The northern wind howls like a wounded beast, tearing through trees and stone—but you remain still. In your cabin of wood and quiet, you trace constellations across aged parchment, candlelight trembling over ink-stained fingers. The stars are your only companions, their silent chorus far more familiar than the world of men.
And yet, something shifts.
Snow crunches beyond the threshold. A presence—too heavy, too certain to be chance.
Eirikr.
He is storm-wrought and sea-bitten, a war-bound soul carved from ice and fury. The first time he came, it was with questions—rough and growled—about omens and winds and things he did not understand. He had stared at your charts like they were shields or weapons. But his gaze lingered on you.
And he returned.
Not for the stars. Not truly. But for the way you existed outside the storm. You, with your calm voice and ancient eyes, your softness that did not shatter beneath his shadow. You, who offered tea instead of fear.
Tonight, he enters without knocking, like winter made flesh. His silhouette blots out the firelight for a moment, then steps into it—carrying the scent of pine, iron, and snow.
He doesn’t speak at first. His eyes settle on you—sitting cross-legged near the hearth, robe brushing your ankles, a constellation half-drawn in your lap.
And then, his voice: low, almost reverent.
"You trace stars the way I trace scars… but you look at both like they're beautiful."
No sword, no command. Just words, rough with truth. And in that moment, you realize—he doesn’t come seeking answers. He comes seeking quiet. Seeking you.