The biting air of winter had flushed their cheeks and noses. The usual wind to be expected at this time of year was dampened somewhat by the thickness of the woods. This was no ordinary forest, however. At least if the whispered tales around campfires could be trusted. Valdrik had thought to himself more than once that he had made a fool’s bargain. And to make matters worse, Liv and Einar, Valdrik’s best friends in the world, had been roped into his stupidity as well.

  “Don’t you think this is far enough, Valdrik?,” Einar asked, nervously glancing over his shoulder. His usual bravado wavered beneath the towering pines, their thick boughs choking out the fading daylight.

  Valdrik pressed on, jaw set. “We’ve got to find a good place to shelter for the night,” he reminded them, though his voice sounded hollow in the hush of the woods. His breath curled in the air, though it wasn’t cold enough to frost.

  The dare had been simple: stay in the forest until the first light of the next day, or be branded a coward. He had seen it as an opportunity to earn some respect, some standing among his rivals. A fool’s bluster, maybe, but what choice did he have? Uppsalans measured worth in fearlessness, strength, and the ability to spit in the face of the unknown. He needed to prove his mettle—not just to them, but to himself.

  As they pushed forward in the dying light of the winter’s day, the undergrowth clung to their legs like grasping hands, the skeletal branches above reaching toward a darkening sky. Frost-crisped lichen crunched underfoot, brittle twigs snapping like bones as Valdrik, Einar, and Liv moved deeper into the woods. The ancient and unknowable forest swallowed them in silence, the air thick with the damp scent of moss and decay. It was going to be a long night.

  ***

  The Hrafnsvithr, or Raven’s Wood in the Common Tongue, loomed large on the outskirts of Askholm. This village was little more than an aging wooden palisade, its logs shaved to pointed ends and a scattering of longhouses, market stalls, and a few farm buildings nestled between the river and the dense woods beyond, their thatched roofs now heavy with winter snow. Thin trails of smoke curled from chimney holes, and the smell of roasting fish mingled with the crisp scent of pine resin. A few villagers—bundled in thick wool cloaks—paused their tasks to watch Valdrik rush past, their fair brows furrowing at his excitement. All but a few of them were Uppsalan by blood, pale-haired and light-eyed, their features stark against the dawn. But Valdrik stood apart from them.

  At fourteen but not long for fifteen, he was lanky, all limbs and restless energy, still waiting for the first signs of manhood to fill out his frame. His skin was darker than the others, bearing a warm olive hue that deepened further in the summer sun, just another thing that made him stand out among the people of Askholm. His hair, a thick, dark brown, fell in unruly waves past his shoulders with a single braid running the length of his hair on his left side.

  Valdrik was making for the river where he had planned to meet Liv and Einar early that morning. Liv and Einar were the only friends Valdrik had, apart from Halfdan. Halfdan was an older boy who had taken Valdrik under his wing. He had a kind heart, but his father who was an influential member of the village council had always aspired for his son to become a vikingr—a man who could bring glory and fame to his name. Halfdan had gone with Ragnar Leifsson to the coasts of Nyashembe to raid and win glory. It was customary for the men of Askholm to leave shortly after harvest season and return near Hjol, the Celebration of the Long Night. Ragnar and his Hrafsngild should be returning any day now, ships laden with far-off plunder and riches.

  Valdrik loved Askholm. He loved Uppsalan bravery and resilience. He wanted to be a man like Ragnar or Sigmund Yarnside. If he could be like those men, maybe Askholm would finally love him back.

  As it was, his dark hair and olive-toned skin made his strangeness when compared to the fair-skinned, fair-haired people of Uppsala, a truth that the villagers rarely voiced but never forgot. Additionally, he was Amara’s son—and therefore strange by association. She was the quiet woman with sharp eyes and sharper words, who others thought incurably odd. And indeed she was odd, at least by Uppsalan standards. Where most of Askholm’s residents made their living fishing the river, trading, or raiding, Amara tended animals, mostly goats, and worked hard to raise a few plants in the hardscrabble earth.

  She had even gone so far as to plant the seeds of strange, non-native plants in clay pots that she wheeled around. When it got too cold outside, she would bring the plants into a small structure she kept warm to prevent the plants from freezing. When the sun was strong, she would wheel the plants outside. Most of Askholm thought she was mad, although not the kind of mad that would make her dangerous. In fact, some of her oddities had started to spread to others who had started keeping animals themselves, trusting that Amara’s skills in animal husbandry would mean that their meager investment might not be completely wasted. But no one had yet gone so far as to try growing plants in the dead of winter.

  It was her usefulness to the village that made most people tolerate her strange beliefs. When they had first arrived in Askholm, Valdrik could remember his mother talking, sometimes even arguing, with others about the Arnur. He had been much younger then, but still remembered clearly that his mother had tried very hard to point out logical inconsistencies, hoping to win the others over with her own point of view. This certainly didn’t make her popular among the villagers, so she quickly had to change her tack. These days she refrained from talking about gods at all unless she was making Valdrik learn about the Kin, whom she claimed were the real gods of Rannvara.

  Perhaps the oddest thing about Amara was the rarity that she possessed. Amara could read and write. Multiple languages. Her Runskal was ok, but Uppsalans generally commented on her accent. The fact that she could read and write was of very little consequence since nobody she knew could either read or write. She had thought it important to learn it just the same. It was her ability to read and write the Common Tongue that made her truly remarkable for a place like Askholm. She could have held a position in some regal court somewhere if she had so desired. The Common Tongue had in recent years become the language of politics, trade, and commerce through Rannvara. Its spread had become so ubiquitous that even a few people in small, backwater Askholm had picked up phrases here and there.

  To Valdrik’s chagrin, Amara had been adamant that he too learn to read and write. Whenever he inquired why or wondered when he would ever use this knowledge, his mother always muttered something about how Valdrik would thank her when the time came. It was hard to feel grateful when his ability to read was making him sit inside and read a boring poem about the Kin that he had read a dozen times before.

  He tried to care about her views and the things she taught him. He was ashamed to admit that, for the most part, he simply didn’t care. He appeased his mother by reading her translations and hearing her speak about the Kin. But it just didn’t feel the same as what the people in Askholm seemed to feel when they praised the Arnur. Those were gods that feasted and battled. They seemed alive and vibrant, whereas his mother’s gods seemed dusty and stale.

  Though he loved her fiercely, part of him longed for something beyond the life she had carved for him. For once, he wanted to feel like the other kids his age—at home, in their place, a part of things, not just apart. He wasn’t going to let her stuffy traditions make him an outcast for the rest of his life.

  Ragnar had told him once that a warrior's legend began the moment he carved his first victory.

  Valdrik clenched his fists. Soon, he thought, If the chance presents itself, I’ll take my first step toward carving my own. All I need is an opportunity.

  ***

  As he was making his way past the market stalls, Valdrik soaked in the music of the village square bustling with morning activity—fishmongers shouting prices, the rhythmic thud of a hammer from the smithy, and the chatter of traders. Valdrik began again to move through the crowd, keen to avoid unnecessary attention. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

  Snorri spotted him first.

  “Well, well,” Snorri called out, stepping into Valdrik’s path with a wide, toothy grin. “If it isn’t Askholm’s little hórbarn?”

  A few nearby kids turned their heads, already sensing something worth watching.

  Valdrik exhaled through his nose, keeping his expression impassive. “Snorri,” he acknowledged, stepping to the side to walk past.

  Snorri mirrored the movement, blocking him. “Leaving so soon?” His voice was loud enough to draw more attention. “You must get that from your father.”

  Valdrik stopped cold. A few chuckles rose from the growing crowd.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Valdrik replied smoothly, keeping his tone even. “But I know yours is still around—he must be so proud that you’re Gorm’s bootlicker.”

  Laughter rippled through the bystanders, and Snorri’s face darkened. But before he could snap back, Gorm Lofison himself stepped forward, pushing Snorri slightly aside as if his lackey had served his purpose.

  Gorm was bigger, broader—a boy already taking the shape of a man. His pale brown eyes studied Valdrik for a moment before he smirked.

  Gorm Lofison had an unexplained hatred for Valdrik, and he never let him forget it. Since the earliest days that Valdrik could remember, Gorm had been there stealing his toys, picking fights, and hurling insults. But that wasn’t the worst of Gorm’s awful nature. His favorite insults always targeted Valdrik’s mother—the surest way to antagonize Valdrik into a fight that he would surely lose.

  Gorm often claimed that he knew for a fact that Valdrik was a hórbarn, a whore’s son, and said things like his mother had probably been someone’s concubine. Valdrik could tolerate the name-calling, being called a bastard, or whatever Snorri and Gorm could come up with. As long as it was about him. When they spoke about his mother, Valdrik couldn’t help but see red. He would crash headlong into a fight and typically end up worse off for it.

  The truth was that Valdrik did feel shame about his absent father. Anytime Valdrik asked his mother about his father—where he was, who he was, why he was gone—Amara’s answer had always been the same: “He’s a brave warrior, and he can’t be with us right now.” Valdrik had heard the answer so many times that he assumed his mother didn’t know the truth any longer. As far as Valdrik was concerned, his father was dead and he didn’t care.

  “You’re getting sharp with your tongue,” Gorm said, voice calm, but thick with menace. “Pity you can’t sharpen your courage the same way.”

  Valdrik forced himself to hold Gorm’s gaze, even as his hands itched to form fists. “You’re one to talk, piss-breath,” he said coolly. “I’m not the one who needs half the village watching before I do anything.”

  A few murmurs from the crowd. Gorm’s smile faded slightly. Snorri, desperate to recover, lunged at the chance to twist the blade.

  “Maybe your father buggered off because he couldn’t stand looking at you or your halftroll mother,” Snorri sneered.

  A hush fell over the gathered kids.

  Valdrik’s heart pounded, but his expression didn’t change. Valdrik was intent on not giving Snorri the satisfaction he hoped to get from his pointed barbs. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t play the game.

  “That’s a clever insult, Snorri,” he said smoothly. “You must’ve practiced it all morning. A shame you don’t spend as much time bathing. Not only do you look like a sick goat took a crap, you smell like it too.”

  The crowd roared with laughter. Snorri clenched his fists, but Gorm stepped forward, his presence alone silencing everyone.

  “Oh, that wasn’t very nice. Snorri’s right about one thing, though,” Gorm said, tilting his head. “Your father wasn’t just a coward. He left your mother alone to fend for herself. Maybe that’s why she’s had to make a living warming other men’s beds.”

  Even though he knew this was coming, Valdrik felt the fire of rage begin to blossom in his stomach, turning his blood to fire.

  Before he even realized it, he had stepped forward, his fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. The movement was small, but Gorm noticed—and he grinned.

  There it was. The reaction he had been waiting for.

  “Touch a nerve?” Gorm asked, his voice full of mock sympathy. He took a slow, deliberate step closer. “Go on, then. Defend your mother’s honor. Unless you’re as spineless as a worm.”

  A ripple of excitement surged through the gathered kids. This was what they had come for—a fight.

  Valdrik’s breath came hard and fast. He knew exactly how this would go. Gorm was bigger, stronger, and had more people on his side. He wouldn’t just lose. He’d be humiliated.

  And yet… could he just walk away?

  He forced himself to inhale deeply. Think.

  “This is stupid,” he said, straightening his back. “I’m outmatched and outnumbered. If I tried to fight you now, I’d be crushed. A wise warrior knows when to fight and when to negotiate.”

  Gorm’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you’re doing…warrior? Negotiating your way out of a fight?”

  “I’m not a coward,” Valdrik said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’ve fought you before and I’ll do it again if I have to. Perhaps,” Valdrik said, pausing for dramatic effect, “I can prove it. I’ll do whatever you challenge me to—as long as it isn’t a fight with you.”

  Snorri seized the moment, grinning wildly. “Fine! Then you’ll stay the night in the Hrafnsvithr!”

  Gorm turned, annoyed. “Shut it, fretr breath. We didn’t discuss—”

  “No, no, it’s perfect,” Snorri said, lowering his voice so only Gorm could hear. “Think about it. Everyone knows restless spirits haunt the woods. Then there’s the wolves, the cold—he might not even make it out. If he dies, it’s not on us.”

  Gorm’s irritation faded into something darker. He turned back to Valdrik with a slow, wicked grin.

  “Fine,” Gorm said. “That’s your challenge. You stay in the night in the Hrafnsvithr—or you’ll be branded a coward forever.”

  Valdrik felt a pit open in his stomach. It was almost Hjol and the days were short with long dark nights. That was a long time to spend in the woods. Alone.

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  But he couldn’t back down. Not with so many eyes on him.

  He swallowed hard. “I’ll do it.”

  The crowd erupted in murmurs.

  Gorm crossed his arms, his smirk widening. “Then we’ll be watching.”

  ***

  The cold crept in through the wooden walls of the house, the last remnants of dusk casting long, silvered shadows across the floorboards. Valdrik moved quickly, pulling his warmest clothes from their places—a thick wool tunic, a heavier cloak lined with fur, sturdy gloves worn at the fingertips. He reached for the small costrel hanging from the wall peg, slinging it over his shoulder before grabbing a small bundle of bread and cheese wrapped in cloth.

  He wasn’t packing like a warrior heading for battle. He was packing like a fool setting out to freeze to death.

  His mother, Amara, wasn’t home. That was a small mercy.

  If she had been here, she would have seen right through him. She would have folded her arms, tilted her head in that quiet, sharp way she always did, and waited until he cracked under her gaze and told her everything. And then, after a long sigh, she would have told him exactly why it was idiotic to spend a night in the Hrafnswood when the nights were growing longer and the wind carried the scent of snowfall.

  He could hear her voice in his head now. “If you have to do something stupid, Valdrik, at least have the sense to prepare for it properly.”

  That thought alone was enough to make him pause, his fingers hovering over the small dagger resting on the table beside the hearth. He never carried it to fight, just to cut food, carve wood, and strip bark when he felt restless. But the thought of going into the forest without it made his skin crawl.

  He took the blade.

  Valdrik didn’t bother writing a note. He’d be back in the morning and he didn’t want his mother mounting a search party and ruining the night. If he had to be saved from the woods by his mother, he would never live it down with Gorm.

  With one final glance at the dimly flickering fire in the hearth, he stepped out to make his way to the Hrafnsvithr.

  The wind had shifted. It carried the scent of damp earth, of pine needles brittle with frost, of something older, deeper, pressing against the edges of his senses.

  Gorm stood with his arms crossed, his usual smug expression in place. Snorri and a handful of other village boys lingered nearby, their breath visibly rising through the air.

  "Thought you’d gotten lost already," Snorri jeered as Valdrik approached.

  "Funny, I was just thinking the same about your wits," Valdrik shot back smoothly.

  The first outcropping of trees loomed ahead, their blackened trunks rising like twisted sentinels against the evening sky.

  Behind him, the village boys stood in a loose circle, their expressions flickering between excitement and cruel anticipation. Gorm and Snorri stood closest, their grins wide with amusement as they took turns recounting every ghoulish tale and half-whispered legend meant to make Valdrik turn back.

  "You know, Valdrik, they say the spirits in there don’t just kill you," Snorri mused, his voice lilting with mock concern. "They take your face and wear it—so when your mother comes looking, she won’t even know you’re gone."

  "Or worse," Gorm added, leaning in with a smirk, "maybe she’ll see you again—standing outside your house long after you should be dead."

  A few of the gathered kids shivered. The stories were deeply rooted in Askholm’s superstitions, known even to those who laughed at them in the daylight. The village wise men and the priestesses of Erynn often came to the asklund on the edge of the woods to make offerings to the spirits, hoping to placate them into peace with the village.

  But now, on the edge of the darkened forest, beneath the weight of so many watching eyes, Valdrik could feel the pressure building inside him, pushing against his ribs like a vice. He hoped more than anything that those offerings had worked.

  Fear crawled up from his gut, his heart hammering against his chest in protest.

  This was stupid. He knew it was stupid.

  But walking away would be worse than death.

  So, instead, he forced a smirk onto his face, the same way he had forced himself through every other impossible moment. A mask of bravado. The mask of a vikingr.

  "Keep talking, Gorm," Valdrik said, rolling his shoulders. "If the monsters out there are half as ugly as you two, then yeah—I might be in trouble. Maybe I should gouge out my eyes now. Just in case.”

  Laughter broke through the tension like an axe through ice. Gorm’s jaw tightened, his pale brown eyes narrowing, but before he could retaliate, Valdrik turned, lifting a hand in a mock salute.

  "Don’t cry for me, Askholm. I shall return to you the conquering hero," he called over his shoulder with mock sincerity as he strode into the trees. It was over the top, but he needed the extra boost to his confidence right now.

  The laughter faded as the darkness of the Hrafnsvithr swallowed him whole.

  ***

  The air in the forest was different.

  Even after just a few steps past the tree line, the air grew heavy, pressing against Valdrik’s skin like the weight of unseen eyes. The familiar, distant crash of the river against the docks was muffled, swallowed by the towering canopy above.

  His breath came too loud, his footsteps too sharp against the undergrowth. Every snapped twig, every shifting shadow, made his pulse stutter.

  His mind wouldn’t stop repeating Gorm and Snorri’s words.

  "They take your face and wear it…"

  "She’ll see you again—standing outside your house long after you should be dead."

  Valdrik swallowed hard, forcing the images from his mind. He clenched his fists and kept moving, each step deliberate.

  Then the feeling struck him.

  He was being watched.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, his fingers twitching toward the small knife at his belt—the one he used for eating, not for fighting. He gripped the handle, knowing it wouldn’t do much good against spirits or wolves or whatever else lived in these woods, but it made him feel slightly less like prey.

  A sharp snap to his right—too close, too deliberate.

  Valdrik whirled, heart leaping into his throat.

  Something lunged at him from the shadows.

  Valdrik yelled—an embarrassingly high-pitched sound—and stumbled backward, his knife flashing into the open air before he realized who it was.

  Liv and Einar collapsed into laughter.

  Liv nearly doubled over, her hand gripping the trunk of a tree for balance, while Einar clapped a hand against his knee, wiping at his eyes.

  "Gods above, Val!" Einar wheezed. "You should have seen your face!"

  Valdrik stared at them, still trying to get his heart out of his throat, his pulse roaring in his ears. Then, his shock melted into a scowl.

  "You bloody idiots!" He shoved Einar’s shoulder, making the taller boy stagger back a step. "Are you trying to get stabbed?"

  "By what?" Liv grinned, crossing her arms. "Your toy knife?"

  Einar laughed harder.

  Valdrik sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He wanted to be angry. He really, truly did. But the weight pressing against his chest had lessened now that he wasn’t alone.

  "What are you two doing here?" he muttered, slipping the knife back into his belt.

  "What do you think?" Liv said, tilting her head. "Word travels fast in a small village. By the time you left your house, half of Askholm already knew about your grand act of bravery."

  Einar nudged him with his elbow. "So we figured we’d sneak in after you. You know, make sure you don’t die before dawn."

  "Generous." Valdrik huffed.

  "Well, we’re also here for the entertainment," Liv said cheerfully. "We figured watching you jump at every shadow would make the long night more interesting."

  "Wonderful. I’m so happy I could be of use to you both," Valdrik muttered.

  Still, he felt a thread of gratitude twist through his chest. He had spent his whole life proving himself, standing alone against doubt and cruelty. It was nice—just once—to have someone watching his back.

  "How did you even find me?" he asked.

  Liv shrugged. "Wasn’t hard. You move loud. Besides, I’ve spent enough time with Tora to track something stupider than a lost deer."

  Valdrik shook his head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

  "Fine," he sighed. "Let’s find a place to make camp."

  Valdrik had been pushing the group through the forest like something was chasing them. He didn’t know what he expected to find this deep in the woods but he hoped that he would recognize it when he saw it.

  More than once, Liv and Einar had tried to convince him to stop, that he wasn’t going to gain any acclaim for going this deep in the woods, but he shrugged off their suggestions to stop. This was more about proving something to himself than it was to Gorm or Snorri. Valdrik had wanted an opportunity to write the first lines of his legend and this was it. He wasn’t going to take the easy way out.

  They walked as the light slowly dimmed around them. The sun had begun its descent behind the western horizon. They only had a short time left before darkness would envelop the land.

  Through the trees, somewhere in the distance, Valdrik spotted a rocky outcropping that would shelter them from the biting wind that swirled through the towering pines and firs of the Hrafnsvithr.

  “There!” Valdrik exclaimed. “That’s where we can set up a camp for the night. I don’t think we’ve gone too far from the edge of the wood, but we’ll be sheltered from the winds and possible snow”

  “Finally,” Einar sighed with relief. “I’ll find us some dry wood for a fire.”

  “Keep your eyes peeled for Old Man’s Beard, if you would,” Liv requested. “Even with it, we’ll need Floki’s luck to get anything to burn.

  Before long, Liv had managed to get a fire going, much to Valdrik and Einar’s delight. They had given themselves a windbreak by butting up against the outcropping of rock as much as possible. They had a little bit of food, which they had pooled together, and the three of them each had a costrel of water. They wouldn’t starve to death or go thirsty, but it was still bitterly cold—even with their warmest clothes and fire to sit by.

  They sat and told stories as the night deepened. Liv edged closer and closer to Valdrik, probably seeking out a way to share some body heat. At least that’s what Valdrik was telling himself. Liv was like the sister that he never had. He didn’t feel that way about her. Did he?

  Einar had spent most of the night telling stories of his father’s adventures as part of the Hrafnsgild. Einar’s father was one of Ragnar’s finest men in his band. He was a kind-hearted man with a fierce appearance. He was someone you’d love to drink and feast with and would hate to fight.

  Valdrik would have bet that Einar must be looking forward to his father’s imminent return, to be telling stories around the fire. Must be nice, thought Valdrik to himself.

  A sudden fierce gust of wind swept through their little makeshift camp, whipping up snow and debris. The wind was so intense and so full of snow and debris that it unceremoniously put out the fire, and the group was plunged into an abrupt, unexpected darkness. For what felt like a long time, the wind swirled and gusted violently blowing things into their eyes and mouths. Just when the trio started to rise from the ground the wind stopped just as suddenly as it began.

  “Gods above! That’s killed the fire dead. There aren’t even coals left. ” Liv said, marveling at the sudden commotion.

  “What in the bloody serpent’s tongue was that all about?” Einar questioned, seemingly to the gods themselves.

  Valdrik, who was wiping snow and dirt from eyes and face, responded with similar incredulity. “That’s the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said. “If we weren’t going to freeze to death, I’d almost be impressed.”

  Valdrik couldn’t help but wonder if one of the spirits Gorm and Snorri had been talking about might be responsible for the misfortune of losing their fire. It was hard to tell how much time they had spent by the fire talking and laughing. Until the fire had gone out, none of them had felt much like sleeping. It was simply too cold. Better to stay awake and shiver than freeze to death in your sleep.

  Now, their prospects of freezing to death seemed much worse than before.

  “This couldn’t be the work of those spirits you’re always banging on about. Eh, Liv?” Einar joked, hoping to relieve some of the tension.

  “Shut it, you idiot.” Liv pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "I don’t like this," she muttered, eyes darting to the shifting shadows between the trees. “Something’s seriously wrong.”

  Einar scoffed, but his hand gripped the dagger at his belt. “They’re just a bunch of old stories. The only thing haunting this place is the smell of rotting deer.”

  Still, they stopped talking and stood dead still for a moment. Oddly enough, Valdrik caught the scent as well. It was as if someone or something had dropped a rotting carcass just upwind from them. An eerie silence had settled in the wood all around them. Valdrik was the first to gather his things from the ground. Liv and Einar followed suit and grabbed their few things.

  “I’m not sure we should stay here,” Valdrik wondered aloud. “Maybe wolves had a den nearby or something.”

  “I’m creeped out too, but where do we go?” Einar replied.

  “We could try and make our way back to the edge of the wood. It might be getting close to first light,” Liv suggested. “But that’s a pretty great way to get lost too.”

  Valdrik considered their options for a moment. Now that the fire had been extinguished, the cold had started to bear down on them with a vengeance. Valdrik felt his instincts telling him to stamp his feet and keep moving. It was only going to get colder until the first light of dawn.

  “I think we take our chances—trust our instincts. At least we’ll feel a little warmer if we’re moving,” Valdrik offered, breaking the brief silence.

  “Well, what are your instincts telling you about which direction we should go?” Liv asked with a bit of sarcasm.

  “I don’t know. Any direction feels better than staying bloody still, doesn’t it?” he replied. Liv couldn’t disagree with that, so Valdrik tried to head back roughly the way he remembered coming to the rocky outcropping. As they groped and picked their way through the darkness, the oppressive dread that had filled him back at the rocks faded slightly, suggesting to Valdrik that they had made the right choice.

  Just keep moving, he thought to himself.

  After what felt like a very long walk, although not much time had truly passed, the group came upon a small clearing that gave them pause.

  The trees, thick with ancient bark, formed a perfect ring, their twisted roots threading into one another like grasping fingers buried in the earth.

  The moonlight cast long, ghostly shadows across the cleared space giving Valdrik a renewed sense of dread. Something about this place felt secret—perhaps sacred. Either way, the atmosphere of the clearing communicated to him, in no uncertain terms, that they should not be there.

  “What do you think this place is? Liv asked.

  “Maybe it’s where Erynn’s Women come to make those sacrifices. I mean, we’ve all watched those ceremonies where those women walk into the woods with the birds and then come back out covered in blood and—” Valdrik cut off Einar with a terse wave of his hand. Valdrik succeeded in getting Einar and Liv’s attention and motioned for them to look across the clearing.

  Something was watching them.

  Valdrik felt it before he saw it—a pressure at the base of his skull, a crawling loathing that seeped into his bones.

  And then a figure emerged.

  An enormous shape, unnaturally tall and gaunt, half-seen in the thin moonlight. A cloak clung to its skeletal frame, black as the void, the hood casting its face into shadow—except for two sunken eyes, fixed and unblinking. A stench of decay hit them like a wave, thick and suffocating.

  The air turned sharp and brittle.

  Liv gasped. Einar stood frozen, lips parted in a silent curse.

  The thing stepped forward, slow, deliberate, inexorable—the shadows bending as it moved. A deep, inhuman cold sank into Valdrik’s chest as if the very air was draining the warmth from his body, hollowing him out from the inside.

  Then, his breath caught—his limbs refused to move.

  Paralyzed.

  The thing came closer.

  It was going to reach them—going to touch them, and Valdrik knew, with a terrible certainty, that if it did, they would never leave this forest.

  His voice tore free in a raw scream.

  “Run!”

  The trance shattered.

  They bolted, tearing through the underbrush in a blind, desperate flight. The trees closed in, branches clawing at their faces, the undergrowth twisting beneath their feet as if trying to drag them down.

  The forest didn’t want to let them go.

  They dodged left and right, running blindly as though their very lives depended on it. The figure haunted his thoughts, even as he fled from it. He could see it in his mind, long and thin, cloaked in black and trailing death like an aura. He hadn’t imagined it. He couldn’t have imagined it. Everything about it was too real and too terrifying for it to be a simple figment of his imagination. He felt the cold grip him again, seizing his heart in an iron vice as though he were back in the clearing, standing helpless before the robed figure.

  Valdrik’s lungs burned, his pulse hammering in his ears as the treeline rushed toward them—dawn just barely breaking over the distant mountains to the east, the first bits of darkness being cast from the world. His foot caught a root, and for a sickening moment, he stumbled—before Einar’s grip yanked him forward.

  And then—the trees broke open, and they were free.

  Cold air rushed over them, the familiar shapes of Askholm’s rooftops barely visible in the dawn light. They collapsed onto the damp earth, chests heaving, the weight of the forest’s presence lifting but not gone.

  Valdrik turned to look back.

  The treeline was empty. Silent. Waiting.

  The dare had been completed.

  But Gorm and the others had long since gone home.

  It had all been for nothing.

  Or worse—

  It had meant something.