Eirik moved with grace, leaping over snowdrifts and savoring the freedom of movement. Yet with each step, each nimble maneuver, he felt a pang of frustration—he knew he could be stronger. Hunger gnawed at him, and it had been a long time since he'd been home. The longer he stayed in this form, the more his energy and power seemed to slip away. But he couldn’t return yet. He had a mission to complete.
Swiftly, he glided over the snow, silent, leaving barely a trace behind. He’d been searching all night but hadn’t managed to find those two large men. Eirik had tried following his sense of smell, but all he’d picked up were those cursed creatures who should’ve stayed far from the realm of mortals.
Despite the dim light, his vision was sharp; his eyes were adapted to the night, catching even the slightest movement around him. But there was no sign of the men, and he hoped that the third one wouldn’t cry again. That one was a little too sensitive, though he tried to put on a tough front.
As dawn neared, Eirik caught a familiar scent—musk and sweat mixed with a fresh, wild aroma that didn’t belong to the forest. And horses. He wrinkled his nose slightly at the scent of the animals; he’d never particularly liked it. He followed the trail for a while until he came upon a small clearing. There they were: three horses, saddled and bridled. One bore a bag slung over the side, likely belonging to that middle-sized man with the rough face, the one who’d had an unfortunate run-in with the wolves, damaging his face. The bag carried his scent.
Eirik approached the horses, and they sensed him coming, shuffling backward in suspicion. But Eirik met their gaze, his own eyes calm and devoid of any trace of bloodlust. His intentions were innocent, even gentle. Gradually, the horses allowed him to draw closer. They were afraid, and with good reason. Eirik lifted a paw, pressing it lightly against the brown horse’s hoof, as if to say—
Eirik jolted upright, startled. Confused, he looked down at his hands. No, he hadn’t grown thin paws and a coat of sandy, almost silvery fur overnight. The enchanted pond hadn’t been that strong.
So what had really happened? He had vivid memories of his adventure in the night forest, yet he’d been asleep in the tent, bundled up under three blankets and a sleeping bag.
He’d been dreaming. The realization settled slowly, but powerfully, leaving Eirik momentarily stunned. How was it possible that he had finally dreamt—after all these years? As a child, he’d prayed countless times to the Firebringer, and to the god of seas and storms, and to any deity he could think of. Yet he’d never received a word, not a single dream, nor even a hint as to why he had been forsaken.
A sound stirred outside the tent. Then—a whinny.
"Captain Clop!" he cried, scrambling out, only half-dressed. All three of their horses stood patiently in front of his tent. If they had found their way back here, then maybe…
"Sindre! Ulrik!" Eirik called out. "Come on, the game of hide-and-seek has gone on long enough, don’t you think?"
A smile returned to his face as he patted his horse’s neck. But when no one answered his calls, it faded once more.
His companions hadn’t come back.
A tight ache gripped his throat, and his eyes stung with the weight of the realization. Quickly, Eirik brushed away his tears. He had made a decision, and he had to follow through. Ulrik would swat him from beyond the grave if he didn't make it to Brumar to meet with their village elder.
He rested his head against his horse’s neck, breathing in the steady rhythm of its breath. It was soothing, though not enough to ease his mind completely.
He had to leave. But first, just for a moment, he broke his promise. He searched around for supplies: branches from willow trees, withered leaves buried beneath the snow, frostberries—bitter and unpleasant but nourishing. He found a cluster of hawthorn berries, even a few snowdrops. Carefully, he placed his findings in a shallow pit he dug out, saying his quiet goodbyes to Sindre and Ulrik’s horses. If the men were alive, they would need their steeds. If they survived, they'd find their way back to this spot where the horses and their supplies waited.
Eirik couldn’t wait any longer. He told the horses that after a few days, they were free to find a distant village. He doubted they understood him, but he had done everything he could. With one last look, he grabbed a short sword from their stash, its hilt etched in a language he didn’t recognize. Perhaps Sindre would forgive him for taking one of his weapons. He had always been the more understanding one.
It had been the coyote—Eirik was certain of it now. The creature had led the horses to him and even tried to search for the brothers on his behalf while he rested. But even the coyote hadn’t succeeded. Eirik wanted to hold onto hope, to stay positive, but he couldn’t escape the dread settling within him. He feared that both brothers lay buried deep in the snow, their final resting place marked by the endless winter.
The journey northward continued. Eirik didn’t know the trails and shortcuts the brothers had spoken of, but he knew the direction. Sindre had told him about a narrow mountain pass that could be navigated on horseback. He remembered the warning: the right path wasn’t the widest or the one that looked safest, but one that lay miles off to the left. If people found a path appealing, so did every creature in the forest. And Eirik had no desire to encounter any more beings whose dark eyes seemed to pull at him, like black holes drawing him into their depths.
He walked alone for a long time. He only stopped twice each day—once for a brief break to eat, and again at nightfall to sleep. He would rest for just a few hours before pushing onward, always restless, the weight of his mission hanging heavily on him.
Eirik no longer dreamed. He didn’t see the world through the coyote’s eyes anymore, nor did he encounter it on his journey. The absence of those disappointed him, but he didn’t allow it to weigh him down too much. He already carried enough burdens.
After a week, he finally found the correct path through the mountains. He had stopped glancing around his surroundings days ago. The constant vigilance had worn him thin, and he no longer feared the monsters of the wilderness, nor did he cling to the hope that the brothers might ride up beside him.
The days grew shorter, the light dimming until it vanished entirely. He had entered the eternal night of Everfrost. The cold was biting, and the air grew thicker, as if the very land itself was holding its breath. Eirik pressed forward, the shadows of the mountains towering over him, guiding him deeper into the heart of the frozen land.
He no longer had any idea where to go. But he remembered that Brumar had been built next to the Norden Viper. If he could find the shore, he would find the village. Determined, he changed direction, hoping deeply that it was the right choice.
The sky had been overcast for a long time, causing an unprecedented darkness that Eirik could never have imagined. He had never felt so alone. Sometimes, he spoke to his horse, but it would have been strange if it had answered. If it had, he would have certainly thought himself mad.
That’s what it felt like to him—that he was losing his mind. Occasionally, he heard something, though there was nothing there. Everfrost was desolate, emptier and deader than the forests beyond the mountains. At least there were no wolves here.
At some point, the clouds parted, revealing a stunning starry sky. For a moment, the world felt so vast and incredible. Then, a flash. Something flickered at the edge of Eirik’s vision, and even Captain Clop whinnied uneasily. He hadn’t just imagined it.
Eirik dismounted from his horse, trying to remain as silent as possible. Slowly and cautiously, he walked toward the light. It had returned, peeking through the trees, living its own life.
He stopped behind an icy tree, leaning to the side and staying hidden. A faint figure walked through the snow. Its shape was vague, but it resembled a human. It was like a white, cold flame, searching for its body. And it was crying.
A deep, heartbreaking wail. A spirit of ice.
If a soul, for some reason, couldn't follow the aurora, couldn't find its way to the afterlife, it remained on the earth forever. Over time, it would lose everything—its identity, its memories—and after death, it would no longer even have a form to return to. All that remained was a purposeless soul, crying for what it had lost. They didn’t even know what they had lost, only feeling the emptiness it had left behind.
Eirik had seen something like this before. A small meadow spirit that liked to spend time near the flower fields by Halsport. During midsummer, he sometimes saw it making flower crowns.
He moved recklessly, and the branch under his boot snapped. The spirit flinched, its gaze locking onto him. There was no longer any reason to hide – the being had already seen him.
Eirik stepped forward, feeling uncomfortable under its cold, unyielding stare. Spirits weren’t inherently evil, just lonely, frozen in time. But encountering them always unsettled him – they reflected his own solitude, echoed his despair, though he wasn’t ready to face that yet.
“I know you.”
The voice was eerie, carried on the wind that seemed to whisper around him. Eirik hadn’t seen the spirit speak, but the voice was unmistakably its own.
A sense of foreboding washed over him. There was something strange in the spirit's voice, perhaps even warning him. He took a cautious step back, trying to signal that he meant no harm.
"I know you," it repeated. "But you've already forgotten."
"Forgotten what?" Eirik asked.
The spirit of ice cried again. "For so long, we've been left here without protection. I am so alone."
What was he supposed to say to that? They hadn’t taught him in school how to comfort a spirit broken by sorrow. Eirik felt extremely awkward, struggling to come up with something reassuring. Nothing seemed quite right.
"What have I forgotten?" he asked again.
"Mankind has forgotten us," it said. "No one remembers us anymore. We are trapped here with…”
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
“With?”
“With the nightmares.”
Cold shivers raced down his spine. "What nightmares?"
"They are your doing! Your nightmares!" The spirit shrieked now, its voice echoing unnaturally, the words pounding in his head.
Your nightmares. Had humans caused this corruption?
The spirit crumpled to the ground, its form flickering wildly, as if reflecting its suffering. It howled and wept, longing for rest, for peace in its soul. But Eirik knew there was no way he could give that to it.
There were many reasons why a soul might not find its way to the dreamland. Perhaps it had lived an immoral, unethical life as a human, committing terrible crimes, or maybe it simply couldn’t find peace. Some couldn’t let go of life, refusing to accept the truth. Perhaps they had a task to complete, or a god had cursed them. That no longer happened, but before the divine law was established, some gods acted maliciously in their anger.
"...I'm sorry," Eirik whispered. "I—"
"You're not!" The spirit's voice was filled with fury. "You don't understand! You don't understand me, you don’t even remember, you know nothing!"
In the blink of an eye, it appeared in front of him.
Eirik tried to back off, but it was too late. The spirit gripped his face, its fingers passing through his body. Though he couldn’t feel its touch, the bone-chilling cold sank into his core, as if it was freezing his very soul.
The god whispered into their ears, giving instructions, telling them to keep it secret.
But the word spread, and on their deathbeds, they were not accepted for their final journey. The gates to the land of gods remained closed to them.
They were left alone in the cold, stripped of everything they had once known, abandoned by the very forces that were meant to guide them.
The pain crackled through his body. It wasn’t physical pain—nothing that could be healed. It burrowed deep into his soul, into his essence, tearing apart his sense of self. His mind felt as though it was being ripped to pieces.
They had only been deceived. You deceived them.
May all of humanity be lost, may they die. When the nightmares come, let them take everyone with them.
Eirik collapsed to the ground as his legs gave way, and with that, the spirit’s icy grip on him loosened. It released its hold, leaving only the endless sobbing behind, echoing through his mind. The sorrow in that cry was not just the spirit’s, but now his own, a mirror of the abandonment that had consumed them both.
“What did you do?” Eirik asked, his voice heavy with helplessness.
The spirit sniffled. “I only showed you what remains of me. A memory.”
“How in the world does that involve me? I’ve never even met you!”
“I don’t know.”
Eirik sighed, annoyance rising within him as he pushed himself back to his feet. “Are you from a village called Brumar? Do you know the place?”
The spirit was silent for a moment before it answered, “I don’t know.”
“Well, isn’t that just great. You’re so incredibly helpful.” His words dripped with sarcasm, and he longed to leave the spirit behind, let it wallow in its own loneliness. But even as anger simmered beneath the surface, something else twisted in his chest—a deep, unexpected longing. For a moment, he had felt that same sense of abandonment, that same burning pain, and he couldn’t just walk away from it.
"Help me understand," he finally said. "So, you weren't allowed into the afterlife because you were deceived?"
"Yes... the gods deceived me. People deceived me. No one is honest, not in any realm, and that's why our lands are now shrouded in shadow."
The spirit would have gotten along quite well with Pitu. They both seemed to enjoy speaking in strange riddles rather than directly explaining how things really were.
Ignoring his own homesickness, Eirik asked, "How were you deceived?"
"I... I can’t remember. There were more of us, and someone asked us to do something. They said we would be honored, seen as heroes while we were alive. Said we would stand beside them after we died." A brief silence lingered. "But the villagers killed us, and we were never let through the gates."
It burst into tears once again. Eirik continued asking questions, trying to delve deeper into the mystery, but to no avail. The spirit could remember nothing else, and each time it tried and failed, its sobs only grew louder.
From Eirik’s understanding, some god had contacted a group of people, urging them to do something on its behalf, promising fame and honor both among mortals and in the afterlife. But the outcome had been the complete opposite. Unfortunately, the spirit couldn’t recall which god it had been. One possibility was the ruler of the northern lights, the god of the aurora paths, the one who guided souls to the afterlife. But it was likely that more than one god had been involved, each with its own moral stance.
Whatever it was, it had something to do with nightmares and what were known as "shadows"—likely those that corrupted the minds of creatures, such as wolves.And in the midst of it all, there was Everfrost. He couldn’t figure out why.
His horse neighed somewhere, impatient. They had to continue their journey. Eirik knew he wouldn’t get any more answers from the spirit.
“You’re right. I don’t understand you,” he began, “To be honest, I don’t understand much of anything.”
The spirit didn’t respond, so he continued, “But I want to. I will figure things out, and I’ll fix everything. Then the nightmares won’t hurt anyone, not you, not the people.”
The figure moved, its flames settling. It had decided to trust Eirik’s words.
“You are ambitious,” the spirit whispered. “I remember that. You’ve always been ambitious.”
The light flickered again, unable to take the human form it was trying to reach. Then it merged with the wind, vanishing into the air, as though it had never been before him. Walking back to his horse, Eirik could hear the wind crying.
Instead of answers, he had only created more questions for himself. Once again, he wished Sindre and Ulrik were with him, sharing their wisdom. Ulrik would have surely laughed, called him a crybaby and a clumsy fool. And once again, he would have been right.
The sky had clouded over once more. Thankfully, his horse seemed to remember the direction they were supposed to head. The forest of eternal ice was like a maze, one where no one could find the right path. Eirik wondered what would become of him if he were left here, forever. Would the gates be closed to him too? Would he even be given a chance to reach the aurora paths?
Nothing was a coincidence. The nightmares of the Everfrost people had led them to him, guided by the mysterious coyote. The coyote had saved his life and brought his horse back, encouraging him to continue his journey. Eirik believed he was on the right path. He was meant to be here, for this very adventure. Saarni would have been proud of him. She had always said he wasn't cut out to be a dreamweaver. And she had always teased Eirik about how he had gotten used to comfort and warmth, how he had let his mind grow lazy. How he had even wanted that to happen, just to fit in.
Once again, the air felt heavy around him. It crushed his thoughts, preventing him from thinking freely. Slowly, Eirik found himself drifting back to the past, revisiting his memories. They had never been that important to him; they were just things that had happened. However, meeting the spirit had shown him what it would be like to lose them, to lose one's essence altogether.
Years ago, he had been close to his father, but his grandmother had never cared for Eirik. She always said there was something wrong with him, that he was somehow "different." It had wounded the young Eirik's self-esteem, especially during those hardest times when he realized he would never see dreams. His father had stood by him then, but even he had grown distant.
Grandmother had passed away only a few months ago, and on her deathbed, she had only asked for Eirik to come to her room—not anyone else. That had deeply hurt his father—being cast aside by his dying mother. It had come as a surprise even to Eirik, who had never received any love from her. But she had said nothing; she had simply looked at him until life faded from her eyes. With her last strength, she had squeezed his hand.
According to Saarni, it had been their grandmother's way of asking for forgiveness for years of rejection, and Eirik had believed that. But his grandmother had been a wise woman, one who could sense and see energies that even the best dreamweavers couldn't always perceive. Throughout her life, she had tried to avoid it, until in her final moments, she had chosen to embrace it.
There was something wrong with him, Eirik knew that much. But what exactly had his grandmother seen in him? If he had ever bothered to ask, instead of wallowing in self-pity, would he have found the answers to the questions that only surfaced later?
Eirik clenched his fist. The forest was to blame for this. It made him hesitate and doubt, causing him to sink into a mood of frustration. Maybe he was imagining it all, maybe his grandmother had never squeezed his hand, maybe she hadn’t known she was dying at that moment. Perhaps he was just so paranoid that he sought out any clue, no matter how small.
That night, he didn't sleep. While Captain Clop rested, Eirik practiced the art of the blade. Until now, he had relied not on skill, but on agility, persistence, luck, and help from others. He could hold his own, manage to land a blow on a wolf, but if he faced someone who truly knew how to wield a sword, he wouldn’t last long.
He didn’t know when it became morning. The eternal night was cruel and unforgiving, and Eirik had completely lost track of time. Eventually, he began to follow his steed’s routine. When the horse awoke, they set off. When it grew hungry, they ate, and then they moved again until it was too tired.
The spirit of the ice remained firmly in Eirik's mind, its touch an eternal reminder in his soul. It haunted him constantly, and it wasn’t just due to the cold of Everfrost.
One evening, he saw the northern lights again, for the second time in his life. They were radical, far more powerful than in Halsport. Their reds and greens painted the sky, lighting his path. This time, he didn’t stop to admire it. He knew that somewhere in the world, a soul would be left behind, to suffer for eternity. Nightmares would easily take hold of them, corrupting not just their nights but also their days.
It was then that Eirik prayed again, hoping that someday all those forgotten souls would find rest in peace.
No one answered. No one had answered him in days.
He walked through the unrelenting twilight, allowing his horse’s senses to guide him. He no longer trusted his own instincts, until he spotted the paw prints. They were faint, nearly invisible. Eirik couldn’t explain why he was so certain, but he gently urged his horse forward, guiding it along the trail of tracks.
They didn’t travel far—maybe only fifteen minutes—when a sharp breeze swept past them. Eirik felt it before he saw it, and so did Captain Clop. Eirik pressed his heels into the horse's sides, urging her forward, and she broke into a gallop.
Before them lay a frozen sea, its icy expanse extending beyond the horizon. The sky and ice merged together, stretching beyond the eye’s reach. Laughter escaped Eirik’s lips. They had found the shore.
Norden Viper was beautiful, and far too calm. The ice floes reflected the light of the auroras, a sight even more magnificent than the rugged cliffs and mountains he had passed through.
It was cold—far too cold—and Eirik could feel it deep in his bones, despite all his layers of clothing. Yet, he hadn’t felt this happy in a long time. He was close, and he knew it.
“Let’s go,” he urged, “Let’s keep moving. We’re almost there.”
They continued on, beneath the northern lights, where the souls of the dead crossed from one realm to another above them. Eirik admired the landscape, a smile spreading almost from ear to ear. He was finally nearing Brumar, and things would begin to make sense again. Perhaps he could send a letter home, asking how everyone was doing. He would tell them everything about his journey—everything, except for the bloodiest and strangest events. And surely, he'd describe the magnificent Norden Viper, that eternal ice, which... was now cracked.
He slowed his horse to get a better look. The farther they followed the shoreline, the darker the ice seemed to grow, and in the distance, there was a massive rift.
Ulrik's nightmare, he remembered. It had warned them about this—the awakening of the sea serpent. It lay somewhere below, gathering its strength. The same strength the wolves had used to survive the storm and countless lethal sword strikes.
It wasn't too late. The ice was cracking, but it hadn't broken apart completely. He hadn't encountered any more storms, only harsh snowfalls. Eirik still had time to do something for Brumar’s sake.
For the sake of his companions.
Eirik urged his horse into a gallop again, more determined than ever. He had to do something—warn the village, tell them about Ulrik’s dream, and reach out to the elder and Ylva.
I’ll figure things out. I’ll make it right, he had promised.
You’ve always been ambitious.
The words of the spirit lingered in the air, carried by the wind that howled in his ears.