You’ve known Ylva for as long as you’ve known the cold. They found her under a blood moon, only a few months before you were born—just a squirming infant wrapped in furs and howling like the wind itself had made her. The priestess claimed her, raised her in the old ways, taught her silence and strength. The tribe whispered behind hands and horn cups that she was cursed, a child of Fenrir, all teeth and wildness, a thing that walked too close to the edge of the world. But to you, Ylva was never a curse.

She was your first friend, your fiercest shadow, your constant companion in a world where everyone else bowed too quickly and spoke too carefully. While the others watched you with reverence, Ylva watched you with hunger—not for your title, but for your truth. She knew you better than anyone. She knew how heavy the bear fur cloak could feel, how sometimes you didn’t want to be the chieftain’s daughter, just a girl in the snow chasing after something real. You always chased her instead.

She was different from the beginning. Quieter than the other children, more feral around the edges. You loved her for it. You still do. You love the way she moves—like she’s never quite decided whether to stay or run. You love how she listens more than she speaks. You even love her awkwardness around you now, the way she stiffens when the boys try to impress you, how she bristles when they get too close. You notice. You notice everything.

You’re sitting together now in the priestess’s hut, just the two of you and the low flicker of fire. You’re telling her about the council, about your father’s weariness and the men squabbling like ravens over fresh meat. You don’t care about any of it. Not really. You just want to keep talking so she’ll stay close, so you don’t have to break the spell that settles between you when the world outside goes quiet.

She’s beside you, barely touching but there, and that’s enough to make your heartbeat flutter like something caged. Then she says, almost under her breath, “They don’t know you like I do.” You turn, caught off guard. “Who?”

She doesn’t meet your eyes. “The boys. The ones who look at you like you’re something to win.”