Eirik had expected a deathly quiet tribe, barely managing to survive each day. He’d pictured Brumar as a weak village, practically built from twigs, that a strong enough gust could knock over.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
How was it possible that, so far from civilization, deep in the wilderness near the edge of the Norden Viper, there could be something so grand?
All of Brumar was alight. From a distance, Eirik could see its inviting glow and feel its warmth. He could hear laughter and life. Sturdy wooden homes lined the village’s snow-covered paths, each illuminated by lanterns and decorated with symbols that seemed to guard the village from the cold.
Majestic cliffs stood in the background, with a forest climbing along their low slopes. Built into the rock was a large temple, its lanterns twinkling like stars in the night sky. Usually, people worshipped their favored deities in personal ways—through prayer, offerings of flowers or food, or spiritual rituals. But sometimes, if a city held a particularly beloved god, they would construct a temple solely for them. Other small shrines could be found on the outskirts of neighborhoods or tucked away in nearby forests and along beaches, but rarely were they as grand or as beautiful as this one.
This was where Ulrik and Sindre were from. Here they had built a home, spent their childhood, and taken on the duty to guard the dangerous sea.
As he neared the village, Eirik slowed his horse. Stone walls surrounded the settlement, with a decorative iron gate similar to the one in Halsport—though much smaller.
Someone was already waiting for him. A pale man, cloaked in fur and leather, his face partly obscured by a fur-lined hood. He was fair-skinned, perhaps about Eirik’s height, and held a spear in his hand.
Eirik dismounted. Now he could see the red markings on the man’s face, thick strokes like from a brush.
“It’s been a long time since an outlander last visited us,” the man said, his voice as stoic and serious as the brothers’. “Only the people of the Dead Hills come here, but you’re not one of them.”
The Dead Hills. Another region with a dark reputation in Kaldrheim. It lay near the large lake that occupied much of the land’s center, close to two separate mountain ranges. The Dead Hills sat in the middle, a rocky expanse with little life. Rumor had it that the gods had cursed the territory hundreds of years ago. No one was supposed to live there, by any reasonable account.
Apparently, there was still much Eirik didn’t know about his own land.
He frowned. “What if I were?”
The man’s expression didn’t change, but his tone was sharp. “Your clothing is fine. Your skin is too smooth. You come to us thinking we are fools. You’re from elsewhere.”
“I get it, I’m too pretty to be local. I’ll make sure to roll around in the mud next time.”
He wasn’t trying to be difficult on purpose. Eirik was exhausted; the journey had been far too long. And now, just when he was so close to the answers he sought, a gatekeeper wanted to slow him down.
The guard didn’t react to his remark but instead asked, “Why are you here?”
Eirik stopped himself from grimacing. Patience had never been one of his strong suits, but he knew the man was simply doing his job.
“I’m Eirik Nanuk, a dreamweaver,” he said. “Two men from your village came to Halsport, seeking my counsel. I can’t interpret dreams completely without being connected to the dreamer, which is why I traveled here with them.”
“So where are they now?”
A question he didn’t want to hear, but one he’d known would come. He tried to keep his voice steady as he answered, “They got lost in an unfortunate avalanche.”
“Is that so?” The gatekeeper didn’t seem convinced. “Show me your weapon.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Eirik drew the short sword. Even its sheath had belonged to Sindre; Eirik had found it among his belongings before leaving the campsite. Sindre had at least three other swords, so Eirik hadn’t thought it would matter. Now, though, a sinking feeling twisted in his gut.
The man took the sword in his hands, studying it for a moment.
"You hold the short sword of Sindre Rimeholt. It has belonged to his family for generations. Three hundred years ago, Ironbringer, the deity of the elements of the land, bestowed his blessing upon a great hero. The next weapon he forged would be of the sharpest and deadliest iron ever seen." The gatekeeper shifted his gaze to Eirik, his eyes seeming to mirror an impending storm. "How is it that the strongest soldiers of our village mysteriously vanished, and now you appear here alone, carrying Rimeholt's sword?"
Eirik had run out of jokes and sarcastic quips. He couldn't believe this was happening. He had endured so much, testing himself both mentally and physically. He had nearly died twice—first, only surviving thanks to Ulrik, Sindre, and the kind villagers, and the second time with the help of some damn coyote. He had walked through cold forests, storms, and narrow mountains just to speak with Brumar’s elder. And what did he get in return? An accusation that he had killed his companions!
"We were caught in a fierce snowstorm," Eirik said, trying to stay calm. His voice betrayed him, and even his horse seemed to sense that his patience was about to snap. "Then the direwolves ambushed us. Sindre stayed behind to fight them off. Ulrik and I tried to flee to the mountains, but we got trapped under an avalanche. When I managed to get up, the brothers were nowhere to be found. I lost my own sword in the snowdrift, so I took this from Sindre's belongings, the ones we had left behind when we tried to escape."
"Believable story," the gatekeeper said. He didn’t return the short sword to Eirik. "But there’s one thing you forgot to sharpen in your lie. I’m assuming you’re talking about the storm from two weeks ago. No wolves could hunt in such conditions."
"They weren't ordinary wolves!" Eirik snapped desperately. "I don’t know what they were, but they’re somehow connected to your village’s…. dreams."
"How dare you—"
"Let him through."
The gatekeeper didn’t even flinch when they heard the voice from beyond the walls. He shot Eirik a nasty glare before signaling to the guards on the other side of the gate. There was a sharp, ear-piercing screech, and the metal doors began to open slowly.
"Thanks for the warm welcome," Eirik muttered, grabbing the reins of his horse. He stepped into Brumar, glancing hopefully at Sindre’s sword, but the gatekeeper made no move to return it.
Before him stood an old, frail man. The cold and age had grayed his hair and face, but they hadn’t extinguished the fire in his eyes. Were all the Everfrost people like this? Stubborn, silent, with strong, expressive eyes.
Eirik immediately knew who he was dealing with. He had always been good at reading people, putting the pieces together.
"You’re the elder," he blurted out.
"I heard you’ve come to meet me."
"Yes, and..." He hesitated for a moment. Ulrik would have hated him, starting a loud argument if he had known what Eirik was planning. But he had already received Sindre's permission, and he preferred to listen to him rather than a grumbling angry man. Eirik continued, "A girl named Ylva. I have reason to believe my abilities might help her as well."
The elder paused for a moment, considering. "Welcome to Brumar," he finally said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the lit street. "You must be tired from your travels. Rest now, and tomorrow you can begin your work."
"What about the brothers?"
"I thought I heard you say they were missing."
"... They might still be alive."
"Perhaps," the elder nodded. "They’ve always been determined, those two. The whole village loves them. It would be a heavy blow to us if they don’t return."
Eirik was overcome with guilt. If only he had been faster, wiser, more skilled. If he hadn’t frozen when the avalanche came, the outcome might have been different.
"It happened before the mountains," Eirik said, "It’s been a long time."
"You've been worrying about their fate for too long. Let us handle our part now."
Eirik didn't respond. The elder took the reins of his horse, likely leading it to the stables, and gave him directions to where he could rest.
The streets of Brumar were lively. Laughing children built snowmen and lay on the ground, creating snow saints. Snowballs flew through the air, and he could hear the steady clang of metal from the blacksmiths. Somehow, the village had survived and grown. The gatekeeper had mentioned the tribe of Dead Hills—but what about the country next to them? Even here, the sea wasn’t always frozen; after the eternal night, it would melt, at least for a time. It would be a good opportunity to trade for game, spices, and building materials. If they dared to cross the canal, that is.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
It must have been dreadful to live in constant fear of the sea monster's rise.
The inn he ended up in was more of a small house with extra rooms. It was run by a middle-aged woman whose features were delicate and kind, like the first snow. Surely, she wouldn’t start accusing him of "killing the village’s most beloved brothers."
He carried his things into the room. It was cramped and gloomy, but exactly the kind of place he liked. He didn’t plan to spend much time there other than sleeping. Since he no longer had to be alone with his thoughts, he returned to the hostess, who was bustling in the kitchen.
"Wow, what a crowd!” He whistled, looking around the empty halls, “I'm almost overwhelmed by all the complete lack of people here."
The woman laughed, pouring him a cup of hot cocoa. "There are not many tourists here."
The drink steamed, and the mug felt hot in Eirik’s hands. It was a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time, and for a moment, he simply savored the sensation.
“No wonder. Do all newcomers get the same welcome?” he asked. “Spears raised, tons of questions. The gatekeeper acted like I was a criminal.”
“You arrived late. The gates close at seven. It’s their duty to know what’s going on.”
He knew it all too well. “It’s a little hard to judge exactly what time of day it is here.”
“Understandable,” the woman said. “Don’t worry too much about it. We’re just not used to unannounced visitors. This is a small community.”
Eirik fell silent for a moment.
"May I ask, ma'am...?"
"Just call me Solveig," the hostess replied. She didn’t stop for a second, energetically preparing a potato stew. "And feel free to ask anything."
“How does Brumar survive? I’m from Halsport, and I never even knew anyone lived here.”
One explanation popped into Eirik's mind about how the village could have survived and even grown in population for generations, and it wasn’t a pleasant thought.
Solveig glanced at him with a knowing look, eyes glinting in amusement. “Normal citizens have rarely heard about us, but the government knows. High-ranking soldiers know too, from all over the world. People come here who want to live in peace. Some come for work, and they might find a spouse and decide to stay.”
For work. They were probably sent to the border patrol, staring at the sea all day long. But maybe life wouldn't be so bad here. Eirik had been here only a short time, and he was already enchanted by the village's surroundings; its energy and beauty were immeasurably valuable.
"I see. But why isn’t this publicly known? A lot of people think Kaldrheim is a terrible place, where you can only live in the southern regions," he said.
"Some things might be too shocking for the public."
"That's true." Eirik nodded. He leaned back, resting against the comfortable chair. “My gods, I feel like I'm part of some secret society.”
"Wait until you see what perks our secret society offers," Solveig mused. "Have you ever been to a sauna?"
No, he hadn’t. At first, it sounded strange—a small wooden room heated almost to boiling point. But curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped from the changing room into the dark wooden chamber. The heat was suffocating, and even though he had just showered, sweat began to bead on his light brown skin.
Eirik felt himself relax. He hadn’t realized how much tension he had been holding in his muscles, or how sore they were.
He sat on the highest platform. At his feet was a bucket, from which he could throw water onto the wood-heated stove, and soon a thin layer of steam rose above him, accompanied by the almost scalding heat.
As he let the sauna work its magic, he examined his scars. He hadn't really had the chance to look at them before, as it hadn’t been wise to strip down in the freezing wilderness. Even when he had to change after the pond, there had been other things on his mind, more urgent than the memories of his wounds.
Although the pond had been, in some way, blessed by the gods—probably by the deity of the moon, whose powers had healing properties—it hadn’t erased his blemish.
His soft skin was marred by harsh scars, on his shoulder and side. Perhaps before, Eirik would have panicked and thought of himself as ugly, but he no longer cared. If one had stared death in the face a few times, the marks it left didn’t feel like much anymore.
At the same time, the coyote returned to his mind. He had seen its tracks, leading him to the shoreline. Eirik had hoped to encounter it in the village, but there had been no sign of it, not a soul in sight. He was certain it had been a god taking the form of an animal. But there were only a few shape-shifters, and none of them would behave in such a way. Besides, Eirik had struggled to accept it. According to the laws of the gods, deities were forbidden from interfering with mortal fates—saving someone from certain death, if anything, was a violation of that.
For some reason, he had caught the attention of a rebel god, and he wanted to know why. He wanted to try reaching out to it, but how? He didn’t know which shrine to visit, to whom he should whisper prayers before bed. He didn’t know its name, nothing at all.
The coyote could appear anytime, anywhere. If it had wanted to reveal its true identity, it would have done so already. Eirik wanted to honor its wishes, but curiosity was a painful vice, and he couldn’t help but hope the shape-shifter held answers to his questions. His only hope lay in the elder’s dreams, the old man’s nightmares, where the coyote had appeared. If he was lucky, he believed he could find it within Ylva’s mind as well.
After two hours, Eirik finally returned to the inn. The sauna had been in a separate, cozy cabin—a bit like the one his parents used for their work. As he walked along the lantern-lit path in the backyard, he breathed in the scent of smoke rising from the chimney and the smell of food drifting from an open window. His gaze wandered to a distant cliff. It seemed like the temple had been carved directly into the rock face. Even from afar, he could make out its grand pillars, carefully tended steps, and intricate details.
Solveig was still cooking, humming softly to herself as she danced to the rhythm of her own voice. Dinner would be ready soon. Electricity was a luxury they didn’t have here, but that only added to the handcrafted, authentic feel of everything around him.
Eirik watched her, a faint smile playing on his lips. Solveig reminded him of his mother, always so cheerful and gentle. He would need to contact home soon; it was possible the direwolves had already moved closer to Halsport, if they already hadn’t been lurking in the nearby woods before he left. Saarni's constant patrols of the woods weighed on his mind.
"Hey. The sauna was amazing, thank you." He glanced out the window. "Is anyone allowed to go to the temple?"
"Yes, of course," Solveig replied.
"At any time?"
"Well, yes, but there may be guards. Just announce yourself, and it’ll be fine." She turned to look at him, her golden-blonde hair framing her round face. "Are you thinking of going now? Are you sure?"
"What better way to get to know the village than to learn about their culture?"
Solveig pursed her lips. "All right, but eat first. You look half-starved."
She wasn’t wrong. It was hard to eat well out in the forest. Eirik had often worried his horse would tire or starve, so he’d given it most of his own rations.
He put on his clothes and set off. Hearing that familiar clink of metal, like before, Eirik turned toward the blacksmith's shop. Brumar never slept. The children had already disappeared from the streets as bedtime approached, but many were still working, their tasks endless.
Eirik pulled a pouch of Moonshards from his pocket, a currency named after the moon goddess. She was one of the most beloved deities—beautiful as the pale moon, kind and gentle, always guiding travelers with her light. She was Eryx’s wife, the god of night. Eirik and Saarni had often joked that they must have the perfect marriage, given Eryx never spoke a word or mansplained anything, never acted foolishly with his words. He had chosen to be silent, after all.
It was typical of Moonbringer to bless water sources—ponds or streams her rays had touched. From the depths of these, shimmering, sickle-shaped shards of silver had been found. They were rare, and nowadays, the original pieces fetched a high price on the market. But the currency they used, this man-made one, was based on those very fragments.
He dropped the entire pouch onto the blacksmith’s table. “Will this get me a fine sword in three days?”
The man glanced at the amount. “Four.”
“Deal.” With that, the trade was settled, and Eirik promised to return in a few days. Maybe this time he wouldn’t be accused of being a murderer just for holding a specific weapon.
The path to the outcrop wasn’t long. The walls protecting the village blended seamlessly into the cliff’s dark, snow-covered face, and the stairs leading up were steep yet secure, worn smooth by daily use and beautifully lit. Lanterns, almost ceremonial in their ornate design, lined the steps all the way to the top.
As Solveig had mentioned, there were two heavily armed guards on-site, but they let him pass without a second thought.
At the summit, three statues awaited Eirik, immediately recognizable: deities of the moon, night, and stars. A beautiful divine family, perfectly suited to watch over a forgotten, mysterious northern village. Eirik wasn’t surprised by Eryx’s popularity in Brumar—the entire village ordeal had started from the bad dream Eryx had sent to the elder. And since Tir, the Moonbringer, had blessed a northern pond herself, she was surely well-connected to the land. Also, building a shrine to the trendy “it” couple of deities would have been odd without including their child. Though Eirik found the deity of stars downright insufferable, he knew better than to voice that thought here, in their sacred place.
The statues were enormous, at least three meters tall, each of them breathtakingly beautiful. Carved from stone and adorned with silver, their gray skin glimmered in the lantern light. Above them, a canopy opened up, extending deeper into the temple, deeper into the stone. Eirik didn’t want to go there. It was a place for urns, such as those of devoted temple maidens and priests.
Eirik bowed before Eryx's statue. The altar was laden with offerings: jewelry, incense, family heirlooms—anything of sentimental value to the villagers. The gods, it seemed, answered these people, showing gratitude for their devotion and unwavering reverence over the years.
Yet Eirik felt... nothing. No stirring, no tingling, no heavy presence that hinted the gods might be watching him. Their rulers clearly knew he existed—he had felt their presence, first during the auroras and once again while traveling with Sindre and Ulrik. It wasn’t common for people to sense they were being watched.
Or perhaps Eirik had just imagined it all. He had never been good at letting go, not even of his hope and faith, which had been betrayed time and time again.
"Not likely to get any answers here," Eirik sighed. "You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?"
He moved aside from the center statue and looked directly at Tir. It felt strange to tilt his head back, craning his neck just to see the intricate carvings on the statue’s face. The woman's features were strong and sharp, and her thin lips were curled into a faint smile.
"You might not know this, but you saved my ass a while back,” he spoke to the goddess. "Did you send that coyote to lead me to your pond?"
No answer, no sign of acknowledgment.
"Well, thank you anyway. I wouldn’t be here without you." He gave a quick, sorrowful smile. "Don’t tell the other statues, but when I was a kid, you were the one I wished would answer me the most. You were my favorite."
He didn’t bother approaching the statue of the deity of stars. In fact, he didn’t spare that troublemaker so much as a glance. Every time he'd been forced to interpret the dreams sent by him, they’d mostly been filled with nonsense—the kind of symbolism that all boiled down to “suck it, dreamweaver” or some equally pointless message. The god of stars didn’t like it when dreamweavers tried to interpret the signs given to his faithful, and made that abundantly clear.
Eventually, Eirik left the temple. He didn’t even know why he had gone there.Maybe he had been trying to fill the emptiness inside him, to warm the cold left behind by the spirit of ice. He didn’t want to be alone anymore, but it seemed like his only option was to accept the truth. That was always the hardest part.
As he descended the stairs, he saw a familiar flicker of light. When he turned to look, it was gone.