Snatching his heavy furs from the peg by the wall, Gunnar swung them around his shoulders. The pelt’s weight settled across him like a promise—or maybe a curse.
Ketty, who had returned sometime during the storm, probably to enjoy his misery, perched by the fire and gave a disapproving flick of her tail.
“Don’t start,” he told the cat, fastening the cloak clasp. “If she freezes to death out there, Mother will never let me hear the end of it.”
Ketty yawned, unbothered.
“Fine. Stay here. Guard the place. Report to mother that I am once again cleaning up her mess.”
He grabbed a small stone from the shelf and tucked it into his belt—a lightstone, in case visibility went to shit. The instant he stepped toward the mouth of the cave, the cold slammed into him like a wall.
The wind clawed at his furs, flinging snow against his face hard enough to sting. The world outside was nothing but white and shadow.
“Just going to look,” he muttered, forcing his way into the storm. “Check. Confirm she’s fine. Then I’m back. No saving, no rescuing, no fate nonsense.”
Lightning flickered in the clouds above, reflecting pale blue across the drifts. Somewhere below, a shape moved—small, dark, and struggling against the wind.
Gunnar’s heart gave a hard, traitorous lurch.
“Of course,” he said flatly. “Of course there’s a human.”
He tightened his grip on his cloak and started down the slope. The wind howled louder, carrying the faintest echo of a voice calling for help.
And beneath his irritation and cynicism, something instinctive stirred.
He hated that feeling.
But he couldn’t ignore it.
“Fine,” he muttered, trudging into the storm, snow swirling around his boots. “Let’s go find out which one of Mother’s disasters I’m cleaning up this time.”
If there were awards forTerrible Life Choices in Subzero Weather, Wren Taylor was about to win a lifetime achievement trophy.
The storm had rolled in out of nowhere. One minute she’d been admiring the way the snow had piled against the basalt stones—thinking how the rough edges would look incredible in a sculpture—and the next, she couldn’t see three feet in front of her. Wind slammed into her from every direction, sharp as glass, stealing her breath.
She hunched her shoulders, clutching her pack of tools. “Okay,” she shouted into the gale. “Fine! I get it! Bad idea to wander off the trail! Thank you, universe, for your subtle feedback!”
Snow clawed at her coat, weighing her down until every step felt like dragging a sandbag through quicksand. She could barely tell which direction led to the cabin anymore. The entire world was white, endless and loud. Thunder boomed above her and lightning zigzagged across the sky. Thunder snow. She hadheard of it but never experienced it. Frankly, it was terrifying. How had she ever thought a snowstorm was quiet and peaceful?
“Bad advice,” she gasped, forcing one boot forward. “Worse life choices.”
Her voice sounded small in the storm.
She pressed on, leaning into the wind. The snow actively working against her, piling up quickly so that it was almost to her knees, soaking through her jeans. Every exhale came out as a puff of fog that vanished instantly.
Somewhere behind her, the wind shifted—low, heavy, and strange.
Wren froze. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Slowly, she turned.
Two faint lights glowed through the snow. Eyes. Large. High above the ground.
Her mind scrambled through possibilities. Wolf? Bear? Reindeer? Yeti? Did Iceland have Yetis?
“Okay,” she said shakily, scanning the snow. Her hand closed around a broken branch sticking out of a drift. “Bad yeti! Go away!”
She hurled the stick. It disappeared instantly into the whiteout. The glowing eyes didn’t move.
Her heart thudded. “That’s fine. Totally fine. Maybe it’s a friendly Icelandic forest spirit. Here to offer creative inspiration and mild hypothermia. Maybe directions to the nearest 7-11 and coffee.”
