Minutes stretch to hours. Outside, my storm continues to rage, but with less focus now that my attention is divided. I maintain enough intensity to keep any would-be rescuers at bay. This human is in my domain now. I will decide her fate, not her kind.
As dawn approaches, her breathing strengthens. Color returns to her face. She will live, then. The question that remains is what to do with her once she wakes. Return her to her people? Keep her as... what? Company? Absurd.
Kill her after all? The thought comes with unexpected reluctance.
Her eyelids flutter. Consciousness returning. Decision time.
With practiced concentration, I strengthen my glamour. The antlers shrink and transform to a more acceptable crown-like formation. My skin warms slightly, though still cool by human standards. The skull face recedes, revealing my rarely-used human features. The claws retract into merely unusual fingers.
I move away from the bedside, putting distance between us. Better she not wake to find me looming over her. I don't want her first reaction to be terror.
Why I should care about her reaction at all is a question I'm not ready to consider.
Her eyes begin to open. Brown, I notice. Ordinary. Human. Yet something in them calls to the winter inside me.
Þetta er upphafið. This is a beginning.
3
Freya
Warmth. That's the first thing I register. Warmth when there should be cold. Life when there should be... well, not life.
I open my eyes to unfamiliar wooden beams crossing a low ceiling. Not heaven, unless the afterlife comes with rustic cabin decor. The air smells of pine, woodsmoke, and something else—crisp and mineral, like fresh snow and stone.
For a moment, I'm perfectly still, cataloging sensations with the detached precision of my camera's autofocus. Soft furs against bare skin.Bare skin. My clothes are gone. Heart rate immediately accelerates.
I'm not alone.
Across the cabin, a figure stands with his back to me, silhouetted against a small window. He's tall—impossibly tall—with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. And rising from his head is... is that a crown? No, something organic, branch-like—
Memory slams back like a shutter clicking. The storm. The cold. The glowing blue antlers in the whiteness.
I sit up too quickly. The room spins, and the furs fall away from my shoulders. I clutch them back, a pointless gesture toward modesty that seems absurd given the circumstances. But some habits die hard, even when you're potentially being held captive by a... a what, exactly?
"You're awake." His voice is deep, with an accent I can't place—both ancient and nowhere at once. He turns, and I get my first clear look at his face.
Oh.
Fear tangles with something else entirely, something inappropriate given my current predicament. Because my possible captor is breathtaking in the most literal sense—I realize I've stopped breathing.
High cheekbones, sharp jawline, skin pale as moonlight with a faint blue undertone. His eyes are ice-blue, luminous even in the cabin's dim light. And yes, those are definitely antlers rising from his head—smaller than what I thought I saw in the storm, more like a delicate silver-white circlet or crown, but unmistakably antlers.
Either I'm hallucinating from hypothermia, or I've been rescued by the world's most attractive cosplayer.
"Where am I?" My voice comes out raspy. "And who are you?"
He approaches with silent steps, stopping a careful distance from the bed. I notice he stays well away from the crackling fireplace, as if avoiding its heat.
"My cabin. My territory." He pauses, as if the next word is unfamiliar. "Vidar."
"Vidar," I repeat. "Is that your name?"
A slight nod. He studies me with unsettling intensity, like I'm a rare specimen under glass.
"And you are?" he asks.
"Freya. Freya Lindholm." I pull the furs tighter around me, suddenly aware of my near-nakedness under this strange man's gaze. "My clothes?"
