Epilogue
FIVE MONTHS LATER …
Spring in Iceland arrived slowly, hesitantly—as if testing the world before committing. But today, sunlight spilled across the village square in soft golden sheets, warming the basalt cobblestones and coaxing shy green moss from between the cracks. The air smelled of thawing earth, sea salt, and sweet pastries from the bakery cart three stalls over.
Gunnar stood behind Wren’s table at the market, letting her take center stage.
She was radiant in the morning light, cheeks pink from the breeze, hair curling wildly around her face. Her sculptures—twisted metal trolls with glowing glass hearts, delicate driftwood dragons, and thick-ink drawings of mountain spirits—drew tourists like bees to flowers.
“They’re enchanted, yes?” a visitor asked, tapping a glowing-heart troll sculpture.
Wren smiled proudly. “A little Yule magic. Don’t tell the locals. It’s actually just resin and LED wire.”
The tourist gasped happily and handed her a wad of krone as payment. Wren wrapped the sculpture gently in paper and handed it to the tourist..
Gunnar’s chest swelled.
She had blossomed these last months. Confidence blooming where fear had once lived. Laughing more. Trusting him. Trusting herself. Seeing her in her element, surrounded by art and adoration, felt better than any treasure hoard.
His own small display sat beside hers—carved wooden trolls, runestone pendants, a few intricate reliefs etched into driftwood. People bought them with quiet fascination, asking questions about troll lore, about the runes, about the cave where he lived.
But Wren was the star today. He was content as her shadow.
“My Troll,” she called over her shoulder, using the pet name casually, joyfully. “Can you hand me that extra bag?”
He passed it to her and kissed the top of her head in one smooth motion. She leaned into him for a heartbeat, warm and sure, before turning back to a pair of admiring tourists.
A raven swooped down from the sky then, landing on Gunnar’s stall with a self-important croak. A small parchment was tied to its leg.
Wren laughed. “Oh no. I know that look.”
Gunnar untied the parchment and unrolled it.
Gryla’s unmistakable handwriting, all jagged flourishes and overconfident rune strokes, sprawled across the page:
Next matchmaking project underway. Prepare cocoa. — Mother
Another line below it in a different pen:
Ketty misses you.
Gunnar pinched the bridge of his nose. “She never stops.”
Wren sidled up beside him, reading over his arm. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Should we be worried?”
“Always,” he answered dryly.
She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “Well, at least we survived her matchmaking. Your brothers will figure it out, too.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close, letting himself bask in the warmth of her, the sunlight, the laughter all around them. “Guess we’re on her nice list.”
Wren grinned. “For now.”
And Gunnar, with spring thawing both land and heart, believed it.
Somewhere deep in the mountains, overlooking the village …
Gryla sat in her cave before the great fireplace, the flames crackling bright enough to warm even her ancient bones. The cavern glowed with amber light, throwing long shadows along the carved walls—shadows shaped like memories, old battles, and mischievous sons who never cleaned up after themselves.
