The stone boat stopped its phantom rocking, and Ylva removed her hand from the prow. Max raised his head from between his legs. The landscape had changed; the hills and light woods were gone.
He looked around at the new scenery. He was in a cove nestled in a coastal valley, the high mountains to the east, and the deep green waters of the sea to the west. The stone boat they had sailed was now raised on a rocky beach.
The soft lapping of waves filled his ears, and the smell of salt in his nose settled his queasy stomach. The strange journey had taken a toll on him indeed.
He had no way of knowing just how far they had travelled, but he guessed it had to be at least several hundred miles.
Max slowly stood, brushing off the sand and dirt from his kilt. His legs wobbled beneath him, unsteady from the phantom rocking of the stone boat and the exhaustion that weighed on him like a lead blanket. He took in the surroundings—a vast, open cove nestled between towering mountains, the deep green waters of the sea stretching out to the horizon.
The air was crisp, filled with the scent of salt and the soft sound of waves lapping at the shore. The scene was so different from the claustrophobic stillness of the void they’d just crossed. Here, the world felt real again.
Max blinked at the sight of the stone boat, now resting motionless on the rocky beach. He had no idea how far they had travelled, but it felt like hundreds of miles—maybe more. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it.
He turned to Ylva, who was moving with purpose across the beach, her cloak rippling behind her. She seemed unaffected by the journey, her sharp movements as precise as ever.
“Where are we now?” Max asked, his voice rough from the dryness in his throat.
Ylva didn’t break her stride. “You are where you need to be,” she said, her voice calm but offering no more than that. She paused at the edge of the beach, where the stones turned to sand, and gestured toward the cliffs. “Follow.”
The trek to the town was surprisingly easy. The coastal valley rolled gently inland, with grassy slopes and worn paths making the journey far less taxing than Max had feared. Even the pain in his ribs seemed to subside as they walked, though the nagging fatigue still weighed on him.
As they neared the town, the stone and wood walls loomed larger. Thick wooden beams supported the structure, weathered by time and the elements, while jagged stones formed the base. It looked like it could withstand just about anything the wilds could throw at it. The large gates stood open, inviting. A bored-looking man leaned against one of the posts.
He was slouched, his arms crossed, with a long, straight blade strapped lazily to his side. His dark hair was a tangled mess, and his eyes flicked over Max, taking in his foreign clothes with disinterest. When his eyes saw Ylva, he straightened abruptly.
“Do not interfere, Lars,” she said, striding past him without even looking his way. Max caught the look Lars shot them—a mix of fear, lust, and hate. He wasn't sure which unsettled him more, or who the target of that look was.
Max hurried after Ylva, his heart pounding. Lars’s expression had rattled him—there was something predatory in the way the man had looked at them, like he was measuring both Ylva and Max, but for entirely different reasons. Fear, lust, hate—all tangled together in a way that made Max’s skin crawl.
He glanced back over his shoulder, and sure enough, Lars was still watching them, his dark eyes narrowing as they disappeared further into the town. Max couldn’t help but wonder whether Lars’ animosity was directed at
Ylva or at him. Maybe both.
Max was flagging. He was hungry, hurt, and more profoundly exhausted than he had ever been. Slowly, he was falling behind. His legs felt like lead. Every step took more effort than the last, and the gnawing ache in his stomach was becoming impossible to ignore. His body screamed for rest, his ribs throbbed where the draugr had struck him, and every breath felt like it was scraping his insides raw.
Max could feel something more than exhaustion—his limbs were stiff, almost as though they were freezing from the inside out. The chill spread slowly, numbing his muscles and turning each breath into a jagged scrape.
He could hear Ylva’s footsteps ahead, always steady, always moving forward, but he was falling behind.
And then he started falling. The world narrowed and dimmed around the edges, the sounds of the town tinny and far away in his ears, and his legs buckled. Ylva was suddenly there, catching him. Somehow this woman, over half a foot shorter and slighter of build, was holding him up.
“I have erred in my judgement and failed as a host,” she said, her concern cutting through the fog of his exhaustion. “The ways took more than I bargained for."
Max tried to respond, but his mouth was dry, and his limbs felt like lead. His vision swam, and the weight of fatigue was dragging him down, but Ylva’s words kept him tethered to consciousness, if only barely.
“I pushed you too hard,” she continued, her voice now a low murmur, meant only for him. “This world is unforgiving to those not born of it.”
Gently, she lowered him to the ground, propping him against the base of a stone wall. Her movements were precise, careful, and for the first time since they’d met, he felt something akin to warmth from her—not in her touch, but in the way she handled him, as though she were finally seeing him as more than just a burden to carry along.
“You are not weak, Max,” she said, kneeling beside him, her sharp eyes scanning his face. “But you are unprepared. And that is my failure.”
Max’s vision was already dimming, but he caught Ylva’s words before everything went black.
“Ullr, you blockhead, don’t just stand there—help me,” she called, her voice sharp but steady.
Before Max’s world faded completely, a large figure swam into view—a bearded man, dressed in a simple but finely made tunic. His frame was imposing, thick with muscle, and his weathered face held a look of concern that was somehow at odds with the roughness of his appearance. He moved swiftly and with purpose, kneeling beside Max.
“You’re still dragging in strays, I see,” the man’s deep voice rumbled, though there was no malice in it, only an understanding tone.
“Enough, Ullr,” Ylva said, her voice firm. “This one is different.”
Before Max could even begin to understand what was happening, the world finally gave way to blackness, and the last thing he heard was Ylva’s voice, distant now, as if from another world entirely.
“Rest now, Max. You are safe.”
And then, nothing.
***
“Ullr, you blockhead, don’t just stand there—help me,” she called, her voice sharp but steady.
Ylva grabbed at Max’s falling body. He was heavier than he looked and far worse off than she had thought. I am a poor host to let a guest fall like this, she scolded herself inwardly.
“You’re still dragging in strays, I see,” the man’s deep voice rumbled, though there was no malice in it, only an understanding tone.
“Enough, Ullr,” Ylva said, her voice firm. “This one is different.”
Ullr was a large man, with wide shoulders and strong arms, solid around the waist, and he effortlessly held the Outlander up.
“Rest now, Max. You are safe,” Ylva said softly to him as his eyes fluttered shut. “We have to get him to my house now. He claimed to have defeated a draugr, but it seems the draugr is the victor here. He is dying.”
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Ullr grumbled under his breath as he hoisted Max up. “If you keep dragging half-dead strays home, Ylva, we’ll have to start charging the gods for their mercy.” Despite his words, there was an unmistakable note of concern in his voice, and his strong hands were gentle as he adjusted Max’s weight.
Ullr’s face melted with concern. He had chided his sister just like he had done when they were children, but this was different. This was serious. The outlander in his arms was dressed like a highland wizard from Albion; Ullr had seen them during a trading voyage. He still remembered the aura of power they had, so different from the one in his arms now.
Ylva’s sharp gaze swept over Max, noting the bluish tint spreading up his neck, like spiderwebs under his skin. She knew this poison—it spread slowly but surely, chilling the blood and stiffening the muscles until the body gave out. “He has hours, maybe less before the poison reaches his heart.”
Ylva looked at Ullr. “Come, brother, we must make haste. I fear I dismissed his claim too easily, and now the draugr’s poison is slowly eating him.”
“I should have known,” Ylva muttered to herself as they carried Max toward her home. “The ways take their toll on all, but I pushed him as if he were one of us. He’s not ready. And that draugr...” She bit her lip, unwilling to admit how easily she had dismissed his story.
The witch's house was positioned near the back, close to the Jarl's castle. Its steeply sloped roof covered a long rectangular frame, with a door set in the centre. The entryway, carved with weather runes, faintly glinted with residual magic, visible only to those attuned to such things. The house itself was quite large, a remnant of its former days when it had belonged to a prosperous merchant, now imbued with an eerie presence after being taken over by the witch. The air around it seemed to hum with ancient, hidden power, its history melding seamlessly with the mystical atmosphere of the place.
They rushed inside, and Ullr came up behind Ylva. “Set him on the bed, then start the fire up.” Her curt tone was a clear signal to Ullr that she was serious about this. She always presented this cold, hard façade when she was worried
The big man set Max down gently on the wooden-framed bed and went to wake the fire in the hearth. Ylva, her face tense, began to gently undress Max, undoing the wide leather belt and woven fabric of the kilt. Gently, she removed his linen shirt. Such fine clothes as these were expensive, and she would not disrespect her guest by treating their possessions harshly.
Tlva worked quickly, her hands moving with the practised precision of someone who knew time was short. Max's body was cold to the touch, and the dark web of veins creeping from the bony imprint on his chest told her the draugr's poison was spreading faster than she’d feared. The deep blue mark pulsed like a dying star, the tendrils of corruption snaking toward his heart.
“More wood, Ullr!” she called sharply. “The fire must blaze—Niflheim’s chill is in him.”
Ullr grunted as he fed more logs into the hearth, the flames crackling louder as they began to roar to life.
Ylva’s sharp eyes scanned Max’s body, quickly assessing for any other signs of injury. His torso was lean but well-muscled, and a vivid tattoo of a wolf howling at the moon stood out on his shoulder—unusual, but unimportant right now. The corruption was her concern.
She carefully lifted the cloth of his kilt, checking for further signs of damage, but everything else seemed intact. Let him keep his dignity, she thought, smoothing the fabric back down.
Her hands hovered over the darkening veins spreading from his side as her lips moved in a low chant. She worked quickly, her fingers dipping into a small jar of salve—frostbane root, meant to slow the poison’s advance. Crushing the herbs between her palms, she spread the mixture across the bony imprint, whispering incantations as she did.
Max groaned weakly as she applied the salve, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths. He was fading fast.
“Hold on, outlander,” Ylva muttered under her breath, her voice laced with an urgency she rarely allowed to show. “You were not meant to die here. Not yet.”
She felt the heat of the fire at her back, growing stronger with every log Ullr added. Good. They needed to drive the cold out of his body, but the battle against the draugr’s poison was far from over.
Ylva strode to the shelves, grabbing a small vial of dark liquid. Popping the cork, she knelt beside Max, pressing the vial to his lips. He sputtered as the liquid slid down his throat, but she held him steady, ensuring he swallowed.
This will buy us time, she muttered, more to herself than to Ullr, who watched in silence from across the room.
She stood and wiped her hands on a cloth, glancing at the slowly glowing runes carved into the beams of her house. The air hummed with magic, but it wasn't enough. Not yet. Ylva’s eyes flicked back to Max, whose breathing, though steadying, remained shallow.
"I should have known better," she whispered, almost to herself. "I pushed him too far. And now..." Her voice trailed off as she watched the fire crackle in the hearth.
“Will he make it?” Ullr’s voice was low, but the concern in it was clear.
Ylva’s gaze remained fixed on Max. “We’ll see. The draugr marked him for a reason, but the poison is old magic. It won’t let go easily.” She sighed, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the room. “But this one—he’s different. He won’t die here. Not yet.”
She thought for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady herself and clear her mind. There was a way to save him, there had to be.
Ylva paused, her breath steadying, as she stared at the amulet resting against Max's chest. It was finely crafted, made of silver with a yellow-green stone at its centre, surrounded by a string of runes—runes she recognized. She inhaled sharply, her mind racing through her mother’s teachings. There was a spell—an old one, nearly forgotten—that could draw the poison out, but it required a binding.
And here it was, the very thing she needed. Max had been wearing the answer all along. Does he even know the power of this talisman? she wondered. It doesn’t matter now.
"Get to work, Ylva," she muttered under her breath, her hands moving with renewed purpose.
She unhooked the clasp, carefully lifting the amulet from Max’s neck. The runes around the stone glinted faintly as if waking up to her touch. She had everything she needed to bind the poison, but the spell was dangerous—a last resort. If it failed, it could take her down with him.
There was no time to hesitate.
Ylva's voice was steady as she chanted, but her body trembled under the weight of the spell. “Poison drawn from flesh, bound in stone, blood cleanses and breaks poison’s hold,” she whispered, her words filling the room with ancient power. The amulet glowed faintly, pressed firmly against the draugr’s mark, its runes flickering in response to the spell.
“Isa, cold as Ymir’s breath, freeze the poison still,” she continued, her breath catching as the chill of the grave spread up her arm. The icy numbness crept through her fingers, each word from her lips felt heavier than the last. “Laguz, the rune of flow, reverse the course of the draugr’s blow.”
The poison fought her, its tendrils writhing under Max's skin like a living thing, resisting the pull of the spell. The blue veins seemed to pulse with dark energy, and Ylva gritted her teeth, focusing all her will on holding the amulet in place.
The cold clawed at her wrist now, biting deeper with each passing second, threatening to sap her strength. Her arm felt like it was being pulled into Niflheim’s icy abyss. She could barely feel her fingers, but she couldn’t let go—not when Max’s life hung in the balance.
The poison began to retract, inch by painful inch, the dark lines fading back toward the mark as the runes flared brighter. The amulet’s power surged, but so did the chill, spreading through Ylva’s entire arm, her muscles stiffening with the unnatural cold.
“Come on,” she muttered, her voice strained as she pushed through the pain, her vision blurring. “Just… a little more.”
The poison writhed one last time before finally receding, retreating into the stone.
“Othala, Rune of Binding, Rune of Oaths, bind this poison now, until the end of time!”
The amulet glowed as she spoke the binding, the stone had turned a deep blue, the colour of the draugrs mark, as she lifted it away, she noticed that Max had not escaped unscathed. A dark mark like a fist was still there, but faded and light, like an old scar long healed. She lay the jewellery next to the bed and watched as his breathing eased, the rise and fall of his chest rhythmic and even.
She closed her eyes for a moment as the world spun around her. Ullr was suddenly behind her catching her as she fell.
“Sister, you push yourself to hard, but you saved him” Ullr said, his voice was kind and reassuring as he helped her back up.
Ylva leaned heavily on her brother, taking a moment to collect herself. The effort of the spell had drained her more than she would admit. She steadied her breath, straightening her back as she stood on her own.
Ullr stepped back, watching her with concern. He knew better than to press her—she would speak when she was ready.
Finally, she nodded, exhaling slowly as she regained her composure.
Max's skin was pale, but his breathing was steady, and the blue tinge was fading from his veins. He'd made it—barely, but it was enough. Ylva brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, then turned to her brother.
"I'll stay with him tonight," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "He needs to rest."
Ullr frowned but didn't protest. He knew better than to question his sister, especially when she was so determined.
"Very well," Ullr sighed. "I'll come by tomorrow to check on you both." With that, he departed, closing the door softly behind him. He had his own family to tend to after all.
As Ylva stood in the silence that followed, a faint shuffling sound reached her ears. She turned and saw the tomte—an old house spirit—standing near the hearth. The creature was small, barely reaching her knees, shaped like a tiny man wearing a tunic and a long, floppy conical hat. Its large, black eyes stared up at her from a pale, round face, most of it hidden behind a wild, unruly beard.
"Viðr," she addressed the creature calmly, "this is a guest. I trust you will treat him as such."
The tomte didn’t respond with words—it never did—but its gaze flickered toward Max, lying unconscious on the bed. Ylva moved to a cupboard, her movements deliberate, and retrieved a small jar of honey. Offering the tomte a spoonful, she held it out patiently.
Viðr’s tiny hands shot out, and it gobbled up the offering in an instant, nodding its approval. Ylva smiled faintly. The tomte was an old spirit, one that needed to be appeased, and she had long since learned that honey was the quickest way to earn its favor.
"Good," she murmured as Viðr scurried off into the shadows, satisfied for now. She returned the jar to the cupboard, her mind already back on the Outlander she had brought under her roof.
***
Max floated in a void, cold seeping in from the wound the draugr had left. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Each second, the bitter chill crept deeper into his bones, numbing his flesh with an unnatural frost.
This is the end, he thought bitterly. You survive the fight, only to die like this... freezing to death in the dark.
Time had lost all meaning here. He didn’t know how long he had been drifting, nor how much longer he had until the cold claimed him entirely. Far off, distant voices echoed faintly, but they were tinny, warped, impossible to understand.
The freezing mist began to rise, coiling around his legs. Each time he blinked, it climbed higher—up to his thighs, then his waist. Another blink, and it had reached his chest. A sick sense of dread filled him, a foreboding certainty that if the mist covered him completely, he would vanish into it. He’d cease to exist.
Gone. Forgotten.
The mist inched closer, now creeping up to his shoulders, tightening its grip on his body. The voices grew louder, but still just out of reach. He tried to move, to scream, but his body refused to obey.
Then, from the distance, a warmth. Faint at first, but growing stronger. Ylva’s voice pierced through the fog, closer this time, though still hard to make out. But it was her. He could almost hear the cadence of her words, the rhythm of her chanting.
Suddenly, pain erupted from the draugr’s wound, sharp and gut-wrenching, pulsing like the wound itself was alive and fighting something. Max gasped, the sensation overwhelming. The mist surged, curling tighter around him, desperate to claim him.
But the warmth grew. Ylva’s voice became clearer, more insistent. The pain spiked again, tearing through him like a wildfire. He cried out, his body convulsing as the cold retreated, the mist dissolving like smoke in the wind.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone. The void, the bitter cold—it all melted away, replaced by a deep warmth that eased his aching limbs and soothed the wound. The voices receded, and Max felt himself drifting into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.