Chapter Five

  Jarl Ulrich stood tall at the end of the dock, wrapped in a thick wolfskin cloak as the cold salt wind tousled his braided beard. His boots thudded heavily against the old wood planks, echoing louder with every step toward the merchant vessel. The ship had been docked too long for his liking — and the presence of its peculiar passengers weighed on him like a stormcloud.

  Valdis stood on deck with arms crossed, her crimson braid like a slash of flame against the gray sky. Beside her, Argus rested one hand on the pommel of his sword, posture relaxed but alert.

  "Merchant vessels come and go," Ulrich said, voice rough and thunderous, "but they don't linger this long unless they’ve got something to hide."

  Valdis gave a small smile. "We’re not hiding, Jarl. We’re searching."

  He narrowed his eyes. "Searching for what?"

  "A shipwreck," she answered plainly. "One that sank a few weeks ago. It was headed west from the Talcroft coast. We believe it may have wrecked near your shores. We're looking for a survivor — a man named Ravyn."

  Ulrich didn't blink. "That name means nothing to me."

  Valdis’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you sure no one with that name was found?”

  "Plenty of wrecks on our shores," the Jarl said, stepping closer, voice lowering like distant thunder. "But none have walked away in moons. When the sea takes a man, it keeps him."

  Argus shifted slightly, scanning the harbor — not convinced, not dismissive either. But Ulrich turned his back without further word.

  "Your ship stays two more days. No longer. My docks are not for lingering ghosts." He walked back toward the village, heavy steps marking his certainty.

  Valdis watched him leave, her lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s lying,” she muttered.

  “Or he truly doesn’t know,” Argus replied. “Either way... we’ll find the truth. If Ravyn’s alive, he left a trail.”

  And from somewhere along the snowy path above, unseen, a quiet figure watched them go — and disappeared into the woods.

  The wind had shifted. That morning it carried a sharp salt bite, stirring old memories and wariness through Grimhold’s stone-blooded streets. Fishermen muttered under their breath as they passed the merchant ship, its hull too clean, its crew too quiet. It had lingered for days now, claiming trade yet selling little. And now, strangers walked among them, not with coin in hand but questions.

  Inside the longhall, the hearth cracked with slow-burning pine. Argus sat on a bench near the flames, his back straight, but his expression weighed with frustration. The local tongue twisted clumsily in his mouth. He could fight like ten men and track footprints in falling snow, but the words—these words—he couldn’t bend to his will.

  He glanced at the old man stirring a pot nearby. A hunter, judging by the skinning knife at his hip.

  “You—seen... outsider?” Argus asked, pausing to think. “From... sea. Shipwreck, maybe.”

  The hunter didn’t answer at first. He blew on the steaming ladle, then slurped the broth and set the ladle down with care.

  “We get plenty o’ driftwood,” he said, eyes never meeting Argus. “Some bones too. Sea don’t give back the living easy.”

  Argus’s jaw tensed. “Not bones. Man. Dark hair. Lean. Not from here.”

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  Another man beside the hearth glanced up. “You looking for a ghost?”

  Argus’s lips parted, but he held his tongue. Instead, he reached for his waterskin and drank, letting the smoke and silence stretch. Watching. Listening. He'd learned to read between words.

  They were hiding something.

  ---

  Meanwhile, across the village, Valdis moved like a wind beneath furs, silent but not unseen. Her eyes missed little. The forge. The docks. The smokehouse. She asked politely, never repeating herself, but always watching the face behind the answer.

  To a baker’s wife:

  “Any shipwrecks, in recent moons?”

  “No, just a rowboat. Broken up. No one inside.”

  To the tanner:

  “New hunters? Outsiders?”

  “We don’t keep track of every pelt-wearer who passes through.”

  But her focus never wavered. Every refusal felt rehearsed, too practiced. Someone in this village had lied before. Someone was protecting something.

  Still, she smiled faintly, thanked them in their tongue, and moved on.

  ---

  Up the ridge, where the cliffs met wind and open sea, Astrid sat with Elva on the stones. A few gulls cried in the distance, their shadows gliding across the tide-smoothed rocks below. The white spirit-creature, her silent companion, curled contentedly around her shoulders.

  “She asked me again,” Astrid said. “The woman in blue. Pale eyes. She’s looking for someone.”

  Elva turned from the horizon, her expression careful. “And what did you say?”

  “The truth. That I’ve never heard that name. Ravyn.” Astrid tilted her head. “She’s not just searching. She’s hunting. There’s old magic about her—quiet, but ancient. She looked at me like she knew what I am. Or maybe just suspected.”

  Elva's hand curled slightly at her side, but she kept her tone neutral. “And you believe her?”

  Astrid’s green eyes flicked toward her. “I believe she’s dangerous. But I don’t think she knows what she’s stepped into.”

  A gust of wind scattered the gulls into the sky.

  “She said something odd,” Astrid added. “About a wreck. Said she was told someone might’ve survived.”

  Elva's gaze turned distant. She said nothing. But beneath her cloak, her fingers brushed the edge of a letter—creased and worn from being read too many times.

  The wind turned sharp as evening crept over the high ridges. Ryder and Einar trudged through frost-laced brush, eyes scanning the sparse, winter-thinned woods. No deer tracks. No fresh droppings. Even the birds were quiet.

  Einar lowered his bow, brow furrowing.

  "Something's off. This place isn't right."

  Ryder was about to agree when a brittle crack echoed through the trees — not from wood, but from something snapping under weight. Then another.

  Too deliberate. Too slow.

  Einar nocked an arrow and whispered, “You hear that?”

  Ryder nodded once, already turning his stance, scanning the gray undergrowth.

  A shape stepped into view.

  It was a man — or once had been. Pale, with tattered fur hanging from blue-veined limbs. Its face was a skull half-swallowed by frostbitten flesh. Hollow sockets burned faintly, like stars lost in fog. Behind it, two more staggered forward.

  "Vardlings," Einar muttered, voice thick with dread.

  The creatures moved with jerking steps, almost confused — but as Einar raised his bow, they screamed. Not with mouths — but from deep inside their broken chests. A sound like ice cracking beneath one's feet.

  The first Vardling lunged.

  Einar loosed an arrow. It struck the creature’s neck but didn’t stop it. Ryder drew his hunting knife, teeth clenched. He ducked under the Vardling’s swing and buried the blade in its ribs, but it barely flinched.

  Behind him, one of the other Vardlings slammed Einar to the snow. Ryder turned in time to see his friend wrestle the thing’s weight, its jagged teeth snapping inches from his face.

  Ryder’s pulse thundered. The forest faded. Just him. The cold. And the sound of Einar choking.

  He reached inside — not consciously — but out of instinct.

  And it answered.

  A flicker of violet pulsed beneath his skin. The snow around his feet swirled unnaturally. His eyes burned for a heartbeat with deep light.

  With a shout, Ryder raised his hand — a ripple of force burst outward. The nearest Vardling was hurled back, crashing through a tree like driftwood on waves. The others faltered, hissing, before retreating into the dusk-dark woods.

  The power vanished just as quickly. Ryder stood panting, hand trembling, the air around him suddenly still again.

  Einar gasped, pulling himself up. “What in the bloody Hel was that?”

  Ryder didn’t answer. Not right away. He stared at the broken tree and the vanishing purple glow fading from his palm.

  “Lucky strike,” he said coldly, already turning away. “We need to move.”

  The fire cracked low, sending small embers spiraling into the night. Their camp was tucked beneath the jagged overhang of a moss-covered rock, sheltered from the wind that howled through the dark trees above.

  Einar sat hunched, rubbing the bruises on his arm where the Vardling had tackled him. Across from him, Ryder was sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The sound of stone on metal filled the silence.

  Finally, Einar spoke.

  "You want to tell me what the hel that was back there?"

  Ryder didn’t look up. “What?”

  “Don’t play dumb. I saw it. You threw that thing like it weighed nothing. I’ve seen berserkers. I’ve seen madmen on mushrooms. That wasn’t it.”

  Still, Ryder said nothing. He flipped the knife and checked the edge, his face unreadable.

  Einar leaned forward, his voice quieter now, more serious. “Ryder. I’ve been hunting beside you for two weeks. You move like a warrior, not a hunter. And now this. If we’re gonna keep riding out together, I need to know what kind of man’s watching my back.”

  Ryder paused. He placed the knife down on his bedroll and finally met Einar’s eyes.

  “I don’t know what you saw,” he said flatly. “Maybe it was the cold. Maybe fear made us both imagine something.”

  Einar snorted. “Bullshit.”

  Ryder’s jaw tightened. “You want the truth?” he asked, voice low.

  Einar nodded.

  “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Been places I can’t go back to. Whatever happened today… it’s a part of that. A part I’m trying to bury.”

  Einar sat back, letting that settle between them. The fire crackled again, its light dancing across the stone.

  “So,” he finally said, “you’re not gonna tell me.”

  Ryder gave a small, bitter smile. “No. But I didn’t let you die, did I?”

  Einar laughed quietly, rubbing his beard. “No. You didn’t.”

  The tension broke slightly. Einar leaned back against the rock, pulling his fur cloak tighter.

  “Fine,” he said. “Keep your secrets, hunter. Just don’t let me wake up with glowing eyes and antlers.”

  Ryder smirked. “No promises.”

  They both stared into the fire for a long while, letting the silence return. But the unease lingered — not in Einar, who had seen strange things in his life — but in Ryder, who had felt the power stir again. Who knew it wouldn’t be the last time.