Frost covered Jon's beard as his longship crashed into the fjord shore. Nine moons away from home, nine moons in foreign lands. He brought into his soul not only through himself, but also the worm gnawing at him from within—the memory of how his first wife had run off with the earl, leaving him a laughingstock. Asgerd, his current wife, was Yuna, beautiful, and alone in their home. And this worm sheftaled: "All women are lying snakes." He entered the house not as a master, turned toward the hearth, but like a thunderstorm crashing into a quiet valley. The oak door flew off its frame with a crash. Asgerd, kneading dough, cried out in surprise, and joy blossomed on her face, pure and bright as the aurora borealis. But Jon had already grabbed her hair, golden as ripe wheat. "Who was here while my axe thirsted for another's blood?" His growl was low and thick, like a death rattle. He pressed her face to the table, and the pot of flour tipped over, showering everything with a white shroud. "No one! I swear by all the gods, I kept this bed only for you!" Tears streamed down her cheeks, moving with the flour. At that moment, a man appeared from behind the curtain that separated the workshop. A thin man with the surprised eyes of a craftsman held an elegant wooden comb adorned with carved wolves. "My lord... I... I placed an order with Lady Asgerd," he stammered, stuttering with fear. And MacTavish saw it. He saw the young man in his home. He saw his question, which had determined his guilt. He saw the comb—a gift that could have been a secret acquaintance. His sister's worms smashed into the giant serpent in his head, and the warrior's mind drowned in pure sentences. He didn't listen. He saw no innocence in his wife's eyes. He saw only the ghost of betrayal. With a roar that shook the cups on the shelves, Jon hurled his battle axe. The sharp edge missed the craftsman, but sank into the doorframe, pinning him to the wall by a lock of hair. He screamed, twitching like a wounded hare. But this was only a prelude. Jon lashed out. His fist, seasoned in countless battles, struck the craftsman in the face with a satisfying crunch. The cartilage of his nose turned to bloody pulp. Then he pulled a short hunting knife—a whistle—from his belt. "Did you think you could come into my house and touch mine?" " he hissed, plunging the blade into the unfortunate man's shoulder. He wheezed, choking on his own blood, his body convulsing. Asgerd thought she was waking him, begging, screaming that he was innocent, that he was just a woodcarver. But John MacTavish was deaf. He turned to her, his eyes empty, like a dead man's. "You want him? You'll have him!" He grabbed the craftsman by the hair and dragged him to the hearth. He struggled weakly, his wounds leaving crimson marks on the earthen floor. John pressed his face hard against the hot coals. A hissing sound was heard, and the air filled with the sickeningly sweet smell of burning flesh. The craftsman's body arched in a silent sigh, then went limp. MacTavish, breathing heavily, released him. He turned to his wife, whose color had drained, leaving only a deathly pallor. He approached her, his bloodied hands resting on her shoulders. "See? This is the price of betrayal." At that moment, his gaze fell to the floor. Next to the artisan's charred head lay the very same comb. His favorite rune and the name "John"—his own name—were carefully carved into its hilt. It was a gift. A gift from his wife to her returned husband. Rage ebbed like a tide, revealing the bare, ugly cliffs of reality. He looked at the corpse of an innocent man, at his wife's face, restored by horror, at his hands, stained with blood that was not the blood of an enemy. He hadn't found betrayal. But he had found his wonderful monster, who had been congratulated and invited into his home. And now he had to live with it. On long, cold nights, the silence will be broken only by the crackling of coals in the fireplace, which will lead to another terrible sound.