Slay the frost giant, become a man—this was the mantra.

Fenris huddled with the other boys in the gloom of the Wolf Mother’s den. The hovel was hot and close, the air an uncomfortable mix of incense, sweat and leather. The Wolf Mother stepped over them to retrieve her cloth bag of symbols

“Each of you will pick one,” she said. “You are to keep your eyes on me and take the first that you touch.” Her body was covered by her ceremonial costume—the hollowed-out skin of a wolf.

Fenris tried not to let his fear show. How long had he been preparing for this moment? Since he’d turned twelve? Longer, even? For a boy of the Northern Haunts, such a moment had been long known to him; whispered when he was still a babe in the crib. And yet, it didn’t feel like he’d had enough time to prepare. How could any boy be ready for such a thing?

He looked down at his hands, etched as they were by a dozen overlapping runes. They glowed blue in the dim, marking him as different to all the others around him. This difference had followed Fenris since his birth. It marked him from head to toe. He was etched, cursed; never meant to live long in this life.

The Wolf Mother said nothing more. She stepped forward to hold the bag before the first boy. Fenris watched as Hersei, one year his elder and always kind to him, took a wooden symbol from the bag. He picked the Great Wolf and seemed happy about it. Fenris watched all the tension drain from his shoulders. Next came Vad, tall and burly for his age, who retrieved the symbol of the eagle. Then Dahny, who got the white bear. With each one the Wolf Mother said a few words before moving onto the next.

“A beak is needed from the eagle,” she said. “You must bring it back to prove yourself.”

Then came the more difficult symbols: the deer spirit, the ice witch, the chimera. Each symbol got pulled with a gulp from the unfortunate boy in question. Fenris dreaded to think of what was left in the bag. It wasn’t surprising to him when he passed the bag and picked the worst symbol of all. The den grew awfully quiet and for a time the mocking cackle of the fire in the centre of the room was his only friend.

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Three lines and a circle to link them. The symbol of the frost giant; a death sentence. Fenris was sure he heard one of the other boys stifle a laugh. He didn’t blame them, for he knew well enough that most boys who had pulled it became lost to the mountains, their corpses never recovered.

“A big toe is needed from the giant,” crooned the Wolf Mother. “A toe will do well. No doubt you’d struggle to bring its head back from the snowfield.”

This got a laugh from the other boys and Fenris didn’t blame them. No doubt they were all feeling a lot better about their own symbols now he’d picked the worst. For some reason he’d known for the last few moons that he'd be destined to pick something terrible. Fenris always got the worst looms that fate had to offer, or so it seemed.

“Etched is as etched does,” a boy to his left whispered. This was a phrase he’d heard more times than he could count. Etched, corrupted; bound to come to a fitting end.

“Your task is this,” said the Wolf Mother, casting the bag aside. “Each of you will go to the beast you have chosen. You are to do battle with it. You are to bring their parts back to me. Should you return, you will become a man.”

The words were needless, for each of them knew what they had to do. They had seen countless boys go into the wilderness in search of glory. Some came back, others did not. Fenris could feel the nervous energy from the others that night in the den. Despite all the bravado he’d heard from the others, despite their high spirits and hopes of becoming warriors, all knew that they were likely to end up in the belly of a monster.

After that there was a song from the Wolf Mother, one usually reserved to send warriors to battle, then they were let out into the freezing night to rest before morning. On the way out Fenris had only a few words on his mind.

Slay the frost giant, become a man.

As he slept he found his dreams burdened by that shadowy figure; a tall, looming monster who walked the blizzard in search of fresh meat.