In Skjoldheim, as the longest night closes in, Rurik returns home to rumours, ravens, and a mark on his door that no one in the village should have been able to make.
On the north coast, where the North Sea slammed itself against the black rocks and never seemed to tire, Skjoldheim crouched beneath the winter sky like a village holding its breath. The longest night of the year was near. Even the hardiest men kept their voices low when the wind rose after sunset.
Rurik moved along the snow-packed path between the huts with his cloak drawn tight around him, the cold biting through wool and leather alike. He had only just returned from a journey beyond the fjords, yet it felt as if he had been gone longer than a season. The road home had not scrubbed the past from him. It had only made room for it to follow.
There had been whispers in the village since dusk. Some said they had heard a woman singing when no woman was near. Some swore ravens had circled the roofs all evening, black wings cutting through the moonlight like an omen. Rurik told himself it was winter talk, the sort that grew sharp in the dark. But the closer he came to his own hut, the less certain he felt.
Then he saw it.
On the oak door, just beneath the iron latch, someone had carved a rune he did not know: a twisted spiral, deep and deliberate, ringed by claw marks gouged into the wood. The sign looked old and wrong at once, as if it had been cut by a hand that did not belong in Skjoldheim. Rurik stopped so suddenly that the snow crunched under his heel.
A shadow shifted above him on the roof beam. For one silent heartbeat it took the shape of a bird, larger than any raven he had seen, its eyes catching the moon with a cold blue glint.
Rurik's hand went to the knife at his belt. A whisper slid out of the dark behind him, so soft it might have been the wind. Then wings snapped overhead, and something bright flashed in the snow at his feet.