Fenris returned to the Wolf Mother’s den at dawn the next day. He was one of the only boys that returned that year. The trials of a boy of the Northern Haunts were a cruel process, and this year had been particularly unyielding. He came straight through the wooden gates, crossed the central marketplace—cold and empty as it was at that time of day—and moved into the Wolf Mother’s den unannounced. Usually a boy was supposed to call out before he was permitted entry, but Fenris assumed he could get away with barging in, considering what he carried.

The Wolf Mother looked shocked to see him, even under her ceremonial mask he could see her eyes widen. The hovel was empty now, the fire dwindling. She crouched over it and did not move a muscle as he came forth to present himself.

“Fenris,” she began, but her speech got cut short when he placed down the toe of the frost giant.

“I have slain it,” he said.

The Wolf Mother looked down at the huge piece of body in awe. For a few moments it was like she could not believe it. But she picked it up and as she held it in her arms she knew it to be real. Drying blood smeared against her stomach.

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“And you will become a man,” she nodded. “You have done well, Fenris.”

“You doubted me,” he said, speaking to her in a way he’d never dared to before. “They all did.”

“I thought it fitting,” she said, running her tongue across her bottom lip. “That an etched boy would get such a wretched fate.”

“And yet I’m here.”

“And yet you are,” she nodded. “I suppose the looms of fate have other things in store for you. I would like to know how you slayed it. I suppose you’ll have a long story about what happened out there in the snowstorm, to tell over flagons of mead.”

“No,” said Fenris. “No stories. I wish only to talk about what it is to be etched.”

“I see,” she said. “Very well. You will become a man. You should go and rest.”

“And I’ll become a warrior, too,” said Fenris. “Won’t I?”

“You will.”

And so Fenris left the hovel, leaving the toe behind. Most boys who completed the trials would keep their trophy to hang in their home, where they would tell countless stories about their deed to their children, who in turn would tell it to their children, and their children’s children. But Fenris would not do such a thing.

He had much more pressing things to do. The looms of fate had other things in mind for him indeed.