Two young Viking friends follow an old map toward a frozen bay, where the ice begins to sing.
Far to the north, where the wind smelled of salt and snow and green lights danced across the sky, stood a small Viking village beside a dark fjord. Olaf lived there, with red hair, quick feet, and ideas that arrived faster than thunder. Freja lived nearby, and she could race across fresh snow without ever slipping. She also drew the finest dragons in the whole village.
One morning, Olaf burst into Freja’s doorway waving a brown map almost as big as his arms. He had found it inside his grandfather’s chest, tucked beneath old furs and a broken comb. The ink was faded, but the marks were clear: mountains, winding water, and, at the very end, a blue place named Ice Bay.
“Come with me,” Olaf said, his eyes bright. “There must be something there.”
Freja looked at the map, then at Olaf, then at the little plush dragon under her arm. She tied warm skins around her boots, packed cheese and dried fish, and grabbed a lantern. Soon they were pushing their wooden boat into the fjord while the village still slept.
The water was black and smooth as glass. Mist curled around the boat like a sleeping cat. Olaf held the map tight in one hand, and Freja sat beside him, peering ahead into the pale fog.
Then something huge lifted out of the water in front of them.
It was an ice boulder, tall as a house and shining like blue glass. Olaf stopped breathing. Freja clutched her dragon. Inside the ice, something dark moved slowly, and from deep beneath the frozen surface came a soft singing sound, as if someone were calling to them from under the bay.