JORDIS

“What are you doing to get yourself killed tonight?”

I gave a mocking gasp at the blacksmith’s words, delivered as dryly as if he were asking me what I planned to eat for breakfast. “Do you have so little faith in my abilities?”

As he stood across the counter sharpening my battle axe for me, Viggo watched me with his piercing blue eyes. “I suppose you’re still here,” he admitted.

“Ragnarok made warriors of us both,” I replied, for though we didn’t know each other back then, the two of us—like so many in this snowy village haven—had fought during that great war between gods and giants and lived to tell the tale.

I didn’t mention the growing number of monsters lurking in the woods around our village. As Hrafnbjorg’s key hunter, I took orders from our jarl to chase them down. If I did my job well enough, nobody even knew they were becoming such a problem.

It was my daughter’s voice that gave the blacksmith an honest answer. “We’re clearing draugr out of the old fortress on Hrafnjaller.”

“Raven’s Crest?” Viggo puffed out an incredulous chuckle. “Why would anyone want to go there? The draugr haven’t bothered us.”

“That’s because they haven’t found their way out yet, but that could change any day,” I explained, then frowned in thought. “Or night. They only wake at night, right?”

“I thought you were the monster expert,” Viggo grumbled.

I said nothing, but the look I shot him made him chuckle. We fell into companionable silence, as we so often did in these moments before I set off on a hunt.

Watching him work, I admired the way his arms flexed and rippled as he moved my axe blade in rhythmic circles against the whetstone. The action created a high-pitched whir that filled the small forge, which doubled as a shop. Weapon racks displayed the blacksmith’s finest swords and axes, while longbows and shields hung on the walls. Behind the counter, the forge itself cast a warm glow against Viggo’s dark skin, highlighting the blue tattoos that snaked along the sides of his shaved head.

I smiled, enveloped in the familiar smells of smoke, leather, and warmed metal. There was something comforting about this place, and I made a habit of visiting it before and after every hunt.

The gentle scrape of blade on whetstone suddenly stopped, and Viggo looked at Freyda again. “Wait, did you just say we?”

Freyda smiled shyly. “I’m going to help this time.”

When Viggo shot me a scolding look, I rushed to defend us both. “Freyda has seen seventeen winters now. I’ll handle most of my hunts alone, but with a contract like this, she’s old enough to provide some cover from a safe distance.”

Viggo grumbled under his breath, then said, “Contract, eh? Is this another hunt for Agnar, then?”

“He’s our jarl,” I answered. “His duty is to protect our people, and I like to help.”

“That’s why I’m going, too,” Freyda chimed in.

I looked back at her, pride swelling in my chest like molten metal. Clad in leather armor, with her auburn hair braided over one shoulder and a longbow strapped to her back, she looked like me seventeen years ago, when I first set off to forge a life for myself. I had been her age when I found out I bore her in my belly—the same winter Ragnarok descended over Midgard and changed everything. Seeing her so grown-up now made something ache inside me.

I turned back to Viggo, desperate for a distraction. Drumming my fingers on the countertop, I arched an eyebrow at him. “Almost done? The moon is already out.”

Viggo gave me another reprimanding glance.

“I think I smell someone cooking dagmal,” I added, referencing the morning meal, though it was still just past nightfall.

Viggo harrumphed as he handed me my axe, sharpened and gleaming. “I still don’t understand why you go on these hunts.” He flicked a glance at Freyda. “Don’t get too close to those monsters, all right? Even if your mother has a death wish, I’d like to see you back here with all your fingers and teeth.”

“Can I buy more arrows?” Freyda asked.

Viggo retrieved a fresh pack of arrows from the wall and handed them to Freyda. “Sharpest ones I have, and fast.” When Freyda reached for the coin purse at her waist, Viggo waved his hand dismissively. “You can repay me by coming back here in one piece.”

I gave him a grateful smile. I understood his concern for Freyda, for I had the same fears. But after the chaos of Ragnarok killed so many of my friends and made enemies of others, my daughter was the only person in Midgard I trusted with my life.

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Turning to her now, I asked, “Are we ready?”

She nodded. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, I think I have a map of the fortress somewhere…” Viggo muttered, digging through old parchment below the counter. Only the top of his head was visible, bobbing at counter height.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “I don’t need a map.”

He stood, flattening a crinkled piece of parchment on the counter. “I can draw it from memory.”

“Been there before?”

“No, but…” He fumbled for words, finally muttering, “I know the area.”

My gaze fell to the wolf pendant that dangled against his chest. It was a strange color, something between gold and silver. I wondered at its significance. “What did you do before you came to Hrafnbjorg?”

“I’m a blacksmith,” Viggo replied simply.

“You’re a blacksmith now, but what were you before?”

Viggo’s eyes dimmed, like storm clouds crossing a blue sky. Dark memories lurked in there, but he had only cared to share a few of them with me. “I’ve told you about my time during Ragnarok,” was all he said, then bent over his parchment.

“I don’t need a map,” I insisted. “I’ve been hunting my own dinners my whole life. And guarding our village from threats, and tracking down monsters in the woods around Hrafnbjorg. I can clear out a little old fortress without a map.”

Viggo hastily sketched the map and shoved it toward me. “Take it.”

“I don’t need it.”

“It’s a dangerous place. Just take the map.”

“I’m not taking the map.”

Viggo growled low in his throat, a familiar sound when he was irritated with me. I just cast him a sweet smile before turning to leave. As I pulled on my cloak, I turned to find Freyda in a shadowed corner of the shop, standing close to a young man in a dark cloak. From the seax at his waist and the bow across his back, he looked like a hunter.

“Freyda?” I asked, my eyes on the hunter. Though I was ready to bring my daughter on a hunt or two, I was far from ready to lose her to a marriage proposal.

She looked up as though startled. Then, casting the young man a timorous glance, she set down a shield she had been holding and followed me to the door. He watched her, only his eyes moving to trace her trail. Something in his look told me he was only pretending to shop.

“You should buy something while you’re here,” I told him. “Viggo has the best weapons and armor this side of the River Helge.”

The hunter smirked but said nothing.

As I left, Viggo’s voice cast me one last warning: “Keep that girl safe, Jordis.”

I gave him a knowing nod. “She’s my whole world.”

***

FREYDA

Another day, another squabble between my mother and the blacksmith.

I laughed to myself as they bickered over a map. Viggo was right, of course—I almost always agreed with him—but I knew their arguments meant nothing when this smithy was the one safe haven my mother had outside of our own hut.

I drifted to the other side of the room, where rows of painted shields hung on the wall. My eyes were drawn to a deep blue shield with a white flower at its center. Most shields depicted noble beasts or other sigils that might inspire fear in an enemy. This one was different. The symbol of a flower sparked something in me, and I smiled as I reached to pluck it from the wall.

At least, I would have—but the shield’s height prevented me from grasping it. My fingertips barely grazed its lower edge. I strained upwards until my fingers clasped the shield’s edge, making it wobble on its mount.

My grip wasn’t firm enough. I winced as it fell from the wall, waiting for the impact on my head.

But I felt nothing—just smelled an earthy musk, like pine and leather, as a gentle breeze brushed at my face. Opening my eyes, I found myself face to face with a young man in a dark cloak, the shield in his hands.

My cheeks heated as the mysterious stranger’s eyes met mine. His gaze was a tempestuous mix of blue, gray, and green, like a storm at sea. Though his black hair was swept back and braided, a few rebellious strands fell across his forehead, cutting more angles across his chiseled face.

“Pretty,” he said. His voice had the warm rasp of a crackling hearthfire.

“What?” I stammered, my cheeks heating.

“The shield.” He extended it toward me. “Did you mean to take this, or do you just like knocking things off walls?”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the shield from him—though now that I was holding it, I didn’t know what to do with it.

“It’s a mayweed flower,” the stranger commented. “A bloom that symbolizes spring. It’s a sigil of Baldur, the god of beauty and joy and peace and all that.”

I almost laughed at the dismissive wave of his hand, but it felt wrong when speaking of Baldur. He had been missing since Ragnarok and was now presumed dead, like so many of the gods. “I wonder if he’s still out there somewhere,” I mused. “Perhaps he will return and bring hope to Midgard again.”

The stranger gave an incredulous chuckle. “I doubt it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe in the prophecy?” I recited it from memory, though it had been years since anyone spoke of it. “Baldur’s blood will bring a new spring.”

“You believe that?” The stranger cocked his head to the side, studying me. Then he shook it. “It sounds like a dream to me, but we all wake up from dreams at some point.”

“But don’t dreams bring us hope?” I argued.

“I prefer to rely on my own strength and cunning, not an ancient prediction.”

He sounded like my mother. But I was undeterred by his skepticism. “Baldur’s return is foretold to bring light to the world after the darkness of Ragnarok. It might be a dream, but even the sagas bring us wisdom and truth. We need that right now.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded, a playful glint in his eye. “But I’ll believe it when I see it. Until then, I’ll stick to forging my own destiny.”

“Freyda?” I nearly jumped at the sound of my mother’s voice, which broke me from whatever spell this stranger had cast on me. Setting the shield on a nearby table, I gave the young man a quick glance before hurrying to join my mother at the shop door.

There would always be more time for flirting in Hrafnbjorg. But right now, on this moonlit night, the hunt was on.