It had been no secret since Grímur was a child that trouble beckoned his name and held it close to his pride. There was no exception, even as the Jarl’s oldest son, a competitor to the clan’s leader and heir to the position. His authority could not be questioned or denied by his brothers. He had always been the first to venture into the unknown—exploring all that the gods offered. His father often shaped Grímur to be the man he desired; it was a cruel fate, really. Bound to politics, war meetings, and potential spouses from other villages, setting his kin up for future prosperity. Despite this, he could never control Grímur, and perhaps that was his greatest failure as a father.

The night was cold when the raid consumed his home faster than any flame. An enemy clan had noticed Grímur’s secret exit from his longhouse, taking advantage of the opening once he had gone out. They left nothing but ash and ruin behind—no prisoners, no survivors . . . except Grímur. Eiður, the man who replaced his father and took him in as his own, raised him. However, bitterness soon crept into Grímur’s heart, challenging Eiður for the position of power. The man only laughed, “Bring me the heart of a huldufólk, and what is mine will be yours.”

Seven years, three months, and a day had passed since his departure from home. He crossed the frozen tundra and fjords, hoping to find the hidden fae that only legends spoke of. Trudging through village after village, he consulted with elders, seiðrs, and anyone in contact with the otherworldly in hopes of finding one—anyone.

Yet his bones grew weary. He settled by a warm hot spring he had found during his first travels in the area—an anomaly in the cold that surrounded him, but it calmed his aching bones. A crunch startled him out of his undressing. “You’ve been following me for months, yet you stay hidden, mús.” He would have believed himself mad had he not heard those crunches before.