The axe’s weight was reassuring, the solid wood handle warm against her palm. Vigdis leaned it against her shoulder as she walked, her boots crunching over a thick carpet of pine needles. The forest smelled of earth and sap, the early morning sun filtering through the trees in golden beams. Somewhere nearby, birdsong echoed—a reminder that the world wasn’t all bad, not yet.
She was sixteen. Her arms were lean and strong from years of hauling firewood and drawing a bow. Her skin was sun-kissed, her features sharp but softened by her youth. Black hair, perpetually messy, framed a face dusted with freckles that stood out just enough to catch the eye without overwhelming her complexion. Her eyes were a piercing green, bright and full of life, even in the midst of the world she’d been born into. There was a fierceness in her gaze that people often mistook for boldness, but her father always said it was determination.
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“Here,” her father said, stopping to point at a fallen tree. He had a way of turning every chore into a lesson. “Look at the grain. Dry and straight—it’ll split easy. Good for the fire.”
Vigdis nodded, setting the axe down to test the bark with her fingers. She could already see where the first strike would land. “Think this’ll last the week?”
“If we’re lucky,” her father replied, wiping sweat from his brow. His face was lined with years of hard living, his beard flecked with gray. “But I want you to take the bow out tomorrow. Your mother spotted a herd near the eastern ridge.”
“I’ll bring back something,” Vigdis said, confident.
“Bring back more than last time,” he said, his voice teasing.
Her mother’s voice rang out from further down the path. “Kjell, don’t push her so hard!”
Vigdis turned to see her mother emerging from the trees, a bundle of herbs slung over one shoulder. Eira was shorter than her husband but no less formidable, her sharp blue eyes catching everything. Her long hair, streaked with gray, was tied back with a scrap of cloth.
“Let her work,” Kjell replied with a chuckle, waving a hand at his wife. “She’s tougher than I was at her age.”
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“Tougher than you are now,” Vigdis said with a grin, earning a snort of laughter from her mother.
“She gets that mouth from me,” Eira said, nudging Kjell as she passed him. “I’ll start on lunch. Don’t be long.”
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The village wasn’t much. Just a cluster of cabins surrounding a communal fire pit, tucked into the valley where the forest met the hills. There were maybe thirty people, all of them hardened survivors who’d banded together for safety. It wasn’t paradise, but they had enough. Enough to eat, enough to trade with passing caravans. Enough to hope.
Vigdis loved it, in her way. She loved the mornings spent tracking deer, the quiet evenings around the fire listening to old stories. She loved the way Kjell’s voice rumbled when he told jokes, the rare sound of Eira laughing.
But things in the wasteland never stayed good for long.
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It was the smoke she noticed first, dark plumes rising over the ridge as she walked back with her bow slung over her shoulder and a hare tied to her belt. Her steps quickened, the unease gnawing at her stomach as the smell of burning wood reached her nose.
When she crested the hill and saw the flames, she froze. The village was ablaze, the cabins reduced to smoldering skeletons. Figures moved through the chaos—raiders, their faces painted with crude, black symbols.
Vigdis dropped the hare and ran. Her bow slipped from her shoulder as she sprinted, her breath ragged in her throat. She ignored the heat of the fire, the screams that tore through the air, the clash of weapons.
Her parents’ cabin was already gone, the roof collapsed, the door hanging from its hinges. She stumbled over the threshold, coughing as smoke filled her lungs.
“Ma? Pa?”
The only answer was silence.
Tears blurred her vision, hot and relentless, streaming down her soot-streaked cheeks. She clutched the doorframe as her knees threatened to buckle, choking on the weight of her desperation. But the heat of the flames and the sound of approaching footsteps reminded her that grief would have to wait.
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She didn’t remember much of what happened next. She remembered running, remembered the weight of the axe in her hands as she swung it wildly, remembered the crack of bone and the spray of blood. The raiders weren’t expecting resistance from a sixteen-year-old girl, and the shock of it bought her time to escape.
When she finally stopped running, she was alone. The village was a smoldering ruin behind her, the family she’d fought so hard to protect gone.
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The memory faded like smoke, leaving Vigdis staring at the horizon. She sat by her small fire, her wounds freshly bandaged, the crossbow resting at her side. The wasteland stretched out around her, cold and unforgiving, but for once, she allowed herself a moment of stillness.
She ran her fingers over the handle of her axe, her grip tightening as the weight of the memory settled in her chest.
“Ma would’ve called me useful,” she murmured, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. The humor was hollow, but it kept the pain at bay.
She looked to the sky, the stars bright and distant. The past was behind her, and the future was full of enemies she hadn’t yet met. But tonight, she let herself rest.