Sample chapters – Chapter 1

SIX YEARS LATER

21st Summer of the Destined Child Cub

3 Days Until the Trial of Fire

Iron clashed. Swords sang their ruthless song.

Grimnör, Destined Child Cub—son of nobody, touched by fate yet faithless—fought on.

Each move dragged, slower, heavier than the last. His muscles burned, his lungs clawed for breath. Pale blood trickled from his split lip, the metallic tang flooding his mouth.

But the pain of the body wasn’t the worst of it.

It was the silence—broken only by the clang of sparing blades—where his doubt found its voice, bellowing loudest.

The pain of the mind.

The arena’s stone walls seemed to close in with every misstep, each failed strike tightening his own noose. He could feel unseen eyes on him watching him from the shadows of his mind—spectators who weren’t there but whose judgment felt all too real. Their deafening chorus of silence gnawing at his charred resolve.

He heard their final judgement: Unworthy.

Another swing. His sparring blade dragged through the air, shuddering as it met Khatur’s defence with a clang, the sound echoing off the stone walls.

Khatur stood opposite him, grinning—a storm on the edge of a clear sky, inevitable, inescapable. Always Khatur, always that smirk. Grimnör’s gaze locked on it. Gods, how I hate that bastard’s grin. If I could kill with a glare…

Khatur was the storm. His attacks came with the confidence of someone who knew victory wasn’t a matter of if, but when. He struck with practised precision—a deadly dance Grimnör knew too well.

But knowing isn’t stopping.

Khatur struck—quick, precise, like a serpent’s bite. Grimnör barely parried, their blades shuddering on impact. Tremors shot up his arm, his grip slipping, slick with sweat.

”Faster, Silverhair!” Khatur barked.

Grimnör pushed himself, clinging to the rhythm of battle with stubborn defiance—a fortress under siege but not yet fallen. Not yet!

Another swing. Another block.

Khatur’s strikes rained down with brutal precision. Faster. Stronger. Sharper. Grimnör was forced to follow, always behind, always a step too slow.

”Think you’ve got what it takes to be Sarungrin, Silverhair?” Khatur sneered, sidestepping Grimnör’s half-hearted strike. ”You can’t use magic and your fighting is pathetic! You couldn’t keep up when we were boys, and you sure as hell can’t now!”

Grimnör answered with a swift riposte, but Khatur laughed. ”I see why Aznim calls you grim. Grim skills, truly.”

Grimnör swallowed the bitterness, forcing himself to meet Khatur’s next strike. Not again, Grimnör’s mind screamed. I won’t lose again. Not to him!

He barely deflected a swift, cutting slash that grazed his knuckles. The sting shot up his arm, a fiery line of agony that forced him back to the present. He forced himself to stay present, forcing one more swing, one more block—a mantra, a lie.

He staggered back, narrowly dodging Khatur’s vicious overhead strike. The blade whistled past his head, the wind from it brushing his silver hair.

His legs were numb, his vision fraying at the edges as Khatur circled him, a predator savouring the chase.

Another strike—he ducked, nearly too late.

Khatur laughed, pressing on, unrelenting.

Grimnör clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t give Khatur the satisfaction. Not this time!

Their eyes met—a silent duel of wills in the heart of the storm. Grimnör steadied his stance, planted his feet in the gritty sand, and lunged to meet the storm head-on.

But Khatur was ready. A swift parry threw Grimnör off balance, sent him stumbling.

Khatur pressed the advantage, his strikes coming faster, sharper.

Grimnör knew he had to try something—anything.

Please work, Grimnör pleaded silently, desperation creeping into his movements. He reached out, fingers trembling, grasping for the ironblood— the essence of power flowing in the veins of every Dwarf in Bergurun.

But not him.

For a heartbeat, he touched it, brushed the edge of a deep, ancient well. But the magic recoiled, slipping through his fingers like sand.

If I can’t summon it now, the spell runes will reject me…

Nothing. The magic flickered then died, refusing his call. No!

Grimnör spat blood and tightened his grip on the hilt. All he had left were slow parries—last-second jerks to evade the blade. His margins thinned with every exchange.

”Strength isn’t handed out like favours, silver-hair,” Khatur sneered. ”It’s earned. Or taken.”

The arena blurred, his world narrowing to Khatur’s face and that insufferable smirk. The constant burn in his muscles. He thinks he’s better. They all do. I have to prove them wrong. I have to!

He forced his feet into the sand, anchoring himself in metalstance.

But Khatur was already there, his parry swift and brutal, sending Grimnör stumbling back. He slammed against the stone wall with a crash, the impact driving breath from his lungs.

No! Focus.

Khatur surged forward, relentless.

Grimnör tried to pivot, but his legs felt leaden, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was fast—but not fast enough.

A misstep—a heartbeat too slow—left him exposed. Vulnerable.

Khatur’s training blade cracked against his forearm. Pain lanced up his arm—sharp, electric. Grimnör froze.

His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground. Another blow—a Farkö force blast to his gut—knocked the wind from his lungs.

The world spun into a dizzying blur. Grimnör collapsed, his vision fading to a dark haze. He felt the blight of shame swirling about him as he lay there with everybody watching.

He heard Khatur’s voice above him. ”I hope you fight the Trial of Fire better than this, silver-hair. I’d hate to see you burn for nothing.”

Even without the Örth, he can do this. I am helpless. I’ll never become a Sarungrin…

A voice pierced through the fog of pain: ”On your feet, recruit! Now is not the time to wallow on the ground! The trials await in three days. If surrender tempts you, spare us both the agony and give up now!”

***

Rain poured from the heavens, drenching the streets of Bergrun.

The drops drummed against the cobblestones in a relentless rhythm that matched Grimnör’s heavy steps. His boots splashed through puddles as he trudged through the storm. It raged around him, but Grimnör hardly noticed; his thoughts churned, a storm of their own. Khatur’s voice echoed in his mind, arrogant and cutting: You’ll never be Sarungrin.

What if I never make it? What if he is right?

He clenched his fists, knuckles raw and throbbing, but no pain of the body could drown out the pain of the mind. Doubt clung to him, persistent, like the rain dripping from his silver hair. His dreams, always slipping away—like water through clenched fists, no matter how tight he tried to hold on.

He kicked a loose stone, watching it tumble across the street on the wet cobbles. Maybe they’re right. I was never meant to be Sarungrin. A son of no one, destined to be nothing—a shadow lost in Bergrun’s shadowed streets.

Thunder cracked overhead, a jagged metallic split of sound that seemed to shake the mountains themselves.

Failure wasn’t just another wound—he could bear those. It was erasure. If he failed, what would be left of him? Nothing but whispers of weakness in a city that already saw him as less. If I fail… if I fail this time, I won’t have another chance.

Bergrun’s dim, lantern-lit streets clung to the mountainside like jagged scars, each cobblestone soaked in the city’s cold indifference. He didn’t belong here—he never had.

Rain beat down harder, his silver hair plastered to his skull like a shackle—a chain of otherness. A burden, a reminder, a curse he bore alone.

The path stretched ahead—twisted, slick, and empty but for the occasional drunk reveller celebrating the festival before it had even arrived. Yet even those few eyes followed him. They always watched.

Tears welled in his eyes, but he would not let them fall, not with the eyes watching. Always watching…

He had heard the whispers. He wasn’t like the others. His silver hair, his strange connection to magic that never fully manifested—it marked him as different. And here, different meant weakness. Do I belong anywhere?

Thunder rumbled again, and the bells of the belfry struck, the two sounds clashing in a brutal duet that seemed to tear through the storm and pierce his chest. With every bell, the Trials loomed nearer, widening the chasm between him and becoming a Sarungrin—an impossible distance.

How he hated those bells, their wails both alien and familiar, like a dark, forgotten memory, tearing at his insides.

Three days…

Lightning shattered the sky, illuminating the Iron Mountains above the city’s red-tiled roofs. Their jagged peaks loomed like silent judges watching him and him alone. Bergrun had been his home for as long as he could remember, but the walls felt more like a prison.

The spark in him was dimming, his charred resolve barely more than ash. But something deep inside flickered, a stubbornness refusing to go out. Börin saw something in him. Valhurg saw something. Monur did…

But what? The bells tolled again, echoing through the rain. What do they see in me that I can’t?

He swallowed the lump in his throat, refusing to let tears fall. Defeat loomed, a shadow breathing in his ear, urging him to kneel, to surrender.

But he wouldn’t yield. Not yet.

From a side street, a tomcat shot out, skittering across the cobbles, pursued by a hulking mountain hound. The hound halted near him, letting the cat escape, and turned to watch him, eyes intent and thoughtful.

Dogs and hounds had always eyed him strangely, their gaze both wary and knowing, as if sensing a kinship he couldn’t yet understand. He thought of Monür’s words on that cursed night, the name he’d given him: The Silver Cub, as if he were a direwolf born under the wrong stars. If only he could howl away his worries and let them scatter into the wind.

He looked up, his gaze drawn skyward. The clouds parted, revealing the pale light of the near-full, waxing moon pack, their silver radiance pushing back the dark.

A pack of moons for a pack of wolves to howl at. Nature always finds its balance.

The moons hung above the city—constant, untouchable, yet casting their light over Bergrun’s shadowed streets. Grimnör stared, rain running down his face, as if that distant light might answer him.

A distant hope—out of reach, but constant. Even in the darkest night, they shone. And maybe, just maybe, he could too.

***

Different as he was, there was one place in Bergrun where he felt less like a stranger.

Grimnör stood before the heavy oak door etched in a protection rune, hesitant. He always hesitated here, at the threshold of Börin’s home—the only place in Bergrun where the weight of the world seemed to ease, if only for a little while.

The house was, unassuming nestled in the upper terrace of the city.  It was a modest home, compact and practical, reflecting the dwarven penchant for function over flair.

One would not even though that this was the house of a Master of Arms.

Two guards stationed before the door gave him a nod. Never a smile, never a warm look, always a dammed nod.  Adopted by a council member, yet an outcast all the same.

He pushed open the door.

Warmth enveloped him, the glow of the hearth fire wrapping him in a familiar embrace. Shadows flickered along the wooden beams, and the air smelled of aged oak and faint pipe smoke—the scent of home as Grimnör had known it.

He shrugged off his soaked cloak and sank into the chair by the hearth. His linen shirt was stained with blood, and crimson flecks dotted his short silver-white beard. He did not have it braided. He was not old enough but that time would come soon.

A fresh scar stretched across his cheek—a reminder of yet another defeat. Around his neck hung a necklace with a sickle-moon pendant, its weight a small but constant comfort. His blue eyes, storming with unresolved fury, told the true tale of his day.

Across the table, Börin sat in his usual spot, a steaming cup of tea in hand. The Master of Arms was a dwarven elder in every sense—weathered, steady, with the hard yet loving eyes of a military commander. One that has to care for his men but not too much as it would do them no good.  But there was warmth in those eyes, the kind of warmth Grimnör had always craved but never truly felt anywhere else. A father in everything but name.

Master of Arms? Grimnör thought as Borin handed him a cup of tea in silence. Uncle is more fitting.

What would I do without him? Börin treated him like his own, a rare solace in a world that seemed determined to cast him out. He sees me, really sees me, not just as an outcast. But doubt, ever the unwelcome guest, crept in. Monür treated me like his own once too. And then he left. What if Börin does the same?

”You look like you’ve been dragged through the trenches.” Börin’s voice was rough but warm, like a fire long-burning against the cold,  his gaze steady. ”You’ve got a soldier’s face, Grim. It tells more than you think. How did it go?”

Grimnör’s gaze fell to his hands, the words catching in his throat. ”Worse than yesterday. Khatur handed me another beating. It’s like… it’s like he’s toying with me. I’m just a sparring dummy to him. I can’t keep up.”

Börin took a slow, deliberate drag from his pipe, the sweet, fragrant smoke curling towards the ceiling. ”You’re giving it your all, lad. That’s more than most can say. You think the ache in your bones makes you weak, but it only makes you stronger. Stand against it. That’s what we do—we dwarves. Iron, silver it matters not. We stand tall.”

”Standing tall doesn’t mean a damn thing, Börin. Not when Khatur’s faster, stronger. Not when every time I try to summon the magic, I fail. What if I’m just not enough? I promised you—I promised myself—I’d make it. That you’d see me among the Sarungrins. But all I’ve got are sparks that fizzle and die. I try and I try, and it feels like I’m drowning, like I’m fighting against a current that only gets stronger. What if they’re right, and I’ll never be Sarungrin? Maybe I was never meant to be anything!”

He stood abruptly, gripping the sickle-moon pendant as if it could anchor him to something solid, something real. He paced the room, his footsteps heavy against the creaking floorboards. ”And Khatur, standing there with that blasted smirk… he doesn’t even try. It all just comes to him, like the world’s bending over backwards to make sure he succeeds. And me? I’m just… flailing. Maybe he is right. Maybe I don’t belong. Maybe I am not worthy of being a soldier to defend these people…”

Börin’s gaze didn’t waver. He simply watched, calm as ever, the smoke from his pipe rising in thin tendrils.

”Every step a misstep, is that it?” Börin finally said, shaking his head. ”Hard for me to believe, lad. You’ve come a long way from the scrawny boy who first stumbled through that door, eyes wide and lost. You’ve faced worse odds than this, and you’ve pulled through. You survived when there was not a slither of chance.”

A faint smile flickered at Grimnör’s lips, but it was brief, fleeting. ”You believed in me, even when no one else would,” he whispered. ”You and Anzim… you saw something in me that no one else ever did. But the rest…” His voice trailed off.

”Don’t forget Monür and Valhurg,” Börin added. ”My dear brother in particular has much similar to you. The same wide eyes full of doubt and fear yet both of you are capable of greatness if only you believed in yourselves.”

Grimnör sighed, frustration bubbling to the surface.

”Doubt’s a cunning fiend, Grim. It lurks, waiting for the smallest crack before sinking its teeth in, drinking deep of your fears. I know that all too well, lad. Hell even Monur knows that all too well. But here’s the thing—you don’t have to shut it up today, or tomorrow. Just keep standing, keep swinging. One day, you’ll drown out that voice, and when that day comes, nothing will stand in your way.”

”I’ll fight,” Grimnör muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. ”I’ll fight with everything I have. But being different—”

”Different, Grimnör?” Borin cut in. ”Different is a curse… but curses shape us, lad. They force us to grow, to rise above.”

Börin’s eyes softened, the weariness of a century reflected in their depths. He took a puff of his pipe. ”The gods themselves know this—power only comes to those who suffer under the weight of what sets them apart. Remember Valhurg’s words you have dormant power buried inside you. You proved it that night eight years ago—”

”The night Monür abandoned me!” Grimnör burst out, his voice sharp with the sting of old wounds.

”That’s not fair, lad. Monür was a broken man, caught between duty and despair. He left because he thought it was the best way to protect you, not because you weren’t worth it. And don’t forget—it was your otherness, your spark, that saved him. His words, not mine.”

Börin smiled around the stem of his pipe. ”The power inside you is something different from any other dwarf in this city… on this isle. It showed itself that day, even if you don’t remember it. And it will show itself again.”

Grimnör frowned. ”Dormant power? You and Valhurg say that, but I’ve never managed to show any of it.”

Börin’s gaze softened, the lines of age deepening around his eyes. ”I’ll explain when the time is right.  It is still something none of us understand. But mark my words, when the time comes, you’ll see it—whether you’re ready or not. But for now, finish your tea and rest. Tomorrow’s a new day, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll shine a little brighter on you. You’re not just iron, lad. You’re silver—a rare, stubborn light. And silver? It shines brightest in the dark, when all else fades. Remember that.”

***

Grimnör sat by the hearth, staring into the dancing flames, Börin’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. Sleep eluded him, leaving only the dim glow and the restless churn of his thoughts for company.

Dormant power? Hidden strength? The questions gnawed at him, twisting in his mind like thorns. He thought of the night Börin had spoken of—the night Monür left him behind. The memory was a fragmented blur, shrouded in shadows and pain.

What did Monür see in me that made him walk away? What is this power I supposedly have?

His gaze drifted to the window. The storm had passed, leaving the night calm, stars scattered across the vast, endless dark—cold and unyielding but constant. The stars look bright even from afar… but finding that light in yourself? Harder.

Grimnör had always found comfort in them, but tonight they only seemed to remind him of the vast chasm between who he was and who he wanted to be. Yet even now, with doubt gnawing at his resolve, a stubborn ember flickered within him—a sliver of hope.

He lay down, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight seeping through the window, pulling his gaze. As his eyes grew heavy, he saw it again—a midnight black butterfly, its wings fluttering against the windowpane.

His vision filled with white. The blizzard raged. The dream took him.

White. Blinding, suffocating white. The blizzard swallowed him whole, the wind’s howl a phantom scream tearing at his skin. He was weightless, adrift—a spark drowning in the endless storm.

Grimnör, now a boy, stood at the heart of the storm. Icy snow tore at him like a thousand frozen blades. The Iron Mountains loomed like dark sentinels in the distance, their jagged peaks barely visible through the relentless blizzard.

He trudged uphill, running from it all. Away from the city that had turned its back on him. Away from the harsh gazes, the whispered scorn… away from the man he had always longed to become. His body moved on its own, driven by some force beyond his control, pulling him towards the heart of the storm.

The fire. I have to reach the fire.

Master Valhurg had pushed him, trained him, yet still… nothing. The thought gnawed at him as he fought through the endless white. The wind bit at his face, its icy breath like the sneers of those who had doubted him.

He had sought warmth, a refuge, and now he was running to find it. Through the blizzard, the watchtower’s fire beckoned—a solitary beacon of familiarity in a world turned cold. Uncle Monur must be there… he always finds his way. I can’t stop. I can’t turn back.

Above him, the moons hung like distant eyes, their silver light slicing through the swirling snow. That light seeped into his bones, his fingers tingling with faint, elusive energy—a promise of power just beyond reach, if only he could grasp it.

Ahead of him, a voice whispered through the wind. ”Come, son.”

The voice was unknown yet achingly familiar. Grimnör’s skin prickled, the hair on his neck rising. Who calls me?

He was close now, the watchtower barely two hundred paces ahead. Then, a dark flash of sorcery lit the night, followed by a scream—a jagged blade cutting through the storm.

”Uncle Monür!” Grimnör’s voice broke against the wind as he fought through snow.

Another flash.

Then a silence so profound it felt as if the world itself had stopped breathing, frozen in place. No, he can’t be dead. The silence shattered as more screams tore through the night, raw and desperate, like the wails of the damned.

Shapes loomed through the blizzard—vague, shifting silhouettes—and then the blood. It splattered the snow in wide arcs, the ground littered with the torn bodies of wolves, their fur stained crimson. And there, in the midst of the carnage, Uncle Monür lay on his back, his body a ruin of torn flesh and broken bone. One arm was missing, ripped away at the shoulder, while his remaining hand grappled weakly with a massive direwolf, its fangs bared and dripping with blood.

Grimnör’s heart pounded a frantic rhythm that drowned out the storm. Do something, his mind screamed. Anything!

He stretched out his hands, fingers trembling like the last leaves of autumn clinging to a dying branch. Come, he pleaded, I need you. The power flickered—a silver spark, faint, elusive. It danced at his fingertips, teasing him with its promise.

But it wasn’t enough.

”You are not ready son.”

Just as hope surged, the magic died, fizzling out like the final embers of a dying fire. No!

Grimnör’s heart lurched, cold dread seeping into his bones. The direwolf’s growl deepened, its hunger palpable. The magic had abandoned him, just as his courage was about to follow.

Monür’s remaining eye met his, pleading, but it was too late. Always too late.

The wolves circled, their eyes glinting. Their howls were not of hunger, but warning.

A butterfly hovered, wings whispering secrets in a language he couldn’t grasp. ”Not yet,” it seemed to say. ”Not until the fire.”

”No!” Grimnör screamed again, but the wind devoured his voice. The power was gone. He was powerless.

The direwolf lunged. Its jaws snapped shut, and Grimnör was thrown into darkness—silver wolves descending upon him, tearing him apart. Their howls echoed in his ears, a savage chorus.

The wolves vanished. The storm ebbed, leaving only his screams.

Suddenly, the ground crumbled beneath him, the darkness yawning wide. He fell, weightless, into the abyss, the air rushing past like a scream. .

Out of the darkness, a shimmer of dust emerged—a black butterfly, its wings barely a whisper. It lingered, ancient, familiar—a shadow from a forgotten life, calling to him.

Grimnör opened his mouth to speak to shout, to cry, but no sound came.

”I am sorry, lad.” The words echoed in his mind, over and over, like a cruel mantra, as if etched into the fabric of the dream itself. ”I am so sorry, lad. So sorry…”

The bells outside tolled midnight. The sound crashed into the dream like a wave, dragging him back, the tolling ringing through him as he jolted awake, heart pounding. The faint scent of burning wood anchored him to reality.

He lay still, the remnants of the dream clinging to his thoughts like cobwebs. His skin felt cold as if he were still running through the blizzard. His hand went to his silver sickle-moon necklace, fingers brushing the familiar cool metal, finding the slightest comfort in its weight.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Grimnör looked up.

”You’re safe, lad,” Börin said. ”I’m with you,”

Grimnör sat up, his breath ragged. His place face, scanned the room, his eyes wide, as if searching for the continuation of the dream.. ”I was there again, Börin,” he whispered, his voice trembling. ”This is the third time this moon. That night… still haunts me.”

Börin sighed, leaning back, his eyes never leaving Grimnör’s. ”I know, lad. Once some of the Wind-folk dreamwalkers get into town, I’ll see if they can help with these nightmares. The dreamcatcher isn’t enough, is it?”

Grimnör shook his head, glancing at the window where the moon hung, pale and watchful. The fire crackled beside him, casting shadows that twisted and writhed. There, perched on the sill—a black butterfly, its wings fluttering softly, as if taunting him. He blinked, and it was gone.

”You with me, lad?” Börin’s voice drew him back.

Grimnör nodded, though his mind was still half lost in the haze of the dream. ”Yeah, just… thinking.”

Börin studied him closely, his gaze piercing but kind. ”You still don’t remember the whole dream, do you? Everything that happened that night?”

”Only fragments, like always,” Grimnör replied. ”First, I’m running through the blizzard towards that watchtower, and then the dream shifts…  and then…”

”I know, lad,” Börin said softly, his hand squeezing Grimnör’s shoulder. ”One day, the memories will settle. You’ll see them clearly. But until then, don’t let them weigh you down.”

Grimnör looked away, the words catching in his throat. ”I wake up hearing ‘I am so sorry, lad’ in my head.” Grimnör shivered, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself. The room felt colder, the walls pressing in like the arena had earlier. He glanced back at Börin, his face drawn and pale. ”Do you think the dreams mean something?”

Börin puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, the smoke swirling around his head like a halo. ”Dreams always mean something, lad. They’re echoes of what’s inside us—sometimes warnings, sometimes just shadows of our fears. But they’re not chains. They don’t have to bind you. That night haunts you because it was when your spark first showed itself—your dormant power.”

He rose, moving to the window, staring out at the rain-soaked streets of Bergrun. The storm had passed, leaving the world slick and glistening, as if washed clean of its sins. Yet, to Grimnör, it felt like the calm before another storm—a lull in the battle, not its end.

”If I don’t make it through the trials,” Grimnör began, his voice barely more than a whisper, ”if I fail… what then?”

Börin joined him at the window, his eyes following the path of a solitary raven as it disappeared into the gloom. ”Then you try again. Or you find another path. It’s not the end, Grim. Not unless you let it be.”

Grimnör nodded, but his heart still felt heavy. ”I just want to prove… to prove that I’m more than this. That I’m not just the boy everyone thinks will never make it.”

”You already are, lad,” Börin said, his voice firm. ”You’re Grimnör. The one who keeps standing. That’s all that matters.” As my dear father told me many a time: Steel your heart, son. When all else fails, stand firm… This one Monur likes the most.”

Grimnör looked up at the moon, its light spilling silver over the rooftops. He traced the sickle-moon pendant with his thumb, feeling the cool metal against his skin. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

”Do you think… do you think my power will show? When I need them?” Grimnör asked, his voice filled with fragile hope.

Börin nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. ”I do, lad. I’ve seen it. You’ve got a spark, something that sets you apart.”

Grimnör met Börin’s gaze, and for a moment, the weight on his chest lightened. He wasn’t sure what the trials would bring, or if he would ever truly unlock the power that seemed forever out of reach. But for now, it was enough to have someone believe in him. To have Börin’s steady hand on his shoulder, guiding him through the darkness.

”Get some rest,” Börin said, giving him a gentle push toward the bed. ”Tomorrow’s another chance to prove them all wrong,” Börin said, his voice like iron tempered in fire. ”And it’s another chance for you to prove yourself right.”

Grimnör nodded, settling down under the worn blanket. As he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, he thought of the silver wolves, the blizzard, the watchtower—images that haunted him, but also gave him a strange sense of belonging. A sense that maybe, just maybe, he was part of something bigger than himself.

Outside the house, a raven’s caw shattered the night’s stillness, its cry a sharp, eerie note that echoed through the city. Others answered, their voices weaving a haunting chorus that hung in the air like a dark omen—a harbinger of something inevitable. The carrion fowl were searching, inching ever closer…

The night held its breath, waiting for the words of doom.