured softly. “He left it with you, just as surely as he left that seax.”

  Valdrik looked up at her, eyes shadowed with uncertainty. “Sometimes I wonder why it always feels like the good ones are taken away.”

  Amara sat down carefully beside him, her eyes thoughtful. “We don’t always get to choose who stays or who goes. But we do get to choose how we honor them. Halfdan believed in you, Valdrik, because he saw something good. Something worthy of protecting.”

  He exhaled slowly, feeling her words settle in his chest, easing some of the ache there. “I just wish it wasn’t so hard,” he admitted softly.

  She offered a gentle, knowing smile. “Life is always hard, but we are stronger than we think. And we’re not alone, even when it feels that way.”

  Valdrik held her gaze, feeling gratitude fill him. After the bitter cold of the funeral pyre and the heavy silence of grief, her calm presence warmed him like no fire ever could. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Amara squeezed his hand gently. “We’ll talk more in the morning. It’s late now, and your heart needs rest even more than your body.”

  He nodded slowly, squeezing her hand in return, grateful beyond words that she understood. “Good night, mother.”

  “Good night, my son,” she said softly, her voice filled with quiet tenderness. “Tomorrow will come soon enough.”

  Valdrik rose quietly and moved toward his bed, still feeling the gentle warmth of her presence lingering behind him. He lay down, exhaustion pressing heavily upon him, though sleep felt distant and elusive.

  “Oh, what did you want to talk to me about, moeir?” Valdrik asked, suddenly remembering his mother’s request.

  “Don’t worry about that now, son. We can talk in the morning after we’ve both had some rest,” Amara said, easing her son’s concern. “Get some sleep, Val.”

  Valdrik settled into his furs, hoping to fall asleep quickly. But even as he lay awake, staring into darkness, her words echoed softly through his thoughts, offering comfort against the lingering ache of loss. For tonight, it was enough.