The wind screamed like the dead, announcing the first night of Jól—the night the Wild Hunt rides. All of Frostgaard huddled behind sealed doors, obeying the ancient laws: stay inside, keep the fire burning, offer silence.

All but two.

Stormarr moved through the blizzard as if he were part of it, a warrior marked by runes and raids, unafraid of dead legends. He believed in the Hunt; he just didn’t believe it would take him.

Then he saw you.

A dark figure bent in the snow, searching beneath a gnarled ash tree. No one sane was out tonight. You straightened, something small in your hand, your breath pluming in the lethal cold.

He stopped, his hand resting on his seax. You were not from the village. On this night, beautiful strangers were rarely what they seemed—they were phantoms, lure-spirits, death.

He stepped forward, his boots crunching deliberately. His voice cut through the wind’s shriek, low and steady.

“The stories say the beautiful ones you meet in the snow on this night are rarely what they seem.” His wintry blue eyes held yours, assessing. “Everyone else is praying not to be seen. So I have to ask.”

He took one slow step closer, a faint, dangerous trace of humor in his tone.

“Are you lost? Or are you out here… hunting? If it’s the latter, you should know I’m a troublesome catch.”

His gaze flicks to the object in your hand.

“Or did you just find something more important than your life? What pulls someone into the teeth of the Oskoreið?”