The forest swallowed them.
Mist hung in thin strands between the trees like old spirits reluctant to disperse, and each footfall sank into damp soil that muffled sound rather than echoed it. The early light filtered through the canopy in fractured beams, casting long, shifting shadows that warped with each breath of wind.
Eivor led in silence.
Her stride was neither rushed nor hesitant; it was precise, the pace of one who knew how to move in a hunt without wasting energy. Her spear remained angled low in her hand, but ready. Each time she paused to take stock of sound and wind direction, the others halted behind her, following without command.
The chosen serpents trailed in formation, though not without quiet unrest.
Röta walked rigidly behind Eivor, gaze constantly flicking around them, jaw clenched. She watched the Raven not as a leader to be trusted, but as a challenge to be measured.
Jöra looked as though she were waiting for something—anything—to attack, her fingers tapping restlessly on the hilt of her axe. She grinned at shadows, eager for blood.
Eydìs moved with careful, controlled footsteps at the flank of the group, eyes narrowing at each broken branch and set of tracks—fox, deer, wolf—but all days old, as though smaller beasts had learned to avoid this place.
Frëyä stayed close to Thrya, quietly protective, gaze scanning for threats not just in the wild, but in how the group moved beneath Eivor's guidance.
Ingä struggled to keep her breathing steady. Every twig snap seemed to jolt her nerves. But she moved forward all the same, refusing to fall behind.
Thrya walked just behind Röta, each step deliberate—but her thoughts churned like stormwater in a broken dam.
Eivor hadn't spared her a glance since they'd entered the forest.
It infuriated her more than open hostility would have.
Finally, Eivor lifted a hand. They halted silently.
She crouched to one knee, brushing her fingers across the disturbed brush—a smeared patch of crushed undergrowth and a faint drag line in the moss. The moist earth was torn as if gouged by something heavy.
"This is a feeding path," Eivor said quietly. "The carcasses left in traps were dragged this way."
"We should move faster," Jöra muttered. "What if another scavenger reaches it first?"
Eivor rose and turned her head slightly, her voice calm but cold. "If you rush ahead again, I'll let the bear decide whether you live or die."
Jöra's grin faltered. Röta glanced at Thrya, measuring how she would react. Thrya said nothing.
They moved on.
The air grew colder the further they went. Leaves were sparser. Birds had fallen silent. Even the wind seemed hesitant, passing through the trees in slow, reluctant sighs.
"This ground is wrong," Ingä whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Röta shot her a warning look, but Eivor answered without turning. "The ground here remembers blood. It makes the weak feel as though they're sinking."
They continued until Eivor halted again, but this time she turned—to Thrya.
"Speak," she ordered.
Thrya blinked. "What?"
"You've been unfocused since yesterday. I won't have it in a hunt like this. You will tell me now whether your mind is clear enough to answer my commands without hesitation." Eivor's eyes narrowed. "Or if I should send you back and take someone more useful."
Röta stiffened, half-stepping forward before catching herself. Jöra snorted, expecting a verbal clash. Eydìs watched closely. Ingä froze like a hare under wolf gaze. Frëyä placed a silent hand near Thrya's arm.
Thrya straightened. "My focus is unbroken."
"No," Eivor said coldly, "your focus is divided."
The mist around them seemed to thicken.
Thrya's spine tightened.
Eivor stepped closer, her voice low enough that only the six could hear. "You think I did not see it? Your eyes are on something that isn't here. That makes you dangerous."
Thrya answered, too quickly, "I watch the path ahead."
"Lies," came Eydìs's quiet voice.
Thrya turned sharply.
Eydìs didn't flinch. "You are hunting a storm that isn't in these woods."
She didn't say Ragnar's name.
She didn't have to.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Thrya's jaw clenched. "It doesn't hinder my blade."
"It will," Eivor replied evenly, "when your blade is needed here and your heart is chasing visions."
Thrya froze.
Her breath caught.
Röta's eyes widened.
Frëyä looked suddenly pained.
Ingä watched in horror.
And Svala's whispered words from earlier echoed like a ghost:
You knelt to the storm already, child of Víðris…
Thrya said nothing.
But in her silence, the truth breathed.
Eivor stared at her for several heartbeats.
Then she said, "You will fix your mind—or the forest will claim it from you."
She turned away.
The group moved on.
Thrya followed—but now every breath tasted like smoke from a throne she had not yet reached.
Ahead, the forest began to darken, as though twilight had come early.
And somewhere in the shadows, a low sound rumbled.
Not a growl.
A warning.
Something vast and cold was waiting.
HëlBjörn had sensed them.
They moved deeper into the woods, and the light changed.
The sun no longer reached them clearly. Instead, it broke against the tangled branches above like light through water—fractured, distant, tainted. The forest was not silent; silence would have been mercy. Instead, there was an absence of right sound—no birdsong, no rustling prey. Only the slow creak of old bark and the damp thump of their steps in moss.
Eydìs knelt briefly at a claw-mark ripped deep into a pine trunk, higher than a man could reach.
"Fresh," she murmured.
Jöra grinned, almost relieved. "Good. I was beginning to think this HëlBjörn was a scared cub."
Röta shot her a look, sharp as a thrown axe. "Pray it is. Pray down to your marrow."
Eivor paused ahead, one knee touching the earth as she examined a churned patch of soil—deep, irregular, almost as if something massive had dropped its weight and then heaved itself again.
She stood without looking back. "From here, we spread in a crescent. Röta left flank. Eydìs right. Frëyä, you anchor behind Thyrä. Jöra front-left. Ingä stays toward center—no independent movement."
She moved to continue—and Thyrä spoke.
"That direction is wrong."
The words hit the air like a spark.
Eivor stopped.
Slowly, without turning yet, she said, "Explain."
Thyrä stepped forward one pace. "A crescent formation assumes the beast charges straight or turns as prey does. But if it ambushes from above or loops behind—"
"It won't," Eivor said.
"You cannot know that."
Now Eivor turned.
Their eyes met.
Thyrä's tone did not waver. "You give orders as though the bear thinks like a boar or stag. But HëlBjörn is spoken of like a curse, not an animal. If it circles us—"
Eivor walked toward her, slow and unhurried. "If you believe you know this creature's mind better than I do, you are free to lead."
The words were quiet.
But the forest seemed to freeze around them.
Thyrä opened her mouth, but nothing came.
Eivor stepped closer, her presence heavy as iron. "You think because Ragnar touched your throat you tasted something more than fear." She did not raise her voice. "But here, in this forest, Ragnar is not watching. I am."
Röta tensed slightly. Ingä held her breath. Jöra watched intently, uncertain if bloodshed would follow. Frëyä's fingers twitched near her weapon, protective instinct battling caution. Eydìs saw everything—and filed it away.
Eivor leaned in just enough for Thyrä to feel her breath. "Challenge me again while this hunt breathes, and I will decide whether you fall to HëlBjörn's claws…" Her gaze did not blink. "…or to mine."
She stepped back without breaking eye contact.
Then turned her back on Thyrä, full of confidence that no strike would follow.
"Form up," she commanded.
They moved.
Even Thyrä.
But her jaw was set, her breathing tight—not with fear, but with something more dangerous.
Resentment. Hunger. And a pulse of something she didn't yet understand.
They advanced, tension roped around them like a snare, tightening with every step forward. Somewhere ahead, the forest shifted unnaturally, as though a great weight had passed through the earth.
Eydìs halted briefly, planting her palm to the soil.
"…It's close."
Before anyone could answer, a distant, low moaning rumble crawled through the trees—not a roar, not a growl. A warning. A promise of teeth.
The hunt had truly begun.
Deeper in the shadows, fate crouched—waiting to see who would fall first.