Ingrid’s world had been teetering on the edge, the fragile balance shattered when the wolves came for Thomas. Her son’s cries had echoed through the night, growing fainter with each passing moment as the creatures carried him into the unforgiving darkness. It was just days after her husband had been taken by the Frost Trolls, his body left cold and lifeless in the snow. The grief of those losses layered upon one another, the pain compounding until it was a weight she could scarcely bear.

When Ochrea and Theodas arrived, they brought with them a bloodstained blanket, the only remnant of Thomas found deep in the woods. The fabric, once soft and warm, was now stiff with dried blood, the stain of death marking it forever. Though they came with the intention to help, their presence seemed to seal a fate Ingrid had refused to accept: her husband was gone, and now, so was her son.

In the three days since the strangers arrived, Ingrid had clung to a fragile hope, a hope woven from the thinnest threads of grief and denial. She convinced herself that the baby now in her care was Thomas, somehow returned to her by the gods, a divine correction to the terrible wrong that had ripped him from her arms. But when she heard that Ochrea and Theodas had returned alive from their latest journey, that hope began to unravel, the threads slipping through her fingers like sand.

Ingrid’s breath came in shallow, rapid bursts as she moved frantically through the longhouse, gathering what little she could. The firelight flickered weakly, casting long, jagged shadows across the rough-hewn walls. Her hands trembled as she grabbed blankets, a loaf of bread, and a small pouch of coins—anything that might help her escape. The baby, nestled in his cradle, cooed softly, his innocent sounds a sharp contrast to the storm brewing in Ingrid’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she lifted the child into her arms. “But I can’t let them take you. You’re my son, now and forever.”

She slipped out of the longhouse and into the woods, her steps quick and unsteady as she fled into the dark embrace of the forest. The trees, tall and imposing, loomed above her, their branches creaking in the wind like old bones. The ground was soft and damp from the recent rain, but she barely noticed. Her mind was consumed by a single, desperate thought: escape.

Bjron had been nearby, watching the longhouse as if it held the answers to a question he hadn’t dared ask. He had seen the despair in Ingrid’s eyes, the way grief had twisted her thoughts since Thomas was taken. The search party had returned with nothing but Thomas’s blood-stained blanket, and the hope that maybe, somehow, he had survived had lingered in the village like a ghost. When Ochrea and Theodas arrived with a child in their arms and Thomas’s blanket, that hope had grown, however impossibly. But when the child’s pointy little elf ears were revealed, confirming that the boy wasn’t hers, the final thread of hope snapped, and Bjron had feared this moment would come.

He saw her leave the longhouse, the baby clutched tightly to her chest, and his heart sank. He followed her into the woods, keeping to the shadows as he moved with quiet determination. It wasn’t long before he stepped out from the darkness, placing himself directly in her path, solid and unyielding as the trees themselves.

“Ingrid,” he called out softly, his voice low but firm. “They’re back, and that child… he isn’t Thomas.”

Ingrid’s breath hitched, and she tightened her grip on the baby, her knuckles white. “No… he is,” she insisted, her voice rising in pitch, verging on hysteria. “The gods sent him to me. They sent him to me to replace my son. I can’t lose him again. I won’t lose him again.”

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Bjron took a slow, measured step forward, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. “You know that’s not true,” he said, his voice gentle but unyielding. “Your husband wouldn’t want this, Ingrid. He wouldn’t want you to take another woman’s child.”

Tears welled up in Ingrid’s eyes, blurring her vision until Bjron’s form was just a shadow among the trees. “You don’t understand!” she cried, her voice breaking. “I need him! I need him to fill the hole left in my heart… And, and he needs me. Ochrea can’t produce milk, did she tell you that? The gods knew. They knew, Bjron!”

Bjron’s heart ached for her, but he knew he had to stand firm. Grief was a shapeshifter, he had seen it twist people into versions of themselves they wouldn’t recognize in the mirror. But he also knew that Ingrid wasn’t beyond saving, that the woman he had known still lived beneath the layers of sorrow.

“Ingrid,” he said again, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “This isn’t the way. I know you love this child, but he’s not Thomas. You wouldn’t want to hurt him, would you?”

Ingrid’s hand trembled as she pulled out a dagger, the blade catching the faint light that filtered through the trees. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps as she pointed it at her own neck. “Stay back, Bjron!” she warned, her voice wavering. “Just let me go, or I’ll do it. I swear I will.”

Bjron didn’t flinch. He took another step forward, his movements slow and deliberate. “I believe you,” he said calmly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I believe you, and I believe you love him. I know that you’re hurting. But if you do this, if you hurt yourself, he’ll fall. He’ll get hurt. And you don’t want that.”

The dagger shook in Ingrid’s hand, her grip weakening as the truth of his words began to sink in. She lowered the blade slightly, but the desperation hadn’t left her eyes. “You don’t understand,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t live without him. I can’t…”

Bjron was close now, close enough to see the anguish etched into every line of her face. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, as if nature itself was waiting for her to decide, to let go. He reached out slowly, his voice as steady as his gaze. “You don’t have to do anything but be right here, right now,” he said gently. “Let me help you.”

Ingrid’s resolve crumbled. The dagger slipped from her fingers, falling to the ground with a dull thud. The weight of her grief seemed to press her down, pushing her into Bjron’s solid chest. She collapsed against him, her body shaking with sobs as she pounded weakly against his chest.

“You damn fool,” she choked out, her voice thick with grief. “I could have killed you.”

Bjron wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she buried her face in his chest. “You couldn’t kill me, Ingrid,” he murmured, his voice rough but steady. “Not even if you stabbed me in the chest. You know the way to a dwarf’s heart is through his stomach.”

A weak laugh escaped her, mingling with her sobs as she clung to him. It was a laugh born of exhaustion, the kind that comes when all other emotions have been spent. Bjron kissed the top of her head, his heart heavy with the depth of her pain. They stood there in the quiet of the forest, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves and the occasional cooing of the child, now nestled safely between them.

After what felt like an eternity, Bjron spoke again, his voice gentle, almost a whisper. “We should go back, Ingrid. They’ll be looking for us, and the little one needs to be with his parents.”

Ingrid nodded slowly, her tears beginning to subside. She looked up at Bjron, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and lingering sorrow. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Thank you for stopping me.”

Bjron gave her a small, reassuring smile as he guided her back through the trees, his hand steady on her shoulder. “You’re not alone, Ingrid,” he said softly. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

As they made their way back to the village, the weight of the moment began to lift, replaced by a fragile sense of hope. The village lay ahead, bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, waiting to welcome them home. It wasn’t a perfect return, but it was a step back toward the life that grief had tried to steal from her. The path before them was uncertain, but for the first time in days, Ingrid felt like she might be able to find her way.