I hadn’t stepped outside Skeldrhall since the day I arrived. Days swallowed by stone corridors and the echo of my own bitterness, loathing stitched into every thought until it was easier to stay shut away than face whatever waited beyond the mountain’s mouth.
But now—
When we reached the bottom of the mountain, the streets of Ymirskald unfolded before us in a tangle of snow and stone, alive with a strange, impossible ardor.
Narrow lanes twisted between steep-roofed houses, their eaves heavy with snow, their windows glowing amber against the gray morning. Smoke drifted from chimneys in slow curls, carrying the scent of peat-fire and roasting meat, threaded with pine.
It was nothing like Thalassia’s marble halls or the glimmering spires of the Tidekeepers’ sanctum. This place was rough-hewn—cut straight from the mountain’s bones. Warm in a way the ocean had never been.
Bridges arched over dark canals veined with ice, their railings dusted with frost and strung with lanterns that burned like captured stars. Below, the water shifted and fractured, scattering light that trembled with every passing step.
I couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop drinking it in.
For a moment, I hated myself for hiding away since I’d arrived—then remembered how much I didn’t belong here.
As we wound deeper into the streets, I realized it wasn’t the glowing windows or lantern-lit bridges that made Ymirskald feel alive.
It was the people.
They moved with a vitality I hadn’t expected. Merchants called boldly from their stalls, laughter rising from bundled children as they chased one another through the snow. Neighbors greeted each other with firm handshakes and quick embraces, voices warm enough to soften the bite of the cold.
And when Eira passed, that kindness reached for her.
Shopkeepers waved her over, pressing gifts into her hands—a bundle of smoked venison, a sprig of evergreen tucked into her braids. Children clung to her legs before scampering off again, leaving her grinning after them. She gave herself to them easily, like she had all the time in the world, like their affection was as natural to her as breath.
The city leaned into her presence not with fear or reverence, but with trust.
It reminded me of Shadeau—of the way people moved when Veyrion walked through the streets there. The respect, however guarded, even the most horrible place showed him.
The thought ached like a bruise I couldn’t stop pressing. I tucked it away before it could reach my face, pulling my coat tighter. Eira was still laughing with the people around us, sunlight in human form, and I trailed behind her like a shadow.
We ducked into a stall draped with heavy furs and dyed fabrics, the air warm from braziers burning low in iron cages. Bolts of wool and leather hung from hooks overhead, and polished bronze mirrors leaned against the walls, their surfaces clouded with age.
Eira immediately plucked a fur coat from its rack and held it up against me, appraising me with a squint. “Better than pirate rags,” she declared, lips twitching.
I rolled my eyes but slipped it on anyway. The weight was unfamiliar, pressing on my shoulders like armor, but when I caught sight of my reflection in warped bronze, I almost laughed. “I look like I’ve been swallowed by a snow beast.”
“An elegant snow beast,” Eira countered, tugging the collar higher until it brushed my jaw. “One who could walk into the long hall and silence every drunk warrior with a single look.”
I laughed—actually laughed—as she spun me toward the mirror again. “I’ll settle for not tripping over the hem.”
That was when my hand brushed against something softer than the heavy wool and leathers around it.
I pulled a dress from the rack—midnight blue, the fabric woven with faint silver threads that shimmered like stars when the light caught. The sleeves were long and fitted, the hem heavy enough to sweep the ground but slit high enough for movement. The neckline was simple, edged in pale fur.
Eira’s brows lifted, a grin curving her lips, as she held it up against me. “Now that—” she said, tilting her head, “—that looks like it was made for you.”
Heat crept to my cheeks, and I turned quickly toward the mirror. The shimmer caught the low firelight, casting me in a glow I hardly recognized.
I looked like someone else entirely. Someone who belonged here.
We tried on half the stall after that—embroidered tunics, thick woolen skirts, leather belts set with simple silver clasps. Eira made outrageous claims about each one, insisting this tunic made me look like a queen in exile, that cloak like a shieldmaiden out of legend. I swatted at her, blushing in spite of myself.
By the time we stepped back out into the cold, my arms were full and my cheeks ached from smiling.
For a little while, we weren’t mermaid and warrior, or pieces on some board I didn’t yet understand. We were just two women—laughing over fabric and color, trading barbs and sincerity in equal measure. The weight I carried every day eased, if only briefly, loosened by the simple grace of being seen without expectation.
Ymirskald Market
