The next morning Fenris awoke to find his stomach knotted with nerves. It was a clear day now that the first part of the snowstorm had passed, but another would come soon enough. Snowstorms always came in pairs.

Today would be the day for him to face it, providing he tracked as he’d been taught. Of course, in all his hunting trips he’d never had to track a giant. Hunting parties avoided them at all costs, and if this one was to come from the mountains in search of meat then it would be resisted only by the most fearsome of warriors. There were stories of men or women slaying one, but these were only told in sagas and it had not been done for decades.

The one advantage Fenris has was that frost giants were not hard to miss. Their footprints created chasms in the snow, their roar could be heard for miles. The one he stalked made its home between the twins. He was sure to meet it by the day’s end.

Fenris breathed in the crisp, mountain air and packed his things into his satchel. Unlike previous trials in the wilderness, he’d been allowed to bring anything he desired. He knew to travel light, but had a series of weapons and other tools with him: a hatchet, dagger and length of rope.

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Then of course was the final tool he’d stashed at the very bottom of his satchel. It was a forbidden item, one that if the Wolf Mother knew about—or anybody else, for that matter—he would have been cast out into exile for the rest of his life. Fenris did not feel bad about carrying such an item, for he’d pulled the worst of all symbols and thought it fair to take something that would even the odds a little.

When she was alive his mother always told him that the looms of fate did not care much for mortal lives. Sometimes, to survive, you had to tug at them with both hands.

So Fenris kept this in mind as he set off that morning, up towards the mountain pass where he’d encountered the giant for the first time. He had a plan of sorts. It wasn’t exactly a good plan, nor was it the way he expected to complete the trial with, but if he was able to pull it off then perhaps he’d get back from the mountains alive. This was more important than anything. If he was to return without a trophy, without evidence of his battle with the giant, then he would be forced to become a tradesman. For a boy of his age—fourteen, with no history of skills—this was unthinkable.

He had to kill the frost giant. He had to bring its toe back to the Wolf Mother’s den. If he succeeded he would be the first etched child in a generation to become a warrior. If he failed, he would be just another foolish boy lost to the mountains. Fenris would not let this day be the end of his saga.