Chapter One

  The scent of pine smoke and herbs filled his nose.

  Ravyn stirred slowly, every muscle in his body aching like it had been wrung out by the sea and left to dry. A soft crackle of fire came from somewhere nearby, casting orange light across the wooden beams overhead.

  He blinked, dazed. His skin felt warm, wrapped in thick furs. There was a weight to the air—heavy and quiet. Outside, the wind howled faintly, brushing against the hut like a distant whisper.

  He pushed himself upright with a groan. His bandaged shoulder screamed in protest. As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he took it all in—the thick log walls, the runes carved above the hearth, the hanging bundles of dried herbs and smoked fish.

  This wasn’t Talcroft. Not even Aria.

  Then he saw it—mounted on the inside of the door, plain as breath: a wooden mask, carved with animalistic features and hollow eyes. Cold and stoic.

  Islehaim.

  He exhaled slowly.

  He’d made it.

  But where exactly? He didn’t recognize the markings or the mask’s style—different from the warbands he’d read about. Less ornate, more tribal. His fingers brushed the edge of the fur blanket as he stood, legs unsteady beneath him.

  His clothes had been stripped—dried and cleaned, judging by the neatly folded tunic and cloak by the bed. His weapons, however, were gone. He checked instinctively. No blades. No smoke bombs. Only a small waterskin left by the side of the bed, and a carved wooden bowl with some kind of broth—still warm.

  Someone had saved him.

  Why?

  He stepped closer to the door, pressing a hand against the wood as the wind pushed against it from the outside. There were voices—faint and muffled, coming from beyond the walls.

  Ravyn narrowed his eyes, his instincts slowly returning, one by one.

  He was alive. Hunted. Weaponless. And in the heart of a land that didn’t welcome strangers.

  The soft creak of the door was followed by measured, almost hesitant steps—bare feet padding against the wooden floor.

  Ravyn’s breath slowed. He slid back down into the furs, his face relaxed, eyes nearly shut. Not a single muscle twitched.

  The footsteps grew closer.

  A faint scent of pine and smoke drifted around her. He caught the silhouette from the corner of his vision—slim frame, long hair braided over one shoulder. She couldn't have been more than twenty. Young, but moved with the surety of someone used to tending wounds and watching over sickbeds.

  She crouched beside him.

  Cool fingers brushed against his forehead, pressing gently. Her touch was careful, warm, lingering a second longer than it needed to. Her breath was soft, a hint of curiosity—or maybe concern.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Then she spoke, low and melodic in the island tongue.

  “Ikke feber... kanskje han v?kner snart...”

  Not fever… maybe he’ll wake soon.

  Ravyn's heart thudded once in his chest, but his face remained still. Her accent was thick, the cadence smooth, and though he barely understood the words, the tone gave enough away. No suspicion. No fear. Just a quiet observation.

  She stayed a moment longer, tucking the fur tighter around his shoulder. Then she rose and moved toward the hearth, stirring something in the iron pot hanging above the flames.

  Ravyn listened intently, eyes cracked just enough to see her. She wasn't a warrior—not like Valdis or the others—but there was a sharpness in the way she moved. Like a hawk pretending to be a songbird.

  The wooden ladle hovered just inches from his lips, steam curling from the bowl in her other hand. The scent struck him—chamomile, juniper, and something bitter underneath… pain root, maybe. An old healing brew. A common remedy in the north.

  Ravyn opened his eyes.

  In one swift motion, he caught her wrist mid-air.

  The girl gasped sharply, the bowl trembling in her grasp.

  She froze.

  Her eyes widened—clear, storm-gray, like the sea in winter—and for the first time, Ravyn saw the flicker of fear. Her lips parted, and she whispered something in her language, too fast for him to catch.

  Still gripping her wrist, he sat up slowly, trying not to seem threatening, though his voice came out rough:

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said in Talcroft tongue.

  She blinked, confused.

  Then tried again in Islehaim speech—halting, but deliberate.

  “You... not dead?”

  Ravyn loosened his grip and let go of her wrist.

  “No. Not yet,” he rasped, offering the ghost of a smirk.

  She stepped back, wary but no longer trembling, bowl still clutched tight to her chest. A few seconds passed before she spoke again, slower this time:

  “You… understand me?”

  “Some words,” Ravyn admitted. “Enough.”

  They stared at each other—two strangers caught in the flicker of firelight and a fragile moment of trust.

  Then, cautiously, the girl stepped forward again and extended the bowl toward him.

  “Drink. You… hurt.”

  Ravyn hesitated, then accepted it.

  He brought the bowl to his lips and drank. The liquid was bitter and floral, heat spreading through his chest. As he drank, he watched her—still uncertain if she was savior, captor, or something else entirely.

  But for now, she was the only one in this land who hadn’t tried to kill him. That was enough.

  Ravyn set the bowl down on the edge of the bed, its warmth still lingering in his hands. The girl stood nearby, watching him like someone might watch a wounded wolf—concerned, yet ready to bolt if he bared his teeth.

  “Where am I?” he asked, voice still scratchy from disuse.

  She tilted her head, trying to make sense of the words. He slowed them down, gesturing lightly with his hands.

  “Where. This. Place?”

  Her eyes lit with understanding. She pointed toward the wooden door, where faint sounds of sea wind and distant gulls whispered through the cracks.

  “Grimhold,” she said. “Village. You… found. In bay.*”

  Ravyn's brow furrowed. Grimhold. One of the coastal villages in the Islehaim archipelago. He had heard the name before—whispers from sailors and exiles. A place at the edge of the world, filled with superstitions, iron traditions, and monsters of old blood.

  He looked down at himself—his chest wrapped in clean linen, stitches peeking through at his side. His coat and leathers had been stripped away, likely drying somewhere near the hearth.

  “You… saved me?” he asked, tapping his chest, then motioning to her.

  She nodded slowly.

  “Me. Elva.”

  “Elva…” Ravyn repeated softly, memorizing the name. “I’m—”

  He stopped himself.

  Not Ravyn.

  Not here.

  “…Ryder,” he said after a pause. “Just Ryder.”

  Elva repeated it carefully, her accent lilting the syllables. “Rai-dar.”

  Ravyn gave a small, approving nod. It would do.

  She moved to the hearth and stirred the small pot still hanging above the flames, her presence quiet but confident. It was clear she wasn’t just some frightened girl tending to a stranger. There was strength in her—young, yes, but shaped by hardship, like most who grew up in lands as harsh as Islehaim.

  As he watched her work, Ravyn—Ryder—felt a strange sense of calm. He was hunted, wounded, and half a world from the shattered pieces of his life… and yet here, in this hut of smoke and wood and runes etched into the beams, something about the stillness settled his blood.

  But the shadows would find him. Sooner or later.

  And when they did, Ryder knew he’d have to choose:

  Keep running.

  Or stand and face the life he’d left behind.

  The door creaked open, cold wind slipping inside with a whisper of salt and pine. A towering figure stepped into the hut, ducking beneath the wooden frame. Across his broad shoulders lay the limp body of a deer, its antlers brushing the top of the door as he entered. Snowflakes clung to the furs around his collar, and his boots thudded against the floor with each heavy step.

  Elva turned immediately, speaking in the same Nordic tongue—quick, quiet words. The man looked from her to the stranger on the bed, his eyes narrowing beneath thick, frost-kissed brows. He dropped the deer to the ground with a heavy thump and stepped closer.

  Ravyn—Ryder—didn’t move. He simply watched.

  The man’s gaze was sharp, like someone who'd spent his life tracking prey, and for a long moment he said nothing. Then, in a deep and gravelled voice, he spoke.

  “Who is he?”

  Elva responded, placing a hand on the man’s arm and speaking softly, but firmly. The man grunted. His eyes returned to Ryder, piercing and full of questions.

  He spoke again, this time slower, in broken Talcroftian.

  “You. Name.”

  Ryder met his stare calmly. “Ryder.”

  The man’s jaw shifted, weighing the name like it was a fish he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep. Then he nodded once and pointed a thick finger toward the fire.

  “You stay. Heal. Not leave village. Not yet.”

  Ryder gave a slight nod, showing no defiance. The man looked satisfied enough with that and turned to deal with the deer, dragging it over to a heavy wooden table near the wall.

  “Elva,” he rumbled, “watch him.”

  She gave a quiet, knowing nod.

  As the man set to skinning the deer with a curved iron blade, Ryder leaned back, mind already spinning. That was no hunter—at least not just a hunter. The way he moved, the way he judged—this man was a warrior. Maybe a thane. Maybe more.

  And if Ryder was going to survive here… he’d need to know exactly who he’d just met.