Valdrik arrived before the torches had been lit when the shadows still pooled long and blue across the clearing in the village. The scent of pine smoke drifted lazily from the hearths. The feast had not yet begun in earnest—only a few elders and women shuffled near the tables. Next to the clearing where the festivities would take place, stood a sacred grove of ancient trees, the Asklund, where the Goear—priests and elders of the village—would make blót sacrifices to the Arnur with the Erynnskvinna, or Women of Erynn. The Asklund was an ancient and sacred place, although none but the priests and wise women ventured into its depths.

  The sacred grove loomed behind him, ancient and silent, its great trees unmoving even as the evening wind stirred the banners strung above the long tables.

  He stood on the edge of it all, feeling not unlike a guest at his own celebration.

  The sword hung at his hip, the one Amara had given him that morning—Hams Al-Nuwr, the blade forged in the fires of a world he had never seen. It shifted lightly with his steps, its scabbard brushing his thigh as if constantly reminding him that it didn’t quite belong there. Or perhaps, that he didn’t.

  It was too fine for him. Too elegant. This wasn’t the crude seax of a raider or the battered sword of a Verndarni peacekeeper. The hilt was wrapped in fine leather, and the pommel was solid steel along with the cross guard and quillon. The handle was largely unadorned though finely made and solid. The true spectacle, at least in Valdrik’s estimation, was the blade itself.

  He could picture the smooth blade in his mind, the ethereal flowing mixture of steels. Above the guard and shoulders of the blade, it was double-edged, with a fuller running the length of the shaft, making the blade terrifically light and well-balanced. The edges swept upward to a deadly point that looked capable of piercing through layers of mail and boiled leather. He had never seen anything like it and wondered briefly about the people capable of making such a blade. People like his mother. People like his father.

  Valdrik scowled faintly at the thought, eyes sweeping the feast tables. He didn’t want anything from that man. Not a name. Not a legacy. And not this sword.

  He adjusted the belt, more to settle his thoughts than the weapon, and stared into the fire pit that would soon become the bonfire. It was empty now, logs stacked high and dry, waiting for flame.

  Amara’s voice echoed in his mind—calm but weary, as though she had carried her words for years and only now let them fall. She had looked so tired this morning, not just in body, but in spirit. And yet, she'd tried. She had extended something precious—not just the sword, but the truth she'd long withheld.

  He hated how angry he'd felt.

  But the anger wasn’t really for her. It was for the father who hadn’t stayed, for the questions that were never answered, for the strange, beautiful blade that felt like a stranger’s gift placed in a son’s hands too late to mean anything.

  And yet…

  He looked down at it now, its hilt catching the fading light. Amara had kept this blade hidden, waiting for the right time. She had feared giving it to him, not because he wasn’t worthy—but because she feared what it meant for him. What it might awaken. What it might cost.

  That wasn’t something born of deceit. It was love. Painful, fierce, and imperfect—but love, all the same.

  The blade wasn’t his father’s anymore.

  It was his mother’s gift. A symbol not of a man who vanished, but of a woman who was always there.

  Valdrik reached down and placed his hand on the hilt. It no longer felt foreign. Not quite. It still didn’t fit him, not yet—but it no longer felt like it belonged to someone else.

  Tonight, he would find her. Tonight, he would thank her. Whatever had stood between them before—pride, bitterness, fear—it was done with. He was tired of carrying it. The world was hard enough without inventing reasons to push away the people who loved you.

  He turned toward the sound of approaching music, the first notes of a lyre dancing on the wind, and watched as the preparations for the festivities reached their zenith.

  Bustling women quickly supplied long tables, set up both in and out of the Feasting Hall, with roasted venison, cod stew, fresh-baked bread, with mead and ale ready to fill the drinking horns. The scent of honeyed mead and spiced ale mingled with the rich, fatty aroma of roasting venison, carried on the wind. What was supposed to be a jovial and light celebration, was unable to dispel the gloom brought upon them by the tragic return of the Hrafnsgild. As such, Einar wasn’t the only one nursing their grief at the loss of a father, son, or brother.

  In a way, the mood of the festivities was mirrored by the feeling of standing next to the raging fire, which had been lit a short time before. Stand too close and the heat drove you away only to find the cold embrace of winter. The heat and the cold, both so intense, meant that you couldn’t rightfully forget that either wasn’t there. The traditions of Hjol required mirth and merrymaking to ward off the dark and usher in the return of the light.

  But the icy grief at the tragic return of Askholm’s heroes meant that the warmth of the festivities burned too hot in sudden spurts, stoked to an untenable intensity by sorrowful people looking for respite from their pain. Despite the overpowering heat, the fire warded off the cold, and the villagers gathered around it, as close as they could, and watched the flickering light cast shadows against their fur-lined cloaks.

  As the night went on, drinking horns clinked. Laughter rose in bursts, then faded too quickly. Skalds strummed their lyres and harps, their voices weaving tales of storm-split ships and last-stand heroics—but never the endings. Not this year.

  No one wanted endings tonight.

  Hjol was supposed to mark the turning of winter’s darkest point. The Long Night. A festival of survival. Of rebirth. But the grief that blanketed Askholm had not thawed. The villagers smiled, they danced, they filled their bellies and sang—but it was the kind of joy that had to be hauled up from the depths like water from a frozen well.

  Valdrik stood near the edge of the feast, watching it all. He could feel the effort in it—the strain behind the laughter, the pause before each cheer. Mothers offered double helpings to their children, pretending not to look toward the empty chairs. Warriors laughed a little too loudly. Even the music seemed tuned to a frequency of denial.

  Still, it was beautiful in its way.

  The bonfire roared at the heart of the square, sending sparks into the night like fireflies that had forgotten the warmth of summer. Shadows danced along the snow-packed ground, flickering across fur-lined cloaks and wreath-crowned brows. Somewhere inside the Feasting Hall, drums pulsed a slow rhythm, ancient and steady, echoing the heartbeat of the village itself.

  Valdrik closed his eyes for a moment, listening.

  This was what he had longed for—belonging. The sense that he stood among his people, not at their edge. And yet, even here, even now, a part of him remained slightly apart, watching the scene as though through smoke. Not unwelcome. Just… not quite home.

  A sudden tug at his sleeve pulled him from the reverie.

  “Come on,” Liv said, grinning up at him. “I didn’t get all fancied up just to watch you brood in the shadows.”

  Valdrik blinked. “fancied up?” he echoed, dumbly.

  Liv arched a brow. “Obviously.” She seized his wrist and yanked him toward the dancing ring before he could protest.

  The music had quickened, and couples spun and stepped in time with the beat, boots scuffing across hard earth, laughter mingling with the rhythm. Liv led, dragging him into the line with no regard for his awkward resistance.

  “You’re going to make a fool of me,” he muttered under his breath.

  “That’s the idea,” she shot back, eyes flashing with mischief. “But I’ll make a slightly more graceful one of you if you keep your feet moving.”

  So he moved.

  He stumbled at first, nearly colliding with a barrel-chested fisherman who gave him a good-natured shove back into place. But then he found it—a rhythm. Not perfect, but enough to keep pace with Liv, who danced like she didn’t have a care in the world.

  And then he noticed her.

  Not the way he always had—quick-tongued, fierce-eyed, constantly elbowing him in the ribs or laughing at his expense. But now, in the firelight, in the way her hair had been carefully braided and wound with small green sprigs. In the way her tunic had been belted just a little tighter at the waist, paired with boots that had been cleaned, even polished. In the way she’d shown up looking… different.

  Looking like she wanted to be seen.

  He was suddenly, maddeningly aware of her hand in his, of the way her smile curled slightly when she caught him staring.

  “Pay attention, warrior,” she teased. “You’re going to trip over your own feet.”

  He cleared his throat and looked away, heat rising to his ears. “You’re not as terrible a dancer as I expected,” he offered stiffly.

  “High praise,” she said, smirking. “You really know just what to say, don’t you?.”

  Valdrik smiled despite himself, but the ground beneath him had shifted. Dancing with Liv had always been easy, careless fun. Now it felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with rhythm or footwork.

  He wasn’t sure what had changed. Only that something had.

  As the music surged and they spun once more beneath the burning sky, Valdrik held tighter to the moment. He wanted to remember this—the way the firelight clung to Liv’s dark hair, the feel of her fingers in his, the sound of the village laughing as if it might survive the winter after all.

  But the night wore on, and soon Einar clapped him on the back as they shared food and mead and Liv dragged him into a few more dances, Valdrik let the warmth of the celebration fill him. For now, at least, he felt like everyone else. He felt normal.

  Valdrik’s thoughts turn toward his mother.

  She was not the type to break a promise. She had said that she would be at the feast, so Valdrik expected, without any doubt, to see his mother here. He realized that a feeling of dread had been lurking beneath the surface of his awareness. Something is wrong, he thought. Maybe she got hurt while hunting. What if he lost her too?

  Valdrik didn’t have long to dwell on those feelings, as his anxious questions received their answers in the arrival of a lone figure at the edge of the square.

  Then, like a cold wind slipping through an open door, the mood shifted.

  Amara stood at the outskirts of the revelry. Cloaked in darkness, her face half-lit by the wavering flames, she looked like something conjured from a half-remembered nightmare. Amara’s hair was unbound, tangled with frost, and her dark eyes darted across the revelers with frantic purpose. A spear was clutched in one trembling hand, her knuckles white around the shaft.

  It wasn’t just her appearance that sent a chill through Valdrik. It was her eyes.

  Wide, frantic, scanning the crowd as though expecting something—or someone—to lunge from the darkness at any moment. The firelight flickered against them, making them seem almost luminous, but beneath their sharp focus lay something deeper. A terror she was barely containing.

  Valdrik’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t right.

  “Moeir?” The word left his lips before he even realized he had spoken.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Amara’s head snapped toward him, and at once, she pushed through the gathered villagers. People turned to watch as she strode forward, her movements urgent, ungraceful. A few men exchanged glances, their expressions dark with suspicion, while some women clutched their children closer. Others chuckled nervously, muttering about how Hjol always brought out strange behavior in the grief-stricken and mad.

  Valdrik barely noticed. He broke away from his friends and ran toward her. “Mother! What’s—”

  “Find Ragnar,” she cut him off, her voice tight with panic. “Stay near him.”

  Her hand, still trembling from the cold, clamped onto his arm, squeezing too hard. Her gaze darted over the crowd, her grip unrelenting.

  Valdrik’s heart pounded. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

  “Just listen to me,” she snapped. “Go. Now.”

  Murmurs spread among the villagers. One of the elders, a stout man with a gray-streaked beard, frowned. “Amara,” he called cautiously. “What are you doing here?”

  A woman scoffed. “She looks like a ghost, poor thing. Someone bring her a drink.”

  “Spears at a Hjol feast?” another man laughed. “What, are you hunting spirits, Amara?”

  But Amara was past the point of decorum. She turned, her voice sharp and desperate. “Listen to me! You must hide or take up arms—”

  A ripple of unease passed through the gathered crowd, but her words were scattered, unstructured, as if she couldn’t force them into something people would understand.

  “Amara,” the elder said again, more firmly this time. “What are you saying?”

  She spun in a slow, frantic circle, trying to find the right words, trying to make them see. “There isn’t time—”

  Another laugh, nervous and unsure. “She’s lost her wits.”

  Valdrik wasn’t laughing. He had never seen his mother like this—never seen her afraid like this.

  His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword as the first true bite of fear settled into his bones. A series of horn blasts quieted the group instantly and an unwanted, eerie silence created a void where everyone held their breath.

  After what seemed like an eternity, a terrible, animalistic screech shattered the cone of silence that had descended upon the festivities, ripping through the air like the wail of some damned soul. Valdrik could now hear human voices speaking in shouts and yells—in a language he had never before heard.

  Valdrik’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white. The shrieks and human voices burrowed into his skull, making fear bloom within his mind and heart. Valdrik felt paralyzed despite his instincts screaming at him to move, to do anything.

  Then, the world erupted into chaos.

  From the deep shadows beyond the bonfire, they came—shadowy figures, sprinting with inhuman speed, their shapes barely discernible against the darkness. Their movements were unnatural, a jerking, predatory gait that turned Valdrik’s bowels to water.

  A second later, fire streaked through the sky.

  Flaming arrows arced overhead, thudding into thatched roofs and wooden beams. Dry thatch caught instantly, flames licking hungrily up the walls of homes and farmsteads. The warm glow of the bonfire was suddenly drowned in a more sinister light—the flickering, erratic gleam of spreading destruction.

  Screams erupted all around him.

  Mothers scrambled for their children, voices raw with panic as they called their names into the night. Men stumbled toward their homes, searching for weapons—axes, spears, even crude farming tools—anything to fight with. The village square became a maelstrom of movement, bodies colliding in confusion and terror.

  Valdrik barely had time to register it all before the true horror arrived.

  From the abyss of the asklund, a massive figure burst forth, a nightmare made flesh.

  It stood at least a head taller than any warrior Valdrik had ever seen, its broad, hunched frame rippling with sinew and unnatural power. The creature’s movements were twitchy and impulsive, almost as though it barely managed to grasp control of its faculties, with a manic ferocity lurking just beneath the surface of that control, struggling to burst forth and unleash unchecked bloodthirst upon anyone or anything it found.

  It had no discernible face—only a smooth expanse where its features should have been, as though the gods themselves had stripped it of identity. A dull, wet growl rumbled from its throat as it charged straight toward them.

  Straight toward Valdrik and Amara.

  Valdrik’s pulse pounded like war drums in his ears. He fumbled with his sword, struggling to pull it from its scabbard. His fingers felt numb, uncooperative. Panic swelled in his chest. His breath came too fast, too shallow.

  The beast was nearly upon them.

  He was going to die.

  Then Amara moved.

  She darted to her left in a sudden, deceptive feint—her body fluid as water—then spun on her heel and leaped into the air. The monster lunged toward where she had been, massive arms reaching to crush her, maim her, kill her—

  But it was too slow.

  Amara’s spear drove downward, its tip finding purchase between the creature’s shoulder blades, piercing through flesh, sinew, and bone, driving deep into its chest.

  The beast let out a guttural, strangled cry. It staggered forward, its clawed hands grasping at empty air before its legs gave out beneath it. With a heavy thud, it collapsed onto the frozen earth, spasming once—twice—before it lay still.

  Dead.

  The entire exchange had lasted mere seconds.

  For a long moment, Valdrik could only stare, breathless, his heartbeat a frantic hammering in his chest.

  The thing at her feet twitched, its ruined chest rising and falling in ragged, unnatural gasps. Its faceless head turned slightly as if listening. A wet, rattling sound gurgled from deep inside its throat, the sound of something that should not be alive struggling to breathe.

  Amara planted her foot firmly against the creature’s back, her face unreadable as she wrenched the spear free from its stinking corpse.

  The night around them was suddenly thick with fire, screaming, and death. with shadowy horrors descending upon the village. But in that moment, as the monster’s lifeless body lay sprawled before him, one thought surged through Valdrik’s mind above all others.

  His mother—the one who had lectured him about the evils of violence, the brutality of Uppsalan culture—had just saved his life. Who was this woman?

  “Gods above! What is that? What are you doing here?...I…I…” Valdrik asked, the panic of the moment making him vomit questions at his mother.

  “Valdrik, I need you to stop talking and do exactly as I say. Now,” Amara said sternly. “We can’t panic. It’s what they want.”

  “This,” she said gesturing to the nightmare-made flesh at her feet “is called a nar’gulam. There’s no more time to say anything else. Get to Ragnar’s boats. He’ll be there.”

  Valdrik stood a moment, confused and numb from the tidal wave of feelings. He had heard everything his mother had said in her haste, but it hadn’t yet fully registered. His legs were lead.

  “Valdrik, please. You are my heart. Run,” Amara pleaded. Every bone in his body screamed to stay, to fight, to stand beside her. But her voice, that voice that had soothed him to sleep as a child, now carried a finality he did not dare question. He pulled Halfdan’s seax from its scabbard and turned in the direction of the river. After taking a few uncertain steps forward, he looked back to see if his mother was still there, but she had already plunged into the shadow and smoke that Askholm had become.

  Valdrik crept along the edge of the smoldering village, his sword drawn but trembling in his grip. The acrid haze of smoke and the stench of burning wood filled his nostrils as he moved cautiously away from Askholm, following the narrow, frost-bitten path toward the Silfrflod. Every step was heavy with uncertainty, and the quiet that had settled over the outskirts was as unnerving as it was deceptive. The river’s sluggish, dark waters beckoned him like a promise of escape, yet even they seemed tainted by the lingering horrors of the attack.

  His heart pounded in his chest as he neared the boats, and he could see signs of the recent battle scattered in the gloom. Dark, motionless shapes lay sprawled on the frozen ground—fallen warriors and the remnants of monstrous creatures. The smell was overpowering: the bitter tang of spilled blood mingled with the loathsome odor of excrement and decay, each breath a searing assault on his senses.

  "Ragnar!" Valdrik called out twice with a short pause in between, his voice echoing into the smoky darkness. His tone wavered between urgency and dread as he wondered if he was truly alone now, cut off from the man he considered a mentor and father figure. His words hung in the air, unanswered, as he pressed forward along the riverbank.

  Before he could take another step, a sudden, violent weight slammed into him from behind. Valdrik was thrown to the ground as a wounded tackled him, its breath reeking of rot and despair. The creature’s sinewy limbs flexed with unnatural strength, and its snarling, malformed face contorted with fury as it sought to rip him apart. At that moment, panic surged through Valdrik—a raw, overwhelming terror that made his blood run cold. He could smell the creature’s decay, a foul mix of damp earth and rancid meat, and feel the searing sting of its claws tearing at his clothes and flesh.

  Halfdan’s seax had slipped from his grasp in the initial struggle, leaving him desperate and unarmed. Groping in the darkness, Valdrik scrambled for anything—a shard of broken wood, a piece of metal, anything to fend off the beast. The pain was relentless. His arms burned with exertion and the shock of every laceration.

  Just when Valdrik’s strength seemed to be failing him, when the weight of the creature’s assault made him believe he could resist no longer, an axe blade had found its mark, biting into the joint where its neck met its shoulder. In an instant, it convulsed in a spasm of dark, oily blood spurting onto the frozen ground, and then it lay silent, its threat extinguished.

  Gasping for breath, Valdrik staggered upright as a strong hand helped him to his feet. It was Ragnar—wounded, tired, and smeared with the remnants of battle. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but they shone with a fierce determination as he steadied Valdrik against his shoulder.

  “Come, boy,” Ragnar rasped, his voice low and urgent. “We must get to the boats before any more of them come.”

  Valdrik nodded, heart still hammering in gratitude and relief. He retrieved his sword from where it had fallen, the weight of the weapon a familiar comfort amidst the chaos. Together, they made their way back to the docks, every step echoing with the grim reality of the assault.

  “A large force of those…things… attacked our vessels,” he explained, his voice heavy with the sorrow of loss. “They sought to cut off any form of retreat. The Hrafnsgild made a shield wall, but…many men were lost.”

  Valdrik’s throat caught with unchecked emotion as he opened his mouth to thank Ragnar. Composing himself for a moment, he finally squeaked out, “Thank you, Ragnar…for saving my life.”

  “Don’t mention it, boy,” Ragnar said, hoping to hide the emotion in his own voice.

  The embers of burning homes cast a hellish glow over the riverbank, their reflections dancing in the rippling waters of the Silfrflod like restless spirits. The air was thick with smoke, the scent of charred wood and scorched flesh clinging to Valdrik’s skin as he stood before Ragnar, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  Ragnar, bloodied and weary, leaned heavily on the shaft of his axe. His fur-lined cloak was tattered, and a deep gash ran from his shoulder to his ribs, barely staunched by hastily wrapped cloth. His usually piercing eyes were dark with exhaustion, yet they still burned with the hardened wisdom of a man who had seen more battles than he cared to remember.

  “We leave now,” Ragnar said, his voice a gravelly growl. “The village is lost, Valdrik. There’s no saving it.”

  Valdrik shook his head, his heart pounding. “There might still be survivors. Liv. Einar. My mother.” His throat tightened around the last word, but he forced himself to stand tall. “We can’t leave them behind.”

  Ragnar exhaled sharply, gripping the shaft of his axe until his knuckles turned white. “You think I want to? You think I enjoy sailing away while my brothers and sisters lie dead in the snow?” His voice was thick with frustration and something deeper—guilt. “But we don’t have time for heroics, boy. Those monsters don’t leave survivors.”

  Valdrik stepped closer, his amber-gold eyes locking onto Ragnar’s. “Then I won’t be one either.”

  A muscle in Ragnar’s jaw twitched. He shook his head, stepping away, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. “Serpent’s breath.” He turned back, jabbing a finger at Valdrik’s chest.

  “Then I go with you.”

  “No.”

  Ragnar blinked. “What?”

  “You’re hurt.” Valdrik gestured at the blood seeping through Ragnar’s makeshift bandages. “You can barely stand.”

  Ragnar scoffed, lifting his axe. “I can still fight.”

  “I know,” Valdrik said, his voice steady, “but if we both go and die, there will be no one left to hold the boat. No one left to guide the survivors.”

  Ragnar stared at him, and for the first time, Valdrik saw something shift behind the warrior’s eyes—respect, maybe, or reluctant acceptance.

  “You stubborn mule,” Ragnar muttered.

  Valdrik smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

  A dry chuckle escaped Ragnar’s lips, but it was quickly replaced by a deep sigh. He rubbed his temple, glancing toward the smoldering horizon where Askholm still burned. “I can give you ‘til dawn.” His gaze snapped back to Valdrik, sharp and unyielding. “That shouldn’t be long from now. If you’re not back by first light, we sail without you.”

  Valdrik nodded. “Fair.”

  Ragnar grabbed his forearm, gripping it tightly. “Watch your back.”

  Valdrik returned the gesture, clasping Ragnar’s wrist. “Keep the boats ready.”

  Without another word, he turned and sprinted back toward the burning village.

  ***

  Smoke enveloped the night like a funeral shroud, thick and stifling, turning the air into something that burned Valdrik’s lungs with every breath. The acrid scent of charred wood and scorched flesh mixed with the iron tang of blood, creating a sickening perfume that made his stomach twist. His boots splashed through rivulets of crimson pooling in the dirt, and more than once, he had to press his forearm over his nose and swallow down the bile rising in his throat.

  Askholm was dying.

  The glow of the fires made it feel as though the night had been split open, bleeding embers into the sky. Dark figures twisted and burned within collapsed homes, their screams silenced, leaving only the crackle of flames and the occasional guttural screeching of the nuruk, roving in the distance.

  Valdrik forced himself to keep moving, gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles ached. Every step closer to the village center sent a new pulse of dread through his veins. Every flicker of movement in the shadows could be a friend—or something far worse.

  As he rounded the corner of a half-collapsed longhouse, his body tensed, instincts screaming at him to duck. Just in time, he saw a blade flash through the darkness. He threw himself backward, narrowly avoiding the edge of an axe.

  Another heartbeat, and he would have been dead.

  “Serpent’s tongue, Valdrik!”

  Einar’s voice cut through the night like the clash of steel. The towering youth’s pale face was smeared with soot and blood, his thick arms trembling from exertion. His ice-blue eyes were wild, locked onto Valdrik with equal parts relief and fury.

  “Einar,” Valdrik breathed, still catching his balance. He turned just as another figure leaped toward him—Liv.

  “Are you mad?” she hissed, grabbing him by the shoulders, her emerald eyes searching his. “We thought you were dead!”

  The breath Valdrik had been holding finally escaped him. He let his sword lower slightly, his body shaking from the surge of tension and relief crashing over him all at once.

  “I thought I lost you both,” he admitted. His voice came out hoarse, raw from smoke and fear. “Ragnar’s waiting at the river with his boat. He’s holding out for survivors.”

  At the mention of escape, the huddled villagers behind Einar and Liv stirred, murmuring in desperate, hushed tones.

  “We have to go now,” Einar said, gripping Valdrik’s forearm. “Those…those creatures are still out there.”

  Valdrik hesitated. “My mother—”

  Liv’s face fell, but she nodded towards the. “We saw her heading for the asklund before everything fell apart.”

  That meant she was still alive. Or had been.

  “I have to find her.”

  “Valdrik—” Einar started, but Valdrik was already shaking his head.

  “Go to the river. Get on the boat. I’ll meet you before sunrise.”

  Liv’s hands tightened into fists at her sides, as if she wanted to protest, but she held back. Instead, she reached forward, touching his arm. “Be safe…”

  “If I’m not back before dawn, leave,” Valdrik interrupted. His voice was firm, but his heart ached with the words. “I won’t let you die for me.”

  Einar exhaled sharply through his nose but finally nodded. “Fine. Just don’t do anything too stupid, Valdrik.”

  Liv gave him one last look, her expression unreadable before she turned with the others and melted into the shadows.

  The moment they were gone, Valdrik turned toward the asklund, where the trees loomed like a wall of blackened sentinels.

  His mother was out there.

  And he would not leave without her.