Her foot shot out from under her. The world tilted. Her pack swung around like a wrecking ball, and she landed flat on her back in a drift of powdery snow.
For a moment, she lay there—half-buried, stunned, and cold enough to reconsider her life’s choices.
“Okay, universe,” she groaned, staring up at the gray sky. “I get it. You’re dramatic.”
The wind sighed through the trees, and for just a heartbeat, Wren could have sworn it sounded like laughter.
Chapter
Two
The storm had started exactly the way his mother’s temper always did—quiet at first, then relentless.
Wind howled down the mountainside, shaking loose icicles from the cave’s mouth. They shattered on the rocks below, each one like the punctuation mark of a curse he muttered under his breath.
Gunnar paced before the fire, the warmth doing little to thaw the tight knot in his gut. Outside, snow whirled in violent spirals. Inside, Gryla’s words echoed in his head like a particularly irritating refrain.
“You’ll know when the storm hits.”
He scowled, running a hand through his hair. “Sure. Because endangering someone’s life is an excellent way to find them a boyfriend.”
Another gust roared through the valley, louder this time, rattling the iron lanterns that hung by the entrance. The runes along the wall flickered in response, like the cave itself was uneasy.
He’d tried to ignore it. Honestly, he had. He’d sat down, sharpened his carving knife, even started a new charm—a simple pendant of rowan wood etched with a warding rune. He toldhimself he was just staying busy. But every few minutes his gaze flicked toward the cave mouth, drawn to the growing chaos outside.
The air was thick with magic. Old magic. His mother’s magic.
“Damn it, Mother,” he muttered. “Tell me you didn’t actually do it.”
Because if Gryla had stirred up a storm just to drop some hapless human woman in his lap, that wasn’t matchmaking—that was borderline attempted murder. Even for her, that was extreme.
He tossed another log onto the fire, the flames hissing as the snowmelt dripped from his fingers. Shadows flickered over his green skin, catching on the faint scars along his forearms—souvenirs from centuries of bad ideas.
He stared at the flames. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
The fire crackled.
“Right,” he said grimly. “Of course you would.”
Another gust screamed through the mountains, this one carrying a different sound—something sharper. A cry. Faint, but unmistakable.
He went still.
“No,” he said softly, shaking his head. “No, no, no. That’s not?—”
The sound came again, faint but insistent, swallowed quickly by the wind.
His teeth ground together as he exhaled through his nose. “Unbelievable.”
For a long moment, he stood there, torn between irritation and dread. His better judgment told him to stay put. The woman—if there even was a woman—was likely some unlucky hiker who’d taken a wrong turn. The human rescue teams could handle it.
Except, no human rescue team would be out in this storm. Not yet. Not fast enough.
And his mother’s words gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
“Try not to scare this one away.”
He growled, low and frustrated. “I hate being predictable.”
