“Honestly, I almost wish that avalanche had finished you off.”
“Are you sure your fingers didn’t succumb to frostbite after all? You’re fighting like a little girl. No—scratch that. Even Ylva was tougher than you when she was a little girl.”
“My skills are just a little rusty!”
“There can’t be rust on something that doesn’t exist.”
The sword sank into the trampled snow as Eirik bent over, gasping for breath with his hands on his knees. He’d practiced during his journey, in those hours when sleep refused to come, but trees and bushes hadn’t exactly provided much of a challenge. Still, he’d made the mistake of boasting about his “new skills” within earshot of Ulrik. Naturally, Ulrik hadn’t hesitated for a moment before politely asking (or more like angrily ordering) him to prove it.
Of course, Eirik had failed miserably—much to Ulrik’s amusement. Within a minute, he’d been disarmed. But after his victorious, mocking laughter, Ulrik had suggested something unexpected: that he could train him.
At first, Eirik refused. He’d asked Sindre to teach him, but he was still too injured—his scars on his face were inflamed, and he was burning with fever. Then Eirik had turned to the spirit for help, and it burst into tears because of how absurd his request was. Desperation had driven him to even ask Virelia, but all she’d said was that she wasn’t a fighter.
He was convinced the goddess had lied just to witness his humiliation. In fact, he was sure of it now, as she sat at the edge of the training grounds, tossing out supposedly funny remarks about his performance.
"Okay, I’m terrible at this." Eirik sighed.
Ulrik tilted his head, giving him a sideways glance. "Are you giving up that easily?"
"No, I’m not. I just thought I’d be better. This isn’t my first time holding a sword."
"You’ve got the basics down, so you’re not a complete loser," Ulrik replied. Maybe that was his version of encouragement. "And the adrenaline of a real fight will help you a lot."
"Good to know.” Eirik turned to look at the goddess. “Virelia! Care to wander into the woods and find a few bloodthirsty direwolves to set loose here? Maybe then I’d do better."
"Brilliant idea, genius," came her reply.
Ulrik crossed his arms, his expression suddenly serious. He studied Eirik from head to toe, as if he were assessing him like a craftsman judging flawed materials. Under his gaze, Eirik felt smaller than ever.
It had been three days since Eirik had finally received his magnificent new sword from the blacksmith, but Ulrik still hadn’t allowed him to even touch it. Not until he was "worthy of it." And it was hard to argue with someone twice his size, especially when he had a glare sharp enough to make Eirik’s grandmother’s ashes roll over in her urn.
"You’re quick and agile," Ulrik stated. "Your body isn’t built for heavy combat where brute strength decides the winner. I remember how well you outran me and Sindre when we were fleeing from those wolves."
Eirik couldn’t help but laugh. "Oh sure, because running away is such an admirable trait in a warrior. Women are definitely going to swoon over me for that."
"Shut up, idiot, and listen."
"Yes, sir."
Ulrik gave a curt nod before continuing. "What I’m saying is, I might’ve been training you the wrong way. You’ll never outmatch me in sheer force. But maybe you could outsmart… Well, not me, but someone else. That would require you to start using that lump of mush you call a brain, though."
He paused to think. Ulrik was right. Again. As irritating as he could be, he was usually right. Eirik wasn’t going to build impressive muscles or gain years of sword-fighting experience in just a few days. He had to work with what he already had.
Eirik sighed, pain radiating through his muscles. He gripped his sword again, staring at it with hope, as if willing it to grant him some kind of mysterious power. Of course, it didn’t.
"I’m starting to think you enjoy watching me fail," he remarked, shooting a quick glare at Virelia before muttering, "Both of you."
"Took you long enough to figure that out," Ulrik replied. "And stop staring at her—we’re training right now."
It was strange how Ulrik acted as if he actually knew Virelia. The entire village seemed to be under the goddess’s spell. At times, people would furrow their brows as they looked at her, only to nod moments later, as if thinking, Ah, yes, now I remember her. It made Eirik uncomfortable.
He wanted to tell Ulrik the truth, to shout at him that this woman wasn’t some childhood friend or old sparring partner. But he couldn’t. That morning, Virelia had told him there was more at stake, that no one could know her true identity. He had to blend into Brumar and appear like one of the locals to avoid suspicion. She hadn’t explained why, but Eirik had a sinking feeling she was hiding from someone.
Virelia laughed at their exchange. “He really can’t keep his eyes off me, can he?”
He gave her another glare. “Shouldn’t you be working, soldier?”
The goddess’s sweet smile faltered for a brief moment. But if she was annoyed, she didn’t let it show in her tone. “I was granted a week of rest because the journey was so exhausting.”
Bullshit. The journey probably hadn’t affected her at all—she was a goddess, after all. She could be anywhere, anytime. Though, admittedly, their powers were more limited in the mortal realm.
Deities could pass through the veil that separated their worlds. Historical records mentioned instances where gods had attempted to live among mortals, but nature didn’t respond well to their power. Eventually, their divine law restricted their movement even further. For centuries, no god had been seen on earth. Virelia would probably face a thousand life sentences (if they even had a concept of imprisonment) if she were caught.
The real question was, how hadn’t she been caught yet?
Ulrik wasn’t swayed by the woman’s sweet voice and charming smile. “Eirik’s right. You’re distracting us. Leave.”
Eirik nearly laughed. Even Virelia looked momentarily stunned. Few mortals, if any, had likely ever dared to tell her to leave.
“Fine.” Virelia left the edge of the training grounds with a slight haste to her steps. While Eirik had failed to get under her skin, Ulrik had succeeded. Here, Virelia couldn’t flaunt her divine authority. Besides, in military terms, Ulrik outranked her. He was supposedly an Ironclad, a title given to young commanders. He led his own company, an elite fighting unit—those most likely to end up in the sea serpent’s jaws as they charged ahead to the front lines.
"Alright, now if you could focus a bit better," Ulrik said as Virelia disappeared behind the buildings.
"You all act like I’m obsessed with her."
"You’re always staring at her like an idiot."
"Because..." Because she was the first deity he had ever seen with his own eyes, and the only one who hadn’t abandoned him. "Uh..."
Ulrik rolled his eyes. "Forget it. Block!"
At the last moment, Eirik managed to raise his sword just in time. The clash of metal rang out, echoing in the cold air. The force of Ulrik's strike made Eirik's legs buckle, and when he didn’t pull back as Eirik had expected, but instead pressed on with even more force, he realized he was in trouble.
With a snarl, Eirik let himself drop, deliberately throwing himself to the ground. He quickly rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the swing of Ulrik’s sword. His thoughts raced faster than he could make sense of them, but he knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t escape by just wriggling in the snow.
He had to slow Ulrik down. For a tank of a man, he was surprisingly fast.
As Eirik moved, he swept his legs in an attempt to trip Ulrik, aiming for his shins to knock him off balance.
He had hoped to push Ulrik down or at least distract him with a burst of pain. But his kick wasn’t powerful enough, and all he managed to do was force Ulrik to take a step back.
It didn’t bother Eirik, nor did it diminish his hope. He sprang back to his feet, seizing the opportunity, and raised his sword. Ulrik blocked the attack, looking more focused than before. The malicious, teasing smile that had lingered on his lips all day was gone, replaced by a look of determination.
"I won!" Eirik grinned, their swords locked as they tested each other’s strength.
Ulrik sneered, then with a powerful shove, forced Eirik to stagger back, eventually tripping over his own feet. He crashed into the snow, but his grin remained unchanged.
"I won," he said again. "All day, I’ve been trying to wipe that stupid smirk off your face. I finally did it."
"Congratulations," Ulrik said dryly. "We are done. Let’s continue tomorrow. I’ll come up with a new plan, one that will be more useful for you."
A brief silence stretched between them. Eirik grinned widely, his smile as bright as the sun in the desert. If he were a dog, he’d definitely be wagging his tail.
At last, Ulrik sheathed his sword and offered Eirik a hand to help him up.
"Listen..." Ulrik hesitated for a moment, then spoke more seriously. "You need to find out why you’re really fighting."
Eirik frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"
"It wasn’t exactly an abstract or complicated question!"
"Sorry, my mush of a brain doesn’t handle philosophical topics too well." It wasn’t true—Eirik was probably the most philosophical and introspective of them all. He just didn’t understand what the man was aiming at.
Ulrik rubbed the bridge of his nose in irritation. "You need to figure out what drives you forward. You’re not fighting just for the thrill of adrenaline. Your family’s safe in Halsport—you don’t need to protect them. Currently, the only real threat in Brumar is Vorsythus, and we have no idea when it will wake. It could be decades. Yet you’re still driven to fight. Why?"
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Eirik went quiet, trying to grasp his own reasoning. He’d always wanted to fit in. Back in the capital, he’d been the life of the parties, surrounded by friends and admirers. But Everfrost was a different world—people here respected raw strength more than honey-filled words. He didn’t want to fade into the background. He just wanted to belong. But was that truly his only motivation?
A cold, delicate snowflake landing on his face snapped him out of his thoughts. Snow had begun to fall.
"What about you?" Eirik asked. He hadn’t figured out his answer yet. "What’s your reason?"
"Ylva and Sindre." Ulrik turned to walk away, the snow thickening around them. The heavy flakes made it hard to see very far. "I’ve already lost everyone else. I’m not about to make that mistake again."
⟡
Everfrost was far too quiet. To Eirik, it felt like the calm before the storm—but he couldn’t forget the animals and abandoned souls suffering somewhere out in the forest, torn apart by nightmares.
He had wanted to tell the brothers what had happened, but Ylva refused to leave the infirmary, not even for a moment. For once, Eirik respected Ulrik’s wishes and didn’t bring it up in front of her.
Both of the brothers should have still been resting in their beds, letting their wounds heal, but Ulrik refused to stay idle. That’s why he’d occasionally slip out of the infirmary, if only for a short while. Even then, Eirik knew better than to tell him everything. Ulrik just wanted to savor a brief moment of freedom, to forget the nightmares and the weight of their troubles.
Eirik hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision to give them this time to feel safe.
However, he didn’t remain useless. Whenever he wasn’t with the brothers, he would read the journal, trying to make sense of it. Many of the entries were vague, or simply listed symbols that appeared in dreams—symbols Eirik had already come to recognize. Abstract shapes represented emotions, each color carried its own meaning... nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing new. He was far more interested in the dreamweaver's notes, where the writer described his daily life.
So far, though, Eirik hadn’t uncovered anything useful—unless the favorite food of a man who lived 200 years ago would turn out to be crucial information. (For the record, it was pea soup.) He’d been reading for so long that his head had begun to ache, so he finally marched outside the gates to take in the desolate ice. Fresh air always made him think more clearly.
“Uh, pardon me…”
A faint voice startled Eirik. He turned around to see a young teen—a boy who couldn’t have been older than fourteen. The kid looked anxious, glancing nervously around. He reminded Eirik of Sindre and Ulrik when they first met in the seer room.
Eirik smirked. “Well, hey there! I didn’t take your favorite spot, did I? Don’t worry, there’s enough space to stare at this beautiful… ice.”
“Uh, nah, ye didn’t,” the boy replied awkwardly, his gaze shifting. “Ye be the visitor? The dreamweaver?”
“That I am!” Eirik answered brightly. “Need help with something?”
He had long since decided that he wouldn’t ask for moonshards in exchange for his services. Eirik got by without extra earnings, for Solveig’s lodging was inexpensive, and he simply wanted to do his best to assist the villagers.
“To be honest,” the boy said, looking uncertain, “I’d rather not... but my father insisted I seek ye out. Ye see... I’ve not been sleepin’ well of late.”
A foreboding feeling tightened in Eirik’s chest. “Have you had bad dreams?”
The boy nodded.
The nightmares were spreading again.
"Alright," Eirik replied, his smile fading as quickly as a fleeting memory. "Take me to your father. I need to speak with him for a moment, and then I’ll do what I can to help you."
The situation was dire, very dire.
After meeting the boy's parents, Eirik learned that he hadn’t slept well in at least a week. His nightmares were different from others; no wolves or wars, but flashes of his friend drowning—his friend who had died three years ago. They had been playing on the ice after months of polar night, despite warnings about how the ice would begin to melt once the sun returned to Everfrost. But they hadn’t listened. It was a painful memory that kept resurfacing in the boy’s mind, and sometimes his friend would return from the ice, grabbing his ankles and pulling him into the depths.
The nightmares fed on his fear and distorted visions. The boy was horrified that the god he worshipped could show him such dreams. Eirik had to explain that they were not the god’s words at all, but something else entirely. Of course, he couldn’t mention the war or the corruption, leaving many questions unanswered.
He couldn’t erase the nightmares. There was nothing to analyze in them, and he couldn’t enter anyone’s dreams to suppress them. But there was one piece of advice he could offer.
“You have to face your fear.”
If the nightmares fed on fear, people had to let go of their own. According to Virelia, the corruption would find something else to feed on—planting prophecies of the future or glimpses of the past—but at least it would give them more time until Eirik could uncover how to get rid of the problem.
Lucid dreaming was also one of the options he offered. From what he understood, victims of nightmares didn’t realize they were dreaming until they woke up, and they couldn’t control themselves as they usually could. If they understood during the nightmare that what they were seeing wasn’t real, or that it wasn’t happening in the present moment, in theory, they might be able to alleviate some of the pain.
He spent the rest of the day advising and helping the boy until he returned to the inn, tired and drained.
The next morning, Solveig woke him up, looking worried.
“What now?” Eirik mumbled, his face pressed into the pillow. “There’d better be a damn good reason for waking me.”
“You can judge the seriousness of the reason yourself.”
It was as if the whole village had crowded into the inn early in the morning. With everyone staring at him, Eirik felt incredibly underdressed, wearing only a robe he had hastily wrapped around himself.
He cleared his throat, staring at the crowd of people in horror.
“So... what’s up?” was the only thing he could manage to say. He blamed his social awkwardness on exhaustion.
The situation had worsened over the past few days. Nightmares had become more frequent, affecting mostly children, the elderly, and even some soldiers. Eirik had identified a connection between them—they all, in one way or another, had weaker minds. Whether it was the impressionability of youth, the helplessness of old age, or the haunting memories of horrors seen in battle, which lingered even when awake.
It also explained why Ulrik had fallen victim to the corruption. Even Ylva’s mental state had only crumbled after their parents’ deaths—an event that was likely far from natural. It was only a matter of time before it began to affect Sindre as well.
After helping the young boy, word had spread quickly. Many sought Eirik’s support and advice, even though he had to admit honestly to each of them that he could not cure their afflictions. They didn’t seem to mind. All they needed was someone to lean on.
And so he became their anchor, their comfort, throughout that day and the one after. Eirik grew to know the villagers, witnessing their deepest fears and memories. A strong bond formed between them as he stood by their side while they tearfully recounted their visions. Though Eirik had believed he had already seen and heard much, even he was shaken by some of what they shared.
He did his utmost to help them grasp the nature of their torment. Those who saw glimpses of the future—whether true or false—were easier to counsel, especially compared to those haunted by old memories. The latter were shackled by guilt and misery, their hearts weighed down by wounds long past.
It was late when the last visitor finally left. He had been an old soldier, tormented by nightmares of his former comrades. They turned on him one by one, stabbing him as they hissed, "This is all your fault." It had never truly happened, but it was tied to a deep, unspoken guilt—a recurring theme among the villagers. Beneath the surface of energetic workers, cheerful children, and kind-hearted elders lay pain, frozen into their minds like an unyielding frost.
Eirik buried his face in his hands. He was so tired, so deeply shaken. He tried to stay strong, to remain approachable and calm, to listen to every harrowing detail. But each tear he witnessed, every fear he felt radiating from the villagers, clung to him like a heavy cloak.
The door creaked open. He didn’t look up, ashamed of his vulnerable state, and waved the intruder off with a tired hand.
“Not now.”
The person hesitated. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just—”
He recognized that voice—soft and rich, like the melody of a song. He’d heard it once before, though then it had been cracked and fragile, carried by the weight of tears.
“Ylva?” Eirik finally lifted his gaze. “No, it’s fine. Please, come in.”
He stood up, pulling out the chair opposite him and offering her a seat. Ylva hesitated before stepping further into the room, as if she were unsure of her welcome.
She clutched the same pearl necklace between her fingers, its luster likely worn away years ago. Eirik sat back down, watching her with concern. Ylva looked as pale as a ghost, moving cautiously across the room as if bracing for an unexpected attack.
An uneasy silence settled between them. When it became clear that Ylva wouldn’t be the one to break it, Eirik finally asked, “Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”
The answer was obvious. Ylva wouldn’t come to him just for tea and idle gossip, although Eirik would’ve enjoyed that option. Still, he needed to be certain and couldn’t think of another way to steer the conversation forward.
Ylva nodded cautiously, almost imperceptibly.
“I don’t feel like myself anymore. Like I’m slipping away.” As she spoke, she avoided Eirik’s gaze, her eyes fixed on the dusty corners of the small room or the poorly made bed.
“How long have you been having nightmares?” Eirik asked.
“Five years.” Ylva’s lower lip trembled, and she swallowed heavily. “Since our parents died.”
Five years was a long time. Most people wouldn’t have lasted as long as she had. Eirik knew he had to be careful, but he wouldn’t be able to help her unless he asked personal questions. But if Ylva had come this far, she was probably aware of that.
Eirik took a deep breath before asking, “How did they die?”
“Our father was a very influential man. You see, we’re not from here. Father was a consultant to the king, and he managed to make enemies.”
Ylva paused, searching for the right words. She seemed to zone out, as if no longer fully present, reliving memories in her mind. “But those enemies didn’t just target him. They started threatening our mother and us. And then one night, the king was assassinated, and my father was blamed. But he couldn’t have done it! He was with us that night. So… we had to leave. We had to disappear completely, stay hidden, which is how we ended up in Everfrost. But even here, we weren’t safe.”
Eirik wasn't very familiar with the politics or events of other countries; that had been Pitu's passion. But what he knew was that even though there was no official war, the world would never be pure and beautiful, because the gods weren't the only ones whose hearts had been struck by hatred and envy.
"When I was 19, I..." Ylva could no longer speak. Her tears flowed uncontrollably, and she gasped for breath, as if she couldn’t get air. Eirik quickly stood up and stepped toward her, but as he reached out his hand, Ylva recoiled, pulling away.
She cried loudly, her breathing shallow and ragged. Ylva covered her face with her hands, her hair acting as a shield, as if trying to hide from herself and her past.
Eirik just stood there, completely bewildered, uncertain of what to do.
In a rush, he grabbed the glass of juice from his nightstand, the one he had saved for himself, now slightly warm. He handed it to her, saying, “Here, take a sip… and try to breathe, Ylva. You’re safe now. No one can hurt you. You’ve got two badass brothers who would take down an army for you. And don’t forget about me—I’ll knock out any assassin that comes your way. With style.”
Ylva snorted, juice splashing onto her fingers. Eirik wasn’t sure if it was a desperate sob or a laugh, or maybe a bit of both. She didn’t say anything, though. After setting the glass back down on the table, she returned to fiddling with the necklace. Her breathing was still heavy, but no longer close to hyperventilating, which Eirik took as a positive sign.
Time passed, and eventually, Ylva calmed down.
Carefully, she began her story again, "When I was 19, a woman came to our village, seeking shelter from a storm. But she was a killer, sent after us with orders to finish the job. I was still living with our parents, Sindre and Ulrik had their own places by then. And..." She paused, swallowing hard before continuing, "She set our house on fire while we slept. She soaked it in alcohol and left us to burn. Ulrik was on the night watch and saw the flames. He... he rushed into the house, even though it was already nothing but fire and crumbling wood. He pulled us all out, but I was the only one who survived."
Eirik stared at her in shock. He could feel her emotions, see them pulsing in her aura, a powerful tremor.
“Oh, Ylva, I’m so sorry.” He reached his hand across the table, extending it toward her. He didn’t expect her to accept the gesture, but she did. She grasped his fingers, squeezing them gently.
She continued, “In the nightmares, I hear Ulrik’s scream, I see him rushing toward me, and... my parents’ burned bodies. Sometimes, the dreams change. I see my brothers burning in endless flames, see myself left all alone. I can’t tell what’s a dream and what’s just my fears feeding on themselves anymore. And the nightmares have bled into real life too, waiting for me whenever I’m alone. I can hear the fire or my mother’s whispers, or... I don’t know.”
She no longer cried, but her eyes held a vacant, hollow gaze. Eirik could feel the subtle shake in Ylva's hand, as she tried to calm herself down.
“I’m so tired,” Ylva whispered. Her voice no longer seemed to be directed at Eirik, but rather to the emptiness, or perhaps to herself. “I can’t take it anymore.”
“Hey, you’re not alone, you know? I’ll help you get through this. What about your brothers?”
“They don’t know. I haven’t told them about the nightmares.”
Eirik nodded, his expression softening. “I can help you figure out what’s real and what’s not. If you follow my guidance, you might be able to wake up from the nightmares, even change them a little, make them less overwhelming. They’re not dreams sent by the gods—they aren’t controlled by any higher power. Essentially, you could take control of them yourself. Are you in?”
She had already made her decision. “I’m in.”