As the men scrambled to ready their equipment, Aelif went for her greatsword. It was a beautiful beast of a weapon, broad and daunting, crafted from the snowsteel Avald was famous for. The hilt was onyx-colored—the metal, silver and glimmering. She’d rested it on the wall near the hearth, the weight of it far too great to carry around at all times. But she never strayed far from it. 

The crackling flames of the hearth reflected within her deep green eyes as she sharpened her resolve, taking the heavy sword into her toughened hands. 

Her father had been right, for once. The Wolves wouldn’t go down without a fight.  

“Thorn!” Aelif called out, sheathing the hefty sword at her back. In an instant, her wolf was at her side and she mounted him, both of them barreling out of the door and into the chaos of battle.

The chill wind cut at her cheeks as they rode toward the fog swept treeline. Clouds of powdered snow kicked up behind them—the draugar crowded ahead, emerging from the deep gloom of the forest. 

Aelif dove into the horde atop her wolf, her greatsword carving through the undead. As she pushed further into the woods, she spotted a small raven-haired boy lying injured in the clearing, blood staining the white snow around him. Little Raven?

Anticipation flooded her bones when she noticed an undead bear charging toward the boy. 

“Go, Thorn!” she commanded her wolf.

Thorn hurled himself into the undead bear before it could get to the boy. Aelif dismounted, her sword ripping through the undead like nothing more than parchment. When the battle around them seemed clear, she knelt beside the boy, examining the blood around his leg. It already appeared to be slowing to a stop. He was clearly runed with healing—unusual for a child at his age, as young bodies tended to be unable to handle the inscription process.

“Are you alright there, little Raven?”

“No,” he groaned, looking down at the blood soaking through the linen of his trousers. “I can’t stand. It’s marred my leg.” 

“You have healing runes?”

“Aye,” he replied. “But they will take a moment to work through the bone and muscle. Although it seems the bleeding has stopped.”

Aelif smiled, his rune covered body suddenly making sense. “You are smart, little Raven. A runemaster then, I bet.”

The little Raven nodded in response. She nodded back. “Good.” 

Patting his head, his fluffy charcoal hair waving under her fingers, she continued, “Listen to me, little Raven. You will be alright. The pain will be the worst of it, but I promise on Odingr’s name, I will get you out of this battle alive.”

The little Raven opened his mouth as if to thank her, but instead he screamed, “Behind you!”

Aelif swiveled in an instant, raising her greatsword as the undead bear lunged at her, its fangs gnashing around the blade of her sword. Thorn, finishing off another draug, whirled around to help his master, but Aelif was too quick. With just her arms—runed with strength and magick—she lifted the bear into the air and sent it crashing to the ground. Another draug took a swipe with its claws from her left, tearing into her side, but she turned and swept her sword upward, splitting the beast up the middle, just in time to see that the undead bear had recovered quickly and was running toward her once more.

Oh, Gods... 

She stumbled, the pain from her wounds murking her vision, loosening her muscles and grip. As the bear sprung on her, she held her sword up again, but it was no use. 

Its claws slammed into her, sending her sword flying. Unhinging its jaw unnaturally wide, it snapped down, aiming to rip her throat out. 

A soft, lightning-fast thwick! passed by her left ear, the draug stopping suddenly, globs of drool dripping onto Aelif’s cheek as she held its limp body from crashing onto her. Then the draug fell to its side, lifeless, an arrow jutting from its throat. 

She looked up to the mountain-side. There, on a high cliff’s edge, a hooded figure—cloaked in sable, holding a blackwood war bow in their hands—looked down upon her. 

The black-feathered archer? 

Aelif had heard the tales at the meeting hall—the black-feathered archer, a warrior of legend. With a nimble grace, the figure rode down the mountain-side, sliding against the frozen snow. As the archer descended, he nocked and loosed three more arrows, killing the draugar around him with skillful ease. Then he landed in the snow, sending small crystals up into the air. As he strode toward them, he looked like a vision of death, hooded like a reaper from the Saga of Alheim. The bard’s songs did not do his presence justice. 

“Impressive,” Aelif stood, speaking when the archer was close enough. “I thank you for saving my life.”

The archer pulled back his hood, revealing loose raven-black hair and piercing blue eyes. Aelif was stunned. The tales had gotten more than just their presence wrong—it was not a man, but a woman. Her figure was tall, yet lithe—but her muscles were strong and lean, clearly built from killing draugar with her powerful bow. And her face was not a warrior’s face. Instead, she appeared like a maiden, the type the men sang songs about and drank mugs of mead once she’d broken their hearts time and time again. But her eyes told a different story. Those were the eyes of someone hardened by death. 

The woman shot another arrow as she strode closer, executing one of the last draug. Aelif clutched her wounded side, watching, completely astounded, as this woman killed with unfaltering precision. The draugar were all but cleared by the time the black-feathered archer approached. The wolves made quick work of what remained of the horde, decimating them with a terrifying swiftness.

“Gilly!” At the sight of the boy’s injuries, the woman’s face suddenly softened, rushing to the side of the little Raven. “Are you alright?”

“Sister!” the boy cried out, clutching the woman’s cloak and pulling her close, crying into the small of her arm. 

They’re siblings, then? Samas did not mention a daughter, Aelif thought. 

The little Raven wailed, “I thought you were dead. Samas wouldn’t come back for you.” 

“I’m alive, Gilly. As are you, thank the Old Gods,” she said, kissing the top of his head. She turned to look at Aelif, who straightened her back on instinct. The woman stood and held out her hand to her.

Aelif shook it, and without hesitation, the woman grabbed her elbow and pulled her closer. Their faces were so close, Aelif could feel her breath warm the space between them.

“Thank you for saving my brother. I am in your debt, wolf-girl,” the woman said, her blue eyes peering into hers.

“I will hold you to that,” Aelif said, grinning, pulling away to scan the battlefield. The horde was nearly dead, but there was no telling if more were coming. “But first, we must escape this alive.”

The woman nodded, then her eyes rolled back, and her knees buckled. Aelif caught her before she collided with the frozen earth. 

“Featherless!” the little Raven called out. 

“You’re injured?” Aelif asked, holding the woman up.

“Aye.” She groaned, pulling back her dark tunic, revealing a long nail jabbed into her taut abdomen. “Damned Galdr nail.” 

“You’ve left it in you this entire time?” Aelif asked, stunned. 

“If I remove it, I’ll bleed to death. I needed to know that Gilly was safe first.” 

A chuckle escaped Aelif’s throat, dark and disbelieving. “You may be a Raven, black-feathered archer, but you have the heart of a Wolf.” 

“When I am healed,” the woman said, peering up at her with a gaze that struck Aelif cold. “I will hurt you for saying that.”

Aelif opened her mouth to retort at this intriguing, quick-witted Raven, but the sounds of horns filled the open air, interrupting her. Her body filled with dread—those were not just any horns, those were the death horns—the death of a king.

Joryck was dead.