Chapter Four

  Two weeks passed, and the chill of Islehaim’s wind no longer bit at Ryder the way it once did. Each morning he woke before dawn, slung his bow across his shoulder, and joined the hunting parties. Among them, one man had grown closer to him than the rest—Einar, broad-shouldered and red-bearded, with laughter in his lungs and a reckless grin that reminded Ryder of Argus. But Einar carried none of the discipline or storm-cloud weight that Argus had. He was wild, untamed, a born hunter who joked even as wolves howled at their backs.

  Ryder liked him more than he would admit.

  It was on a frost-heavy morning that Jarl Ulrich summoned them both. His voice was low but carried the edge of concern.

  “The deer have moved. Too far north. Too far, too fast. I need men I trust to find out why.”

  So Ryder and Einar were sent—packed with supplies, furs, and salted fish—to the outer edges of Islehaim, toward the Veiled Pines, a vast stretch of old forest where the snow swallowed sound and men vanished without a trace.

  As they hiked beyond the last smoke trails of Grimhold, the woods grew stranger. The trees here were older, twisted in shapes that whispered of forgotten spirits. Ryder felt it in his chest—the silence, too heavy for any forest.

  They tracked deer prints through shallow snow, but the animals always stayed one step ahead, as if something else had scared them off. Einar knelt by a frozen stream, brushing his fingers over broken twigs and disturbed moss.

  “They’re running from something,” he muttered, gaze narrowing.

  Ryder nodded. “But what hunts them... isn’t us.”

  They both glanced toward the deeper woods—toward a shadow that lingered just out of sight.

  And for the first time in many days, Ryder felt the weight of danger again. Not from men in cloaks or memories steeped in blood—but from something primal. Something ancient.

  They tightened their grips on their weapons and pressed forward, following the trail into the hush of the pines.

  At the same time, while Ryder and Einar were vanishing deeper into the snowbound forest, a merchant ship docked at the small harbor of Grimhold. Its sails were damp with salt and wind, bearing the golden insignia of Talcroft’s merchant guild. Most of the villagers paid it little mind—trade ships came rarely, but they were not unheard of. Barrels were offloaded, crates rolled to the shore, and among the bustle stepped two cloaked figures—a tall, grim man with storm-colored eyes and a woman whose very presence drew glances.

  Valdis’ boots touched the frost-covered dock with elegance, her violet eyes scanning the modest village. Beside her walked Argus, thick-built and powerful as a boulder, wearing a scowl etched from habit more than anger.

  They moved through Grimhold with quiet purpose, knocking on doors, speaking to anyone who would open them.

  “We’re looking for a man,” Valdis told the tanner’s wife, her accent gone, flawless in the northern tongue. “Mid-twenties. Pale eyes. Black hair. May go by the name Ravyn.”

  The woman shook her head, confused. “There’s no man like that here.”

  At another house, a fisherman squinted at the pair and muttered, “Ravyn? Never heard of him.”

  They tried again, and again—each time Valdis’ questions grew colder, more precise. Her words laced with an unnatural calm. Argus, meanwhile, struggled. His grasp of the language was clumsy, thick with the Talcroft dialect. He relied on gestures, simple phrases, and the tension of his presence to intimidate.

  None of it worked.

  No one knew the name Ravyn. And those who might have known the face did not dare speak.

  From across the village, Gorm stood at his forge, hammer resting idle in his hand. He watched them—the woman with the unnerving grace and the man built like a warhorse—move through Grimhold like wolves among sheep.

  He said nothing.

  Just turned away, sparks from the forge casting flickers across his face.

  He knew. Not everything. But enough. And if Ravyn had chosen to bury his past in Islehaim’s snow... Gorm wouldn’t be the one to dig it back up.

  Not yet.

  Valdis moved like mist—silent, calculating, eyes drinking in every crack in the village's surface. But after nearly a full day of dead ends and indifferent stares, even she began to feel it: Ravyn’s trace was cold. His magic had vanished into the sea, as if the waters themselves had swallowed his soul. Yet something still tugged at her instincts—something old, subtle... watching.

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  With Argus growing restless, Valdis left him behind and walked alone toward a stretch of shore the villagers spoke of only in whispers: the Bay of Spears—where the waves gnawed at jagged rocks and the ghosts of shattered ships clung to the mists.

  That was when she saw her.

  A red-haired girl, perhaps no older than twenty, walking along the shore with a white, lizard-like creature coiled around her neck like a living scarf. Its ears flicked, tail swaying with every step. The girl bent to collect herbs from the frost-covered rocks, unaware she was being watched.

  But Valdis felt it—a pulse, faint but ancient. The kind of magic not taught in Talcroft or Aria. It wasn’t the girl. Not directly. It was that creature—a familiar spirit, bound by pact or blood. Its essence shimmered faintly beneath the veil of reality.

  An enchantress, Valdis thought, her lips barely twitching. Or something close.

  She took a step forward, letting her boots crunch deliberately against the frozen shore.

  The red-haired girl—Astrid Ulrichsdotir—turned sharply, eyes narrowing. Her hand brushed the small dagger at her belt, but she didn’t draw it.

  Valdis offered a slow, measured smile.

  “Beautiful day,” she said in near-perfect northern tongue.

  Astrid didn’t return the smile. The little creature on her shoulders hissed softly, its fur bristling.

  Valdis felt the ripple of tension in the air—something sacred guarded this girl, even if she didn’t understand it fully. And Valdis had no intention of challenging it… not yet.

  She would keep watching. Because even if Ravyn was buried somewhere in this island's snow and silence… magic left echoes. And this red-haired girl might hold the first one.

  Valdis stepped closer, boots crunching over gravel and broken shells. The sea behind them whispered like a ghost, dragging strands of wind through their hair.

  Astrid didn’t flinch, but her green eyes stayed sharp, wary—watching the stranger as the white creature on her shoulders coiled tighter, clearly uneasy.

  Valdis tilted her head, gaze still locked on Astrid. “I’m looking for someone,” she said calmly, her voice even, precise. “His name is Ravyn. About my age. Black hair, lean build. Has a way of disappearing when you blink.”

  Astrid blinked once, slow and guarded. “Never heard that name,” she said in her native tongue.

  Valdis understood the words, even if they were thick with accent and distance. Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but calculation.

  She shifted her approach. “Then maybe you’ve seen someone—anyone—new around here in the past few weeks?”

  Astrid didn’t answer right away. She looked out toward the jagged rocks of the Bay of Spears, where broken ships still jutted from the water like bones. Her hand came up to gently stroke her spirit companion’s fur, grounding herself.

  Finally, she said, “There was a wreck. Maybe two weeks ago. Storm tore the sea apart.”

  Valdis’s fingers twitched. “And survivors?”

  Astrid shook her head, firm. “None. Or so we thought.”

  A flicker of something passed between them.

  Valdis tilted her head, sensing the catch. “What do you mean?”

  Astrid hesitated just long enough to make it obvious. Then her eyes hardened.

  “Only wood and corpses washed ashore,” she said. “No names. No signs. You should leave. Winter grows cruel here, and strangers are watched closely.”

  The creature on her shoulders gave a low, almost humanlike growl.

  Valdis nodded slowly, memorizing the rhythm of Astrid’s words, the small lie tucked inside her calm.

  She knows something. Maybe not much… but something.

  “I appreciate your honesty,” Valdis said with a thin smile. “Truly.”

  She turned and began to walk back up the icy path, her cloak fluttering in the wind, her boots leaving no more than soft impressions in the frost.

  Behind her, Astrid watched until she vanished into the haze—then turned quickly, her pace quickening toward Grimhold.

  She needed to find Elva.

  Astrid moved quickly through the narrow paths of the Grimhold market, her boots skipping over frozen mud and gravel. The docks bustled with life—fishmongers calling out their catch, traders unloading barrels, and locals haggling over fur and mead. But Astrid’s eyes scanned only for one thing: Elva.

  She spotted her near the merchant’s ship, standing by a stall draped in weather-worn fabrics. Elva held a worn leather bracer in one hand, inspecting the stitching carefully. Probably looking for something for Ryder again—something practical, something he wouldn’t admit he needed.

  “Elva!” Astrid called, her tone sharper than usual.

  Elva turned, surprised. “Astrid? What’s wrong?”

  Astrid reached her, out of breath, her creature still perched on her shoulders, tail flicking.

  “That woman,” Astrid said. “The red-headed one asking questions?”

  Elva nodded slowly. “Yes, I saw her talking to the blacksmith too. She gave me a strange feeling. Why?”

  “She spoke to me,” Astrid said, her voice low. “Asked about someone named Ravyn. Described him like she knew him. Like she was hunting him.”

  Elva’s face paled slightly. Her fingers tightened around the bracer. “Did you say anything?”

  Astrid shook her head. “No. Told her there were no survivors from the wreck. But she didn’t believe me. She’s clever, Elva. Too clever.”

  Elva glanced toward the ship, unease curling in her gut. “Where is she now?”

  “Gone. For now. But she’ll be watching.”

  Elva stared out over the harbor, where the wind curled through the sails like ghost hands.

  “She can’t know,” she whispered. “Not about Ryder. Not yet.”

  Astrid stepped closer. “Then we keep him hidden. And we warn him.”

  Elva nodded once, eyes sharp with the same quiet fire that had helped her drag Ryder from the sea.

  “I’ll find him now,” she said. “Before she does.”

  Elva moved quickly through the village, heart thudding with urgency. The sky had begun to shift—pale gray smeared with the soft pinks of the nearing dusk. She found Hrolf outside his home, hunched over a slab of meat he was preparing for curing.

  “Hrolf!” she called.

  The old hunter looked up, blinking at her sudden approach. “Elva? What is it?”

  “I need to send a message,” she said, eyes scanning the sky. “You still keep a bond-eagle, don’t you?”

  He straightened with a grunt. “Aye, Stormclaw. Why?”

  She reached into her pouch, pulling out a folded bit of parchment and a bit of red wax. “It’s for Ryder. There’s someone dangerous here, looking for a man named Ravyn. She’s not from here—and she’s clever. I don’t want him caught off guard.”

  Hrolf didn’t ask questions—he’d known Elva long enough to trust her judgment. With a nod, he took the message and whistled sharply.

  Within moments, the sky answered. A great eagle, feathers the color of thunderclouds, descended with grace and power, landing on the wooden post beside the house. Elva carefully tied the message to the bird’s leg.

  “Find him,” she said softly. “Find Ryder.”

  Stormclaw launched into the air with a fierce cry and vanished over the rooftops, heading for the distant woodlands.

  Deep in the forest

  Ryder crouched low beside Einar, both of them half-covered in brush and breathing slow. Their bows were drawn, eyes tracking a faint trail—broken twigs, fresh droppings, a scrape on a low trunk.

  “Deer’s near,” Einar whispered. “We spook it, and it’s gone.”

  Ryder nodded silently, gaze scanning ahead.

  But something tugged at him. Not a sound—something deeper, instinctual. Like he was being watched. Or followed. He turned his head slightly—

  And caught sight of the eagle swooping low through the trees, heading straight for him.

  He lowered his bow just as Stormclaw landed nearby, sharp eyes locking with his. The message on its leg was unmistakable.

  Einar raised a brow. “A bird with a message? From Grimhold?”

  Ryder’s jaw tightened as he moved to untie the scroll.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “But not just any message. This came from Elva.”

  Ryder unrolled the parchment, recognizing Elva’s steady hand at once. His eyes moved quickly across the page, each word striking with more weight than the last.

  “ Ryder,

  Something's wrong. A merchant ship arrived today, and with it came two strangers — a man and a woman. I don't know their names. The woman has red hair and eyes like frost, and the man carries himself like a soldier.

  They’ve been asking around, but not about you directly — not by the name we know. The woman spoke with Astrid, asking if she knew someone named Ravyn. Astrid told her no — and it was the truth.

  But the woman… she didn’t seem convinced. There's something cold about her. Watchful. Gorm saw them, too. He’s being careful, but none of us know what they’re truly after.

  Please, don’t come back to the village for a few days. Stay where it’s quiet. I’ll send word again when I know it’s safe.

  — Elva”

  He read the message again, slower this time.

  Einar leaned against a tree, chewing a blade of grass. “Let me guess — not good news.”

  Ryder folded the parchment and tucked it into his belt, his face unreadable. “Strangers in the village. Looking for a stranger.”

  Einar tilted his head. “They dangerous?”

  “Yes,” Ryder said, rising to his feet. “And worse — they’re clever. They know how to look without being seen.”

  The wind whispered through the pines, and Stormclaw launched again into the sky with a cry. Ryder watched it disappear, then looked at Einar.

  “Change of plans,” he said. “We stay out here longer than we planned. You alright with that?”

  Einar grinned. “Long as there’s a fire and meat by nightfall, I don’t care if we hunt till midsummer.”

  But Ryder’s expression didn’t change.

  He wasn’t worried about food.

  He was worried about the ghosts that had followed him across the sea… and the woman who knew his name.