She looked kind. And far more beautiful than her older brothers, for sure.
Despite the biting cold of winter, she was dressed lightly in white silk. It complimented her dark skin, which had paled in the shadows, her tone now a yellow-brown.
Ylva’s hair was tightly braided, falling over her sharp collarbones. Silver jewelry adorned it, matching the makeup on her eyelids.
Her caretaker explained that she enjoyed making art on her skin. It was the only passion she had left over the years. Everything else—her friends, the social circles, the events, all the things she had once loved—she had let go of.
For a moment, Eirik just sat in front of her, searching for eye contact he knew he wouldn’t receive. A heavy sadness weighed on his mind. How long had the nightmares tormented her, to bring her to this point? And worse still, if it continued, what would happen then?
The woman’s eyes had dark circles underneath, and her delicate face looked tired, worn. When was the last time she slept?
"Hi, Ylva," Eirik said at last. "I’m Eirik. I knew your brothers."
Something in her expression shifted. She reacted to the mention of her brothers, and thinking of them clearly hurt. She had already heard the bad news.
Even so, she didn’t lift her gaze from the pearl necklace she was fidgeting with in her hands.
"I’m a dreamweaver," Eirik continued, hesitating. What could he even say? He had been so confident walking up to her, armed with nothing more than the idea of her existence. He’d thought he could help, that he could work miracles.
Now he was starting to believe he was wrong. He wasn’t a hero.
The room was utterly silent, broken only by the soft clinking of pearls as Ylva tugged and twisted the necklace in her hands.
"… That means I have a close connection with the gods," he said. A lie. "I understand their words better than anyone. I could interpret your dreams. I could help you."
The word gods seemed to startle Ylva. Her fingers began fiddling with the necklace even faster, but she didn’t reply to Eirik.
"You don’t have to say anything yet. All you need to do is think about your dreams, and I can read your aura, see the traces the deities have left in your mind."
No response. Eirik didn’t want to just grab her hand and start analyzing her energy. He didn’t have the right—no consent to delve into someone’s dreams. Yet he was frustrated. He needed to hear about her dreams. She had been plagued by nightmares far longer than the village elder, likely uncovering more in the process.
Finally, he broke the silence. "Just… think about my offer."
Eirik stood up from the chair and left the room. He wasn’t even sure what he had been thinking. Ulrik had warned him that his sister was fragile, in a bad state of mind, easily shaken. She rarely spoke and slept even less. No wonder he hadn’t been able to get any new information from her.
The flow of uncovering answers had slowed, nearly come to a halt. At least he had the old journal, which might shed some light on what he needed to know. Still, he had to proceed with caution. The locals probably wouldn’t be upset that he was holding onto the only evidence of the gods’ suspicious behavior, but he had started to notice the outsiders.
People who didn’t work as diligently. People who complained about the eternal night. Or those oddly dressed soldiers stationed on the walls and gates surrounding the village.
Eirik couldn’t trust anyone.
When he returned to the inn, it was around midday—or so he estimated. Solveig was preparing lunch, and she had guests. For the first time ever, Eirik didn’t feel like blending in with the crowd, enjoying their company, and drawing strength from others. He wanted to be alone.
He retreated to his small room, setting the book down on the bed. Its bindings were frayed, ready to fall apart at any moment. The text was written in old kaldhreim, the handwriting ornate and bold. It was difficult to read, but Eirik had been forced to learn all their linguistic nuances and expressions—old texts and tales—simply because some gods couldn’t let go of the past.
The first page was hastily written, as if someone couldn’t wait to get to the point.
Draumgeirr, in the year 1143
I have served as a dreamweaver for many long years, yet ne’er before have mine eyes beheld aught like this, nor shall any believe my words.
Vorsythus is not of this mortal realm. Its power is far too great, not some common sea-beast that stirreth in our waters. It cometh from the world beyond our waking minds—I am certain of it.
The rising of the sea serpent is not the sole change that troubleth us. The gods themselves have forsaken their faithful. They are vanished, like smoke scattered upon the wind.
Something ill hath come to pass. People hath come unto me, telling of foul dreams. Yet it occurreth only here, in Brumar, and not in the cities of the safer lands. I have cause to believe the sea serpent is somehow involved therein. Its power is dark, corrupted. Not the pure miracle that the gods possess.
The ancestor of Brumar’s elder had been a dreamweaver. Eirik wasn’t surprised by this. They were more attuned to the power, able to sense when something was amiss.
On the next page was a smudged drawing of a sea monster. It was massive, its black scales tinged with green. Each tooth was like a dagger, and from its maw it spewed a storm. As Ulrik had said weeks ago, its eyes were as dark as the void—just like the direwolves’.
After encountering the spirit of the ice, Eirik had come to the belief that it was humanity itself that had caused the corruption, manifesting as a bloodthirsty terror. The spirit had blamed mankind, crying and screaming for the life it had lost. But according to the text, Vorsythus hailed from the land of the gods.
On the next page was written in large letters: The Lost Deities.
Many hath lost their beloved guidance. Some gods no longer answer, nor taketh contact. Other deities hath filled the void they left behind, and the people shall soon forget their grief.
But I shall not forget.
I know not what hath befallen them, nor whither they have gone. Yet, what I know is this: even the smallest change in the dreamland doth affect the balance.
According to the proclamations, these gods are vanished from the images,
Thyrr, the god of paths. He was dearly beloved by mortals. As the warden of the bridge that linketh the realm of mortals with that of the gods, he was near to us in our dreams. From his throne, he gazed upon the minds of all, aiding each with an open heart.
No one guards the bridge of the auroras now. Yet we know that the world moveth on, even without the gods’ watch. If power hath been loosed in the realms, it may never be reclaimed.
For a moment, Eirik thought he had misunderstood the text. He had to rephrase it in his mind, to make it clearer. But he hadn’t read it wrong; Thyrr, the god of paths, had indeed vanished.
The list was long, very long. Some of the gods he had heard of, but there were also new names, forgotten powers that had been lost to memory for generations.
Thalorath, the god of seas and storms. He was of great import to us of Brumar, and indeed, to all of Kaldrheim. Friend of fishermen, he oft bestowed blessings of good fortune upon those who sailed the seas. Yet now, if any should try to pray unto him, they see but a bottomless chasm, as though they were drowning in the very depths of the sea.
Irithra, the goddess of growth. She was the twin of Tir, the goddess of the moon, and alike in all ways. Both wielded the arts of healing, and their springs were sought with great devotion and cherished with reverence. Her absence hath left many open wounds, scars that time doth struggle to heal.
Vardum, the god of honor. He was oft the symbol of war, yet also of peace, for balance did once dwell in our land, and none were burdened by strife. His followers were brave, bold warriors who drew their courage from his strength. Yet since his disappearance, many have turned to cowards, their spirits broken, and their hearts filled with fear.
Virelia, the goddess of chaos. Her role was not only to sow discord but to guard mortals from being ensnared in the struggles of the gods. She championed free will, the independence of all. She was close unto us, and we beheld her soul, though her true being was veiled from our sight.
Eirik read the last sentence over and over again.
Through her true being was veiled from our sight. The goddess of chaos. A title that had been lost long before his birth. The goddess of chaos, who never appeared in her true form.
That damn coyote. He was sure of it now. He already knew that the shapeshifter was a rebel who did not follow the gods' divine law. The law should have been binding, like a promise that could not be broken. But it was difficult to affect someone who was not supposed to exist anymore.
Eirik knew the gods couldn’t die. They were not fully physical beings like mortals. They did not bleed, they did not get sick. The faults of humankind did not affect them. But somehow, they could be gotten rid of, somehow they could be weakened.
The question was, how?
The journal contained much information that should no longer have existed on this earth. It seemed to muddle his thoughts, tearing his mind in many different directions. But if there was one thing he had understood from the text, it was that there was a conflict among the gods that had caused some of them to vanish.
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Most notably, the absence of Thyrr was significant. It was true that the northern lights still worked without him, but according to research and theories, he had been a very important part of the balance. It was he who should have ensured that creatures like Vorsythus, the sea serpent, did not cross from the world beyond the mind into the land of mortals.
The ice spirit had mentioned something about the bridge. It had said that the gates to the afterlife had never opened for it after death. What had it really been asked to do? What did it know about nightmares?
Eirik sprang to his feet, carefully hiding the book. He even locked his door, though he had never felt the need to do so before. He now understood why Ulrik and Sindre had been so cautious with the information. Such matters should not fall into the wrong hands.
No wonder he hadn’t been able to figure out the coyote’s identity. All the evidence had been wiped away, along with the sea monster. He wanted to reach out to her again, but he wouldn’t be able to make contact on his terms.
Eirik couldn’t afford to wait until nightfall, idly twiddling his thumbs. He headed back to the temple, marching through the snow-covered, well-worn paths. Last night, he had caught a familiar glimpse. He had found it strange that the ice spirit had followed him, but now it proved useful.
It didn’t take long for him to be near the temple, but the large crowd made him hesitate. Villagers climbed the steep steps, bringing offerings to the gods. Many greeted him, clearly intrigued and curious about his presence. Rumors had spread about the unexpected dreamweaver whose escorts had vanished. Those who didn’t greet him steered clear, whispering in each other’s ears and glaring in his direction. The gatekeeper wasn’t the only one who considered him a murderer.
Eirik felt uneasy with the negative attention. He longed for acceptance to fill the loneliness in his heart, wanting everyone to love him. But now even the cheerful greetings and brief conversations with passing strangers felt like a burden. He couldn’t summon a spirit—not here. Too many people, too many eyes and ears.
He needed to get out of the village.
He made a sharp turn, almost running to escape from the crowd. It seemed like he would never get a break from his constant traveling.The rush throbbed in his chest and temples, as if he feared the ice spirit had already gone back in the woods.
The gatekeeper was the same as the previous evening, looking even angrier and more tired. Eirik slowed his pace.
“Wow,” he said, “Night and morning shifts back to back, I assume? You're definitely not your boss' favorite.”
The gatekeeper's expression didn't change, but Eirik could feel his irritation. It only made his grin widen.
“I hope you're here to announce your departure,” the gatekeeper said.
“Not exactly. Just going for a pleasant little stroll.”
He didn’t respond. Since the gates were open during the day, Eirik walked through without asking for permission, whistling cheerfully as he went. The gatekeeper would probably have been just as pleased to see him behind bars.
There were few people outside the gates. Most were focused on their own tasks—working or enjoying their free time—and paid no attention to Eirik. A bit farther away, a few children tried playing on the ice, which would surely have been strong enough to carry their weight, but their mother immediately called them off, glancing anxiously toward the horizon.
The wall separating Norden Viper's shore from the village was guarded three times more heavily than the temple or forest sides. He hadn't noticed the villagers' panic inside the borders, but now it was unmistakable.
Eirik moved farther away, to an area where the village lights no longer shone. He arrived at the edge of the forest, taking a deep breath of the sharp scent of nature. He found himself missing it more than the warmth of his own bed. It still didn’t compare to Solveig’s cooking, though.
"Are you going to keep watching me from the bushes?" Eirik crossed his arms, feigning nonchalance. It was hard to keep his face neutral as that familiar cold slowly devoured his very core. He could still feel the touch of that spirit, how it had forced its fingers into his soul, pushing the last remnants of its existence into his mind.
A sniffle. Eirik turned around, surprised that his act had actually worked. It had been nothing more than a gut feeling, the same sense he’d had when he knew the gods were watching him. Everything had its own aura, even ancient, bodiless spirits trapped in the mortal realm.
"I know you," the spirit whispered.
"Yeah, you said that last time."
"When you came to me, I was... angry. I wanted to kill you."
"Nice to hear."
The spirit didn’t understand his sarcasm. It stepped forward, pale, its white flames dancing playfully, as if it were pleased with Eirik’s comment. It had stopped crying, at least for a moment.
"But now, I am happy," it continued. Its voice was strange, difficult to define. It didn’t sound like a man or a woman, but something entirely different.
"Well, I’m happy you’re here," Eirik replied. "I have a question for you."
No response. The spirit flickered in the air, its light reflecting off the snowy ground.
"What did the gods ask you to do?"
Eirik had asked it before, but he was hoping for a different answer. He regretted it immediately. The spirit’s flames flared, and a piercing wail echoed through the forest.
Eirik glanced around. Hopefully, no one heard that. It would be hard to explain why he was secretly meeting with a mentally unstable being in the dark, out of the guards’ sight. He’d certainly make the gatekeeper’s day a hundred times better. Maybe he would have started accusing him of some conspiracy or something similar.
The spirit continued its crying, saying nothing.
"Hey, hey, it’s okay," Eirik hushed, "Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you."
"I don’t remember! I don’t remember anything! I’m all alone, at the mercy of nightmares..."
Eirik’s eyes widened with realization. "Look... I can help you with your nightmares. If you just promise to calm down."
There was a vague grunt, as if the spirit were trying to gasp for air, though it had no lungs. Then its crying started to quiet down, until only a faint sob remained. It nodded in agreement.
Quickly, he tried to find something to sit on. But the eternal night was unyielding and merciless, revealing nothing beyond the faint glow of the spirit's light.
An idea struck him, and Eirik turned to the soul. "Could you move a bit to the left? Just a little more. Perfect, uh, now take a few steps back—brilliant!"
Following the spirit's light, he lowered himself onto a broad stone. He asked the spirit to stay in front of him and extend... well, it was hard to call it a hand since it lacked any definite shape, but something of the sort. The spirit’s ice-cold flames would have passed straight through his body, but as it held them just an inch away from his fingers, the situation began to feel more manageable.
It was strange how ice could feel so… burning. He felt it again—the same pain he’d experienced when frostbite had nearly claimed his fingers. He was still a bit miffed at the coyote for dredging up such an unpleasant memory in his dream, seemingly just to irritate him.
The spirit caused no physical harm. Once Eirik realized that, he was able to breathe a little easier. Adventurous or not, he didn’t like getting hurt.
“Okay. Cool. Literally,” Eirik said, taking a deep breath. “I’ve never held hands with a spirit before.”
The being made a sweeping motion, almost like it was tilting its head. Eirik chuckled at his own comment and then said, “Now, I’m going to need you to tell me all about your nightmares, down to every detail.”
“Sure thing!” it replied cheerfully, then promptly shoved its free hand into his head.
Eirik gagged. “Hey! I didn’t—”
But he didn’t get to finish the sentence. It was as if his brain froze, the cold spreading through his entire body, snaking along his veins, once again searching for his soul.
And then he saw them—those flashes, ripples of its memories.
Direwolves live in peace, hunting only when necessary and avoiding humans.
But when they sleep, shadows slither into their minds. Animal souls don’t endure them as well, and it hurts—hurts deeply.
One by one, they begin to change. They lose their purpose and values, lashing out at those close to them, becoming more aggressive with each passing day. And then, after one dream too many, they begin to kill.
Their hunger grows insatiable. They devour and tear everything apart, but nothing is ever enough. Not ever.
This wasn’t a dream sent by the gods. Eirik couldn’t sense any deity’s aura. The energy within the memories was dark and raw, like a void calling his name. It felt as if reaching for it would mean there would be no turning back.
Eirik stumbled backward, collapsing into the snowdrifts, shaking off the spirit's grasp. He gasped for breath, trying to calm himself, but his heart pounded so fiercely it felt like it might tear free from his chest at any moment.
The spirit had begun crying again.
“They’re calling me to them,” it sobbed, “Those shadows. They’re trying to infect me with the plague spreading through the wolves. I want to go home... I want to go to the dreamland, where I can be safe. But the gods have abandoned me. They don't care for me anymore.”
Eirik crawled back onto the rock, keeping his eyes tightly shut, afraid that if he opened them again, he would see the visions once more.
“Do spirits sleep?” he asked.
“I can’t remember the last time I slept. Maybe when I died, that was my final rest.”
"Then how is it possible that you dream?"
The spirit was silent for a moment. "The nightmares force themselves into my mind because I’m weak. I have no way to defend myself."
Eirik rubbed the bridge of his nose. The gods had found a loophole to communicate with mortals. They could reach out when the mortals slept, for that was when their minds were empty, stripped of identity. Because of this, the gods were not truly interacting with "them as individuals".
Direwolves, too, had identities. There were mothers, pack leaders, and learning pups. They slept as well, but the gods generally didn’t waste their time communicating with them. They were not meant to dream.
These so-called nightmares only appeared when an individual was at their most vulnerable. For all living beings, that would be when they fell asleep.
But for a spirit, one without a physical form, just a fragment of a soul... it had no identity. It was always at its weakest.
What if the nightmares weren’t dreams sent by the gods? If they could affect both animals and spirits, they couldn’t be. It must be some other form of corruption, like a disease, something that would eventually drive one to madness.
Eirik had sensed the presence of many gods in the village elder’s dream, but it had been a chaotic, cryptic experience—there was no way the gods could have sent the same dream all at once. They could travel through the dreams of others, like the coyote had done when it explored the elder’s thoughts, but they couldn’t influence those dreams if another god was already using their power.
Something was missing. One small detail that would make everything clearer.
“The nightmares corrupt me, and then there’s nothing left of me.” The poor thing cried again. “At least now I have thoughts. I have you. But when I fall, I’ll be nothing but a puppet of shadows, blindly killing others.”
The spirits didn’t do much damage. They wouldn’t be able to kill anyone, but Eirik didn’t dare mention that. He felt deeply saddened for the spirit. It had been deceived and betrayed, left here to rot, with nothing left to defend itself against the corruption.
“I’ll protect you, then,” he said.
The spirit sighed. “How?”
“…I haven’t figured that part out yet, but I’ll protect you anyway. But in return, you’ll do me one favor.”
“What?”
“Try to remember your life before you died. I want to know why you were killed.”
A hiccup, followed by a sob. “Alright.”
Eirik had wanted to offer the creature more support. Normally, he might have hugged it or patted its shoulder, but his hands would have passed right through.
He didn’t dwell on different ways to comfort it for long, as a noise from a distance drew his attention. Villagers had gathered by the gates, along with a handful of soldiers, and they were all speaking loudly.
His gaze followed the direction they were looking, and his heart sank. Along the shoreline walked men and women, carrying two stretchers on which lifeless bodies lay.
Eirik stood up, squinting to see further. The night air was thick, and the shapes ahead blurred in the distance.
He broke into a run, quickly catching up to the villagers. Among their chatter and low murmurs, he couldn’t make sense of what had happened.
When the soldiers from the wilderness reached the gates, Eirik finally saw the faces of the figures lying on the stretchers. His blood froze.
They were Sindre and Ulrik, the faces he had trusted, now hauntingly still.