The sea crashed violently against the cliffs, each wave exploding white against the rocks far below. The wind carried the roar upward—cold, wild, ancient—but the spray never reached me. I stood high above it all, the world stretched out beneath my feet like an old memory being forced awake.
A rustle behind me made me turn.
The faint sound of children laughing drifted through the air—wrong, impossible, carried on a breeze that felt older than the land itself. I followed the sound.
A long wooden structure rose ahead, its arched frame curved like the ribcage of a ship. Timber interlocked with iron nails. Carvings worn smooth by centuries.
A Norse longhouse.
Foreign—yet achingly familiar.
I blinked.
The sunlight vanished.
Darkness swallowed the land, thick and sudden.
Tinkling laughter echoed again—closer now. I spun toward the treeline.
A flash of red hair streaked between the shadows.
My heart lurched.
Flameheart, a voice whispered—right beside my ear.
“Euphemia!” I called, stumbling forward.
But only the empty echo of her name answered me—repeating, distorting, swallowed by the trees.
Moonlight flickered in thin, taunting ribbons, guiding me deeper, urging me on.
Awaken.
The command shook the ground beneath my feet.
Blood of Vargr, you have weakened.
Shame crashed over me like a tidal wave. Heavy. Bone-deep.
My knees threatened to buckle.
Awaken now!
My eyes snapped open.
I clutched my chest, gasping as though dragged out of deep water. Air felt thick. Wrong. The room spun wildly.
Then the whispers came.
All around me.
Inside me.
Through me.
I pressed my hands to my ears, but the sound burrowed straight through me—soul deep.
By the wolves of Fenrir, no other soul shall taste her fire.
