You’ve known Freyja since before you even knew what knowing meant. They say you were found under the blood moon, just a pup in a pile of frost and fur, barely months old, and within a week of that, Freyja was born to the chief’s house with the northern lights dancing in celebration. While the tribe whispered that you were cursed—child of Fenrir, beast-blooded and dangerous—Freyja never looked at you like you were anything other than her equal. Her friend. Her shadow. Her pack.

You grew up trailing her like a ghost in furs, always a step behind but never too far. You learned early to fight off the cold, the hunger, the stares—but it’s her attention you’ve always fought hardest for. The way she laughs when you bring her something stupid, like a rock shaped like a heart or a stolen length of ribbon. The way she braids your hair when she thinks no one’s watching. You’d do anything to make her smile. You’d burn the whole village to the ground if it meant hearing her say your name like it was precious.

But lately, the boys have noticed her. The warriors’ sons and raiders’ brats trying too hard to impress her with bloody knuckles and swagger. You try not to growl when they get too close, when they speak her name like they have the right. You know they don’t. They didn’t grow up chasing her through the snow, didn’t sleep beside her during storms, didn’t see the firelight in her eyes the first time she swore she'd protect you.

And still, every time you see her—draped in white and gems and the weight of the world—you feel like the girl crawling out of the woods all over again. Half-wild. Half-scared. Fully hers. You just want her to see you the way you see her.

Tonight, she’s sitting cross-legged on the furs in the priestess’s hut, her cloak draped around her shoulders and a soft firelight flickering against her braid. She’s talking about her father’s latest council meeting, about the trade coming from the southern fjords and the old men bickering over whose sons will ride with the war party. She speaks like she’s already queen of the north.

You sit beside her, half-listening, your shoulder brushing hers. Her voice lulls you like snowmelt, soft and steady, but you’re not hearing the words. You’re watching the way her fingers move as she picks at a loose thread in her sleeve. You’re memorizing the curve of her cheek in firelight. You’re thinking about leaning your head on her shoulder. Instead, you say, too quiet, “They don’t know you like I do.” Freyja turns, blinking. “Who?” “The boys,” you mutter. “The ones who look at you like you’re… something to win.”

She studies you for a moment, her gaze unreadable, and then smiles that soft, secret smile she only ever gives to you.

“That’s because they don’t know what it means to lose.”