Chapter Two

  Almost two weeks had passed since the waves threw him onto Islehaim’s rugged shores. The bruises faded, bones mended, and strength returned to his limbs. Ryder could finally stand without pain, though the ghost of the escape still clung to his breath in the cold mornings.

  The village was small, ringed by pine forests and carved from timber and stone. Its people spoke a tongue Ryder now understood in fragments, enough to know when to nod, when to feign ignorance. But there was no hiding under the eyes of Gorm.

  That morning, the old warrior stood outside the longhouse, arms crossed as snow flurried through his beard. Ryder approached with careful steps, a borrowed wool cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

  “You can walk now,” Gorm said without turning. “Good.”

  There was a silence between them. Wind stirred the branches above.

  Then Gorm looked at him.

  “You have two choices, Ryder. You can walk—any direction you wish. Sea’s not far. Forest, mountains… they all wait.”

  Ryder stayed still. He already knew there was a but coming.

  “Or,” Gorm continued, “you stay. But if you do, it’s not as simple as eating our food and sitting by the fire. Islehaim doesn’t carry strangers. You’d work. You’d fight if it comes to it. You’d earn your name in the village, or not at all.”

  Ryder looked beyond Gorm, toward the path that curved into the trees. He’d run through forests darker than these, through blood and betrayal. But running again meant leaving behind a place that, for the first time in years, offered silence instead of orders… warmth instead of masks.

  “What happens,” Ryder asked, “if someone doesn’t like what I’ve done… before I came here?”

  Gorm’s face stayed unreadable. “Then you better hope you’ve done enough here to be worth forgiving.”

  Another gust of wind passed between them.

  Ryder nodded once.

  “I’ll stay.”

  Gorm gave a single grunt, like he’d expected nothing else.

  “Good. Tomorrow, we work.”

  The sky had turned to ash-blue, stars pricking through the veil of dusk. Smoke coiled from the forge chimney, and the sound of hammering had long since gone quiet. The village lay wrapped in silence, save for the occasional call of an owl or the shifting of snow on timber roofs.

  Ryder sat on the wooden bench outside the longhouse, shoulders wrapped in a roughspun cloak. His eyes traced the treeline in the distance, where the shadows grew thicker and deeper, like memories he didn’t dare follow.

  Elva approached quietly, as she always did, her steps light but certain. She held two carved wooden cups, steam rising from both. She offered one to him without a word.

  He took it, nodding softly. “Thank you.”

  They sat side by side. For a long while, they just listened to the stillness. The drink was some warm herbal blend — bitter, floral, calming. It didn’t taste like anything from the Talcroft coasts.

  “You understand more of our tongue now,” she said at last, breaking the silence.

  “I’m trying,” he replied. “You speak slower than the others.”

  “I speak kindly,” she said with a faint smile, not quite teasing.

  He glanced at her. The firelight from inside the hut painted her hair in gold and copper. She looked tired, but peaceful — the kind of peace he’d forgotten could exist.

  “You don’t ask questions,” Ryder said. “Not like the others.”

  Elva shrugged. “If you want to speak, you will. If not, the woods keep their secrets too.”

  Ryder chuckled under his breath. “I’m not sure if that makes me feel safer or more suspicious.”

  A small breeze passed between them. She sipped from her cup, then asked, “Why did you really decide to stay?”

  He paused, fingers tightening slightly around the cup. Then he said, “I’m tired of running.”

  She didn’t press further. She didn’t have to.

  After a moment, she leaned against his shoulder, just slightly — not enough to demand, just enough to offer warmth. And Ryder didn’t move away.

  There, in the hush of that cold Islehaim evening, with the stars overhead and the forest whispering beyond the ridge, the silence between them was not empty. It was whole.

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  The frost still clung to the ground as dawn stretched over Grimhold. Smoke drifted from longhouse chimneys, mingling with the scent of pine and sea air. Ryder walked beside Gorm in silence, the smith’s heavy boots crunching on the frozen soil. The village stirred slowly—children chasing each other around poles, women fetching water, old men sharpening blades from worn stools.

  Ryder kept his hood low. Though most faces in Grimhold had grown used to seeing him, suspicion still lingered in the eyes of some. A stranger healed in the home of the village smith and his daughter wasn’t common. A stranger who refused to speak much of his past was even less so.

  Gorm didn’t speak until they reached the gates of the Highhall. “Speak plain,” he grunted. “Jarl Ulrich isn’t fond of riddles.”

  “I never liked riddles either,” Ryder muttered. “Especially not the kind that kill.”

  Gorm glanced sideways, then pushed open the heavy doors of the Highhall.

  Inside, warmth greeted them. Fire roared in the central hearth, and tapestries of battles past hung on the wooden walls. Jarl Ulrich sat on his carved seat of blackened oak, legs apart, hands resting on a fur-lined armrest. His braided beard showed streaks of silver, but the eyes above it were sharp and calculating.

  Two warriors flanked him. Neither looked pleased to see Ryder.

  “Gorm,” Ulrich said, nodding once. “And the man from the sea.”

  Ryder bowed slightly, his voice even. “Ryder. I’ve come to offer my hands to your village. If you’ll have them.”

  Ulrich studied him for a moment, as if weighing the man in front of him against a list of unspoken sins. “Gorm speaks for you. That counts for something. But this land… it tests men. Not with words. With work. With blood.” He leaned forward. “You’ll serve under Hrolf. The hunters need an extra blade. You go tomorrow.”

  Ryder gave a short nod. “Understood.”

  Ulrich’s voice lowered just a hair. “And if your hands do anything but work and hunt—I’ll take them myself.”

  Ryder met his gaze. “Fair enough.”

  Gorm said nothing on the way out, but his pace had relaxed. For now, Ryder had a place.

  Ryder stepped out of the Highhall, his breath curling in the cold morning air. He barely took two steps before he saw her—Elva, waiting near the stone steps with someone beside her. A girl, younger than Elva by a couple of years, with a cascade of red hair tied in intricate braids, and piercing green eyes that locked on Ryder like a hawk watching prey.

  Wrapped lazily around her shoulders was a small white creature—fox-like, but its fur shimmered faintly, as if touched by frost or moonlight. It lifted its head and sniffed the air, then narrowed its curious eyes at Ryder.

  “There you are,” Elva said, offering him a soft smile. “I thought I’d walk you back—so you don’t get lost again.”

  Ryder returned the smile faintly, then looked to the girl beside her.

  “This is Astrid,” Elva continued, placing a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. “Astrid Ulrichsdotir. The Jarl’s daughter.”

  Astrid didn’t smile. She looked him up and down with that same sharp gaze her father wore.

  “You’re the stranger who washed up with nothing but scars and secrets,” she said bluntly. “And now you're part of our hunt.”

  Ryder raised a brow, trying to decide whether to match her tone or deflect it. “Seems your father thinks I might be useful.”

  “He thinks you’ll either earn your place,” Astrid said coolly, “or die trying.”

  The creature on her shoulder gave a soft purring click, brushing its head against her neck like a cat. She stroked it absentmindedly as she continued staring at Ryder.

  Elva chuckled gently, nudging Astrid with her elbow. “Don’t mind her. She’s protective.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Ryder said. “But I’ve dealt with worse.”

  Astrid folded her arms. “We’ll see.”

  Elva sighed. “Come on. You two can try not to kill each other on the way back.”

  They began walking through the village, snow crunching beneath their boots, and the strange creature’s silver tail trailing along Elva’s shoulder. Ryder walked quietly, but his mind was alert. The Jarl’s daughter. Watchful. Smart. And already suspicious of him.

  The snow crunched softly under their boots as the trio walked beyond the village’s edge, down the winding path that led to the shore. The wind carried the scent of brine and pine, sharp and clean, as gulls wheeled above the frozen coast. Elva led them in silence, her eyes distant, as if retracing every step she had taken on that storm-struck morning.

  “This is where I found you,” she said finally, stopping near a jagged pile of driftwood and wreckage scattered across the black-pebbled beach. “You were barely breathing. Half-covered in seaweed. The tide had pulled you in.”

  Ryder stepped forward slowly, scanning the debris-strewn shoreline. His brow furrowed, something stirring at the edge of his memory—fragments he tried to ignore but couldn’t quite bury. His boots crunched on the frost-laced sand as he moved closer to the wreckage, gaze searching for anything… anything familiar.

  That was when the silence was broken by a soft chitter.

  The white creature on Astrid’s shoulders perked up, ears flicking. In a blur of motion, it leapt down and scurried toward the wreckage with startling speed. It darted under a shattered timber, sniffed once, then disappeared beneath the wood.

  “What’s it doing?” Ryder asked, watching.

  Astrid’s brow furrowed. “He does that sometimes. Finds things.”

  Moments later, the creature emerged again—its slender body wriggling out from under a collapsed beam. Clutched in its small mouth was something glinting silver.

  It bounded back to Astrid and dropped the object into her gloved hand.

  She turned it over.

  A silver medallion, tarnished and sea-worn, but unmistakable. Etched into its surface was a spiral sigil of interwoven lines—geometric, elegant, ancient.

  Astrid’s expression shifted, her eyes narrowing. “This is… Arian.”

  Elva moved closer. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” She held it up to the light. “This pattern—it’s their craftsmanship. I’ve seen it before in the archives. It’s not something you’d find in Talcroft. And definitely not here.”

  Astrid turned to Ryder slowly, eyes sharp once more. “You dropped this?”

  Ryder took a step forward, staring at the medallion like it was a ghost.

  “I didn’t think it survived,” he murmured.

  Elva tilted her head. “It’s yours?”

  Ryder hesitated. “It was… my mother’s.”

  Astrid’s fingers closed around the medallion, but she didn’t hand it back immediately. Her green eyes lingered on Ryder, narrowing just slightly.

  “Your mother was Arian?” she asked, voice careful.

  Ryder didn’t answer at first. His gaze remained fixed on the medallion—its spiral lines a memory more vivid than he’d wanted them to be. He drew in a slow breath.

  “She was,” he said. “I barely remember her. She died when I was young.”

  Astrid seemed to study him differently now. Not with hostility, but caution laced with curiosity. “Arian blood doesn’t mix lightly with ours,” she said. “Even less with Talcroft.”

  Elva looked at Astrid sharply. “He’s not from Talcroft.”

  Ryder’s eyes flicked to her, then back to the sea. “No. I’m not.”

  Astrid glanced at Elva’s protective tone, her brows lifting ever so slightly. The white creature on her shoulder made a soft trill and curled around her neck again, tail flicking.

  Without another word, Astrid extended the medallion. Ryder took it gently from her palm.

  The weight of it surprised him—heavier than he remembered. Colder. He ran a thumb over the etched lines and closed his fingers around it.

  “I shouldn’t have survived,” he muttered, barely audible.

  “But you did,” Elva said softly. “And for a reason.”

  Astrid crossed her arms. “You’ll have to tell the Jarl eventually. Where you’re from. What that is.” She nodded at the medallion. “Secrets don’t live long in Islehaim.”

  Ryder looked at her, something unreadable in his eyes. “Some secrets keep people alive.”

  Astrid didn’t respond, but her stare lingered a second longer before she turned away, walking slowly back up the path.

  Elva stood beside him quietly. The sea wind tugged at her braid as she watched Astrid go.

  “She means well,” she said. “But her eyes have been trained to see danger.”

  Ryder nodded. “And what do yours see?”

  Elva looked up at him. “Someone running from something.”

  Ryder didn’t argue. He tucked the medallion into the lining of his coat, and together they turned from the wreckage and began the walk back up the shore—snow crunching beneath their boots, the sea whispering behind them.

  The walk back to Grimhold was slow, quiet. Elva didn’t press him with more questions. She walked at his side, hands tucked into her cloak, her expression unreadable under the gray sky. Ryder kept his gaze forward, but his mind wandered—back to the wreckage, the weight of the medallion now resting like a stone against his chest.

  When they reached the edge of the village, the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed through the cold air—Gorm, likely back at the forge. Smoke coiled from chimneys, and the scent of meat roasting reached them faintly.

  Before they parted ways, Elva stopped near a frozen trough. She glanced sideways at him.

  “You should be careful around Astrid,” she said. “She’s quick to judge. But she listens to her father.”

  Ryder nodded. “I’ll stay out of her way.”

  “I didn’t say you had to.” Elva’s lips lifted slightly. “Just… don’t give her a reason to keep her bow trained on you.”

  A small laugh broke from him—dry and almost surprised. “I’ll try.”

  She stepped closer, brushing snow from his shoulder. Her hand lingered a moment longer than needed, then she stepped back.

  “Rest. Tomorrow they’ll find you something to do. The Jarl doesn't let idle hands sit long.”

  “Let me guess,” Ryder said. “Chopping wood. Hunting. Cleaning stables.”

  “Or digging latrines,” Elva said with a wry smirk. “Depends on how much he trusts you.”

  He watched her walk away, her braid swinging gently with each step. When she glanced over her shoulder, he was still standing there, watching.

  Back in the hut, Ryder sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. He pulled the medallion from inside his coat and turned it in his fingers once more. The Arian sigil shimmered faintly in the firelight.

  He remembered her hands—his mother’s—pressing it into his, whispering something in that old, lilting tongue before the world went dark.

  His fingers clenched around it.