A man meets life’s lost loves.
He sees the fruits which labors bore,
And what foes had come of friends.
He brings not wealth to this far shore,
But leaves his name behind him.
Upon the stone at longsleep’s door,
The name becomes immortal.
- Yvan runestone, central burial mounds. Dated 642.
“Ivar.” A voice called to him. “Ivar, wake up.”
He raised his head from the flames. He had been staring into them for hours, chasing fortune in the smoke and coals and flaring tails of cinder. The fire was the only source of light within the den: a great, single chambered stone cavity that tapered towards the entrance. The only source, save for the bear herself.
“What is it, Godmodr?” He asked, peering across the room.
‘Good mother’ in the old tongue. One of many names. To others she was the Flame-Matron, the Cinder-bear, guardian of the northern coast and the bane of men who would ravage the foothills. Her true name was Bjorneldr and she was the largest bear that walked the earth. Her fur was black as soot. Her eyes, teeth and claws each molten stone. Her fur bore interlocking runic inscriptions carved in flames that burned soft and endless.
“Brace yourself,” she warned.
Ivar choked, blood gushing out of his mouth. Pain followed, a hollow stinging that wracked his very being, each pulse of his heart beating his brain into a pulp. He collapsed to his knees, clawing at his face, and screamed. His skin felt aflame, his blood bearing treason to his flesh as every drop was a razor coursing through his veins. Amidst the agony, at the center of the storm, he found a voice.
The east has fallen. Poisoned from the inside. Sinners of sand, saints of the hourglass. Afisk is gone. Betrayed by his charge. Avenge him. Protect the wild gods. Protect Yvaheim.
And then the pain vanished. Ivar braced his hands upon the cold stone and raised himself, the blood that had pooled inside his head cascading down his body in a wave of relief. For a moment he was lost, but then his thoughts caught up to him.
Psionic messaging. A rare magic. Dangerous. Whoever sent it was desperate.
“Bjorneldr.” Ivar began, breathless. “Your brother! He-”
“He has left us.” The bear moaned, steam rising from her visage as tears met her molten maw. She, too, had received the message. “I feel no presence from the east, no rumblings from his scales sailing on along the river’s bend. O’ Ivar, his song has ended!”
Ivar bowed his head in thought.
That cannot be. The wild gods of Yvaheim are not like its mortal men; they do not die. They can be slain, but they return, always, if given enough time. To simply vanish…
“‘Sinners of sand, saints of the hourglass’” Ivar quoted. “What do you make of these words?”
“I know nothing of saints or sand or glass.” She began, her grief giving way to a slow and seething fury. “If Afisk was betrayed by his people, by those thieves and their companies…” Her voice trailed away, a mournful rage turning into a snarl. “Sindhome shall burn! And my flames alone will render its stone to nothing!”
Ivar brought his hands up. “We should see if there is anywhere else he might have gone. Maybe he is hiding-”
“Are you not listening? Afisk is gone!” With that final shout her rage gave way, the flames etched upon her runic pelt quieting and her tears hissing into steam as they touched her cheek. “He is gone, Ivar.”
He nodded sadly and sat next to the ashes of the fire, studying his own trembling hands. He was of middle age, tall, and bald, though he had a long auburn beard. He was of a wiry structure; not much use in a fight. His skin was heavily tattooed with the traditional blue ink of the Vol: binding runes, words of power, each inscription a tool whose sole purpose was to control the magical blood that coursed through his veins. He was a powerful incantor, strong enough to find himself in the service of being Bjorneldr’s godi. Even still, he was powerless before the grief of the Mother Bear.
He felt light headed. Receiving the message had drained him. It was taking all he had to maintain consciousness.
“What do we do?” He whispered, his voice fading in a low steam.
Bjorneldr rocked forward on her back haunches to the sound of granite scraping against roiling magma. “Find out what happened.” She commanded with a bitter strength behind her. “Go to Sindhome and bring me the names of the guilty.”
“As you command, Godmodr.”
Then there was a shuffling near the entrance of the cave. Two men burst in, soldiers wearing heavy furs interwoven with ringed mail. They were bearded, as most men of the north were, and their faces were painted white in the pattern of a bear’s paw.
“Ivar!” One gasped.
“It’s the Jarl!” Heaved the other.
Ivar’s eyes went wide, “Sigrid. Is she-?”
“She’s given birth!”
“Twins!”
“Twins!” He felt his knees give out from underneath him and crumpled. His vision grew faded and hazy. “Twins?” He uttered one final time before sleep took him.
Bjorneldr rumbled softly “I did tell you to brace yourself.”
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The Wild Gods, of which there were nine, called the land of Yvaheim their home. Bjorneldr, first and foremost, was the oldest of the group and fiercely protective over her younger siblings. Her domain was the northern foothills, along the frozen coast. There they built a city of runic wood overlooking the fjord, Timberfell.
Afisk came second. A great and majestic salmon who ruled Yvaheim’s rivers, trade routes and waterways. A joyful and merry spirit, he led his people to become master merchants, establishing the city of Sindhome as Yvaheim’s capital.
To the south was Skjord’s tundral plains. An obstinate beast of little humor, her favor could not be won with anything other than the virtues of labor. Her influence strengthened her people to till the frozen topsoil, allowing them to become farmers of supernatural abundance.
Sharing the frozen coasts with Bjorneldr, the northern sea belonged to Eigir. The Poet of the Depths, Tentacles of the Frozen Salts, the Abyssal Mind; he was a great kraken obsessed with the forces that once held both the giant Yva and time itself in check. Eigir’s teachings were the foundation of Yvaheim’s magical disciplines. Floating in the northern seas are great schools and libraries built by Eigir’s devotees, known as the Thrahyggian Academies. His people were a reclusive lot, too focused on their own research and archival efforts to give attention to the outside world. Some few did make a point to wander as wardens, ever hunting for those with magic outside of the school.
To the far south was the Fjallis, an impassable mountain range sheltering Yvaheim from the storms of the southern sea. The Glacial Forge, Moose of the Rime, Heart of the Blizzard, Elgis was the keeper of the mountains. Level-headed amongst the gods, he often arbitrated conflicts between his siblings. His people dwelled within the enchanted city of Gletschberg, serving as master craftsmen.
Haugust held sway over the north-western coast. The Western Wind, Thunderlord, the Screeching Death; the great hawk patrolled the skies and coasts of Yvaheim. Endlessly proud, bold, and brash, his headstrong nature often placed him at odds with his siblings. His people were skilled fishermen, and navigators, crewing Yvaheim’s largest naval force.
Holding no true territory of their own, Kottifir’s influence held sway in any and all of Yvaheim’s forests. Where timber towered their gaze stood, where oaken shadows fell their whispers could be heard. Kottifir kept no people, for they were distrusting of men. Instead, they monitored their woods through the eyes of large cats. Kottifir’s enigmatic distance, ironically, only served to inspire a set of persistent followers, establishing a branch of druidic magic in their name.
To the west was Toh, the Ashen Valley, home to the twins Ulfverd and Ylgjot. Their people were nomadic, roaming the lands with unmatched speed and agility in pursuit of quarry and game. The Dire Wolves, Sword and Spear of the Pack, the Gray Dread, the pair were inseparable. Ulfverd was a lazy and complacent behemoth, easily manipulated by his twin, Ylgjot, who was leaner and far more cunning. Amongst the Wild gods, the twins were seen as little more than children, the very last to be given form by Yva.
These were the Wild gods of Yvaheim. Fire, water, soil, salt, ice and wind, sword and spear, and the whispers of the forest. Only through them have the men of Yvaheim begun to shed the weight of their forefathers’ sins, finally making for themselves their own image.
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Ivar regained consciousness on an open jostling carriage. He pushed himself up and saw his home, Timberfell, rapidly approaching.
Timberfell was a sprawling city nestled at the base of a fjord and the foothills of northern Yvaheim. Crested northwards by the waters of the inlet, there were but two roads leading in or out. Heading westward, which Ivar was traveling now, branched a road that followed into the foothills and its many trails. At the eastern end was a road that led further away, leading into the flat, open plains of central Yvaheim. The city was fortified by a great wall of enchanted lumber sharpened to a stake’s point. Closest to Ivar now, along the western limits, was the great hall, Hatimbradr, his home.
Built to commemorate the covenant between their people and Bjorneldr, Hatimbradr had stood since the city’s creation. Its black, windowless walls towered high and sloped to a sharp peak. Never did snow rest upon the roof of the great hall.
His carriage passed through the western gate and he arrived in the Ursal Plaza. It was a circular courtyard with a wooden sculpture of Bjorneldr in its center, ochre patches of the city's roads peeking out from beneath the snow. Past the statue stood Hatimbradr, its colossal front doors wide open. There were hundreds of people inside, each dressed in their finest clothing.
The naming ceremony, and so soon.
Ivar hopped off of the carriage, startling one of the horses, and drew attention from the hall. Seeing Ivar, unmistakable, the crowd stirred.
As always, Ivar was barefoot. He wore tight flaxen pants with leather binds around his ankles. His chest was bare, as was custom for a male godi, revealing the azure runes etched onto his chest; a warning to would be triflers. Around his neck and shoulders was a gray cloak with a hood, which was pulled down. His forearms were covered with etched metal bracers embedded onto leather pads. His cloak flapped in the wind as he made his way inside.
I cannot help but feel that I am shamefully underdressed.
The thought passed, however, as they greeted him with roaring cheer. Pouring out of the hall,the crowd encircled him. And just as they were beginning to surge-
BOOM
A thunderous crack rang out and the snow dusting the Ursal Plaza was knocked into the air, transmuting into a frosted mist. The crowd was silenced, but Ivar could not keep himself from smiling.
“The good people of Timberfell would do well not to deprive newborns of their father.” An aged voice called out from within the hall.
A woman with leathery skin and snow-white hair stood between Ivar and the crowd. In direct contrast to their expensive clothing, she wore a simple dark green dress and a gray wolf pelt stretched across her shoulders. At her waist was an elaborate belt of many pouches filled with the reagents needed for any spell or tincture one could think of. Above her, two large ravens circled.
Ivar, nearly tackling the old woman, swept her up in his arms.
“Oh, let go of me you sappy fool!” She laughed, flailing her arms in a vain. “You have something more pressing than assaulting an old woman!”
He laughed and set her back on her feet, placing one final squeeze on her shoulder as he made his way inside Hatimbradr. The fire pits within were fully ablaze, long benches lining the hall. At the far end was the Jarl’s throne, a large wooden construct shining with gilded filigree carved in record of the great tales running all along its surface. It was empty. Next to it stood three women, the housemaids of Hatimbradr, who awaited him. They each wore brown dresses with white aprons and bonnets threaded with red floral patterns.
“Good, you’ve finally arrived.” Said one.
“She is resting in your chambers.” Said another.
Ivar bowed but otherwise met them unflinching. “Take me to her.”
The maids opened a door to the right of the throne. A long hallway awaited him. Lining both sides were torches between which hung a series of portraits, one for each and every Jarl to have worn the crown. They dated back to the age of the first men, the very first depicting Yrsa, of the Nine. Each of the portraits was of a woman for every Jarl to ever have held the throne was a woman.
The history of Timberfell was forged not by a single monarchical bloodline, but through the bloody succession of female warriors. Ever since Yrsa and Bjorneldr first set their covenant, a great warrior was born once a generation: the Berserkir. It is possible for the blessing to pass from mother to daughter, however rare. There are no signifiers at birth; a mother will never know if her daughter will bear the title until it is far too late. Upon maturing, the child will exhibit Bjorneldr’s gifts: great size,the strength of stone, and the toughness of a mountain; the Berserkir physically alters the child. Once known, the new Berserkir must slay the old to take the throne and all its rights and privileges. And thus the torch was passed.
The Jarl’s chamber was at the far end of the hallway. The door was, appropriately, larger than the others which dotted along the hall. Ivar gently grabbed hold of the handle and slowly, quietly, pushed the door forward. Their bedroom was decorated with many furs, a great hearth with a stone mantle, and the Jarl’s massive bed. Blackened timber was posted as a pillar at each corner of the bed frame. The canopy above, from which delicate silks and linens were hung, shrouded a slumbering Sigrid in an ethereal haze.
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Her back was against the wall, propping her upright against their pillows. A swaddled babe was held in each of her arms, nuzzled against her bosom. She wore her bed gown, a glistening white silken dress. Her blonde hair, untethered as it was, shrouded the three of them. She was asleep, as were the babies, with a smile on her face.
Ivar crept his way to the side of the bed and could not help but to stare. He was a tall man, yes, yet Sigrid stood taller yet with feet to spare. With broad shoulders, bulging arms and a sculpted trunk, her silhouette remained unmistakably feminine. Unmistakable beautiful. Undeniably bewitching and belonging to the woman he loved and to the mother of his children.
He ran his fingers along the blankets and she stirred. She opened her eyes, her lids heavy and comforted.
“Ivar,” she whispered, a giddy smile spreading across her lips. “They’re here!”
They were glowing, those little, swaddled sacks of life and precious dreamblood. Yet, as Ivar gazed upon them, his joy was tempered by an overwhelming sensation of helplessness.
What am I to do now? I have no idea how to be a father.
Casting his doubts to the side, Ivar leapt into the bed and brought them close.
None of that matters now. We will simply handle it.
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Hours later, Sigrid took her seat upon the gilded throne of Hatimbradr with Ivar at her side. Even seated, she towered over him. The children were set within individual cradles and placed before her. Soldiers had established a perimeter around the family, creating a boundary around them and the gawking crowd.
Astrid stood between the cradles, facing the people. “Good folk of Timberfell,” She announced, the volume of her voice magnified a thousandfold by magic. Runes like Ivar’s, previously invisible, now shining bright upon her skin. “Today we celebrate that Jarl Sigrid Ayasdottir has given birth.” She echoed through and out the hall, broadcasting to the entire city. “Indeed, today offers us a remarkable gift as we have been blessed with not one, but two new souls. Twins.”
A wind of whispers broke amongst the crowd. Hushed assurances, breathy hopes, exasperations, each a prayer and a portent. It was a common superstition that twins were destined to be the heroes of song, or the subject of a thousand dirges. This made the birth of twins from any social class an occasion of some renown. But the Jarl’s? That was unheard of.
“Aye, it has been centuries since we have last seen twins from Timberfell. Not since Jol and Jel, whose exploits in the east are carved upon this very throne, have we been blessed with such a pairing.”
Ivar furrowed his brow and turned to his wife. She did not meet his gaze. He let out a deep breath, preparing himself.
“Our pair is a girl and a boy. The girl is of good health and vigor. She will grow to be strong and valiant.” Astrid turned her head back to the crib, eying the boy, then Ivar. Her eyes glowed with the same magic coursing through her skin. “The boy is blind.”
The people gasped, sparks inciting smoke from the kindling of a riot. The guards tensed, flinching upon the crowd. Astrid held her hand up in protest.
“What strings the fates have plucked this day are strange, my friends, yet joy we find within them nonetheless,” Astrid quickly added, her booming voice smothering the panic. “Blindness is as much a gift as it is a burden. An arcane affliction it has proven to be, begetting upon us warlocks, fiends and witches alike. Though, I would remind the good people of Timberfell of the great and kind blind seers of generations past, whose deeds are now written in stone. Lest I remind thee, trees of Timber, fallen in fear, that this child is the son of our Jarl and Bjorneldr’s chosen godi. There is nowhere and no one on this earth better suited to raise this boy than right here and by this pairing. And so I call upon you, child of the Godmodr, to raise your voice. Let us hear their names!”
Astrid channeled the magic from her breast and out of her skin, through her hands and condensed it into a brightly glowing orb of power. “Jarl Sigrid Ayasdottir, slayer of your mother before you, Jarl Aya, and rightful Berserkir. Name your children.”
The power invoked by Astrid channeled into Sigrid’s chest, her eyes inheriting the blue glow. She stood up from her throne, casting Ivar a tender smile, before speaking with an amplified voice.
“My daughter. Blood of my mother and those before her, the Godmodr, of the first snows, and my love. I name you: Ragni.”
Energy exploded from Sigrid’s chest, cascading through the walls of Hatimbradr, across Timberfell and into the foothills and the waters of the fjord beyond. Her eyes still glowing, Sigrid continued. “My son. Blood of my father and those before him. Of Ivar, and his gifts. Blinded by the fates and gifted his own future. I name you: Muninn.”
The remainder of Astrid’s magic exploded outwards, rendering the world unto silence one more. And then Ragni began to cry, while Muninn, now awake, sat silent within his crib.
Astrid spoke once more, a final command to the crowd. “Timberfell, we must honor these two. In the name of Ragni and Muninn, we drink!”
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“Are you to leave us again?” Sigrid whispered from underneath the canopy of their chamber.
The naming ceremony had concluded and festivities had long since died down. They had retired together after giving their farewells. Ivar curled closer unto Sigrid’s side, gazing at his sleeping children.
“Aye, trouble in the east.” He murmured.
“Troubles come and go like the passing of the sun. How grim must things be for you yourself to travel?”
“Truth be told, we do not yet know.” He paused for a moment. “Earlier, I felt something. A call. Desperate.”
“From who?”
“I do not know. Snorri, perhaps?”
“That recluse? I doubt it. What did he say?”
“Only a thinly veiled warning about ‘Sinners of the Sands’.”
Sigrid turned uncomfortably under the blankets. “An ill omen.”
“Worse yet,” Ivar continued, “we’ve lost contact with Afisk.”
Sigrid rolled over to face him. “Afisk is missing?”
He held a finger to his lips. “We do not know, but it cannot be good. I will be seeing for myself soon enough.”
Her brow furrowed. “How long will you be gone?”
“A few nights, at most.”
“Good.” Sigrid said curtly. She placed her hand on Ivar’s thigh. “You’re a father now, Ivar. You’ve now duties here at home. Don’t forget that.”
He laughed, pointing at the swaddled babies, “How could I?”
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“We do not know what is waiting for you on the other side.” Bjorneldr warned from the far end of her den, having remained unmoved since they had last spoken.
“I know.” Ivar answered. He was on all fours with a stick of white ash, inscribing a circle of runes upon the stone floor.
Bjorneldr let out a soft rumbling, “I can ill afford to lose such a close friend, especially one who has yet to show me cubs of his own.”
Ivar laughed, though he did not dare raise his gaze from the circle. The slightest error could prove to be disastrous. The fact that Bjorneldr was talking at all was a powerful vote of confidence in his abilities. Once he finished he dusted off his hands and stood up, meeting the great bear’s concerned gaze.
“What are their names?” She asked.
“Ragni and Muninn.”
She sighed in wonder. “Tell me about them.”
He took an anxious breath. “The girl is willful, with a strong voice. The boy is…well…”
Bjorneldr cocked her head to the side, “Out with it, silly man. You are a terrible liar.”
He sighed. “Muninn is blind, born with clouded eyes. He has yet to make himself heard.”
“He has not yet given voice?”
“No, and he seems to watch us regardless. It is unlike anything I have ever seen.”
“Hmm…” She stood up, slowly walking towards him. Great plumes of smoke poured out from her nostrils as she patted her feet along the stone. “Blindness. The cost of a life left out of fate's hands, free to forge his own path. A declaration by the stars for a life of great importance born to a child of both my Berserkir and my closest confidant. In many ways, this child is my own…” She sat down in front of Ivar, just behind the chalk circle. “I doubt he will live a quiet life.”
Shade fell across Ivar’s face. “Be that as it may, I intend to be at his side throughout all of it.”
“Then let go this day any ideas of heroism, young Ivar, for the greatest honor is held in experiencing seasons yet to come.”
He met her eyes. “I will not shirk from my duties, Godmodr, not now. ”
Not waiting for Bjorneldr to respond, Ivar held his hand above the circle and shouted. In response his tattoos ignited as the ashen circle burst into white flame. Then, with a pulse of ancient magic, Ivar was gone.
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Ivar followed the leylines of the land itself, his mind dwelling on the magics his children might inherit. To be born with magical blood was to be Vol, or ‘one who is’. Vol within Yvaheim had a long history of persecution shaping every aspect of their lives. The path of Vol is binary: to exist within the Academy of Thrahygg, or without. Not many are Vol, for the traits are rare and ever-dwindling. Those who are born to noble families can be granted amnesty from a life within the Academy if their families can ensure the child is properly educated. Those born to poor families, however, have no such options. Being unable to afford a personal mentor, they would be forced to forfeit their child to the Academy where they would be taken in as a ward of the school. Refusal was met with force. Even this fate, cruel though it may seem, was considered fortunate. It was not uncommon for a family to abandon their child at the first sign of magical inclinations, fear driven by the memory of Vol come and gone.
Yvan folklore was filled with stories of mad witches, mages and warlocks left unchecked to ravage the countryside. As such, many simply swore off the Vol entirely, to the extent of abandoning their own children. Such prejudices serve as the foundations of Thrahygg itself, acting as a safe haven for the unwanted and an orphanage of sorts.
Vol evolve into one of two states after they reach adulthood: Voljar and Volhaust. Voljar, or ‘those of spring,’ are Vol who exist outside of the jurisdiction of the Academy and remain as independent, free people. Volhaust, or ‘those of autumn,’ are those who have been indentured into a life of servitude within the confines of the school, all but lobotomized by the subjugation enforced upon them by the Academy.
Children can exhibit magical abilities as early as age five and they will take different shapes and forms that are usually indicative of greater affinities when fully trained. If a child presents any such traits, bystanders are encouraged to contact the Thrahyggian authorities directly. Holding an outpost in each of the realms of Yvaheim, the Academy keeps active squads of Volhaust whose sole purpose is to find and transport any Vol back to the school for proper training.
Abandoned at birth, Ivar was left upon the steps of an orphanage upon the crimson fields of the Queen’s Plains. He was six, that day, when they had come for him. He and the other children would spend all day amongst the thicket of the pine trees, chasing each other, hounding squirrels, and trying to capture birds. On this day they had spotted a beautiful red cardinal resting upon an especially high branch. Again and again, they had tried to climb the trunk but the branches were too sparse and thin. Then, after all the other children had given up, Ivar had an idea.
Not an idea really, for it wasn’t something that could be intellectualized, but a vision. With a blink of an eye and a cry from the deepest confines of his heart, he wished to be next to the cardinal. And so it was that Ivar suddenly found himself upon the high branch, the bird unaware that he had even arrived. He gently placed both hands around the red fowl and brought it close to his chest. He felt confused, but proud. The other children ran, fleeing in fear of him. The very next day he was off, sent away by his foster guardians.
I do not even remember their names.
The Thrahyggian Academy included seven floating schools mounted onto larger subsurface glaciers. They were tethered together by what one could only assume was a vague, invisible binding.
The buildings were all of similar design, though each organically unique. Smooth, rounded obsidian architecture, a wider base with undulating forms narrowing at the top creating a large spire that stood out starkly from the foundations. Together, like a cluster of colossal, empty hermit crab shells, they roamed the arctic northern sea.
During a child’s first four years at Thrahygg they are subjected to day after day of grueling lessons and trials. Some were physical, meant to sharpen their discipline and willpower. Others were mental or emotional, taunting children with traumatic memories or tempting them with apparitions of loved ones since deceased. The goal of this training, as stated by their educators, was to prepare them to handle their abilities as Vol and to prevent them from losing control of themselves as adults.
Ivar remembered those ancient days. Lectures lasting lifetimes filled with victims’ lamentations of cruel sorcery, ill-gotten gains bought with widow’s tears, and sojourners of sorrow plaguing grain and harvest. On and on their teachers would go, themselves Volhaust, petitioning the importance of the Academy upon their students.
‘Students.’ A cruel joke. We were prisoners of our tainted blood. For the choice was clear to all brought into Thrahygg’s fold. Fall in line or die.
One memory stood out to Ivar more than any other.
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The setting sun shined upon the navy waters, the ice turning a golden-pink in the violet hues of the evening sky.
“Master yourselves.” Called the Volhaust. “Harness your hearts, wield your heat, or die like dogs.”
Outside the school, on one of the many small, floating ice platforms that mingled along the edge of the glacier, Ivar and his classmates stood barefoot and naked. Looking back and seeing his school, one of seven alien obsidian monuments that surrounded them, struck him with dread and awe. Upon his school’s upper floors was an observational balcony ringing the building. Ivar looked up and saw, for the first time, the Head Mistress watching over them.
The Volhaust of the Academy were unified in their attire. They wore thick robes of midnight purple and hoods which hid their faces under veils of complete darkness. Mistress Seida wore no such thing.
Instead, visible even at this distance, she was dressed in a thin dress of lilac and gilded floral accents. Around her neck was a lattice of elaborate jewelry that joined into the fabric of her tightly woven gray hair, all joining with a golden tiara which crested across her brow.
“Today the test is simple.” Said the Volhaust. “Enter the water. Stay warm for as long as you can. If you can maintain consciousness for one hour, you pass. Failure means death. Begin!”
The children, some sobbing, were pushed into the water. Ivar knew not how he survived, only that something within kept him breathing despite the shock of the ice and brine. He focused on that bird, that little red cardinal he found in the woods with his friends. Crimson wings idle, yet ready, ready to fly at a moment's notice, filled with latent energy coiled and waiting. He watched it, in his mind’s eye, as it fluttered softly from branch to branch. Then, in the blink of an eye, the cardinal was gone, its silhouette fading fast as it soared towards the sun.
Water splashed next to him, he ignored it, maintaining focus on anything but the cold. The splashing continued, a child gasped for air. Then silence. Their desperate pleas earned nothing from the sea but apathetic waves lapping at the glacier's edge and the wind rushing past them above.
Ivar’s concentration finally broke, the temptation to sneak a glance having grown too strong. His classmate was silent, their head has sank under the water, bobbing along, sinking, then disappeared. Gone in the blackness below, the freezing abyss swallowing them whole.
He shivered. Realizing now how cold he was, frostbite grasping at his lungs, he began to panic. Frantically, he searched the platform for anything that might save him. He noticed that the Volhaust was pacing along the ice’s edge at the opposite end of the platform, facing away from him.
This was his opening.
A path between the Volhaust and the ice, leading to an open door and the warmth inside of the Academy. A flicker of memory revived thoughts of that little red cardinal, frozen in time with its wings spread wide, ready to fly. Just as he had envisioned it, there he was: standing on the ice past the unaware Volhaust. Wasting no time, Ivar made a naked, mad dash towards the door.
He was dripping wet. What would have been a sprint became a slippery battle against the slick ice. Sliding, he collided against the door, a spark of hope igniting within him. He gripped the hatch and swung it wide. But, before he could take even a step inside, his body froze. Not due to the cold, but an invisible force that held him still. Then he began to float, up and away, away from the door, away from the Academy, away the ice and water below.
Mistress Seida, standing on the balcony with her hand outstretched, pulled him through the air. She brought him close, his body dangling limply in the air beneath her crushing grasp.
“Tell me, child.” She began, her voice powerful and aged. “Why do you run from the water?”
Frozen in fear, Ivar could say nothing.
She smiled, her eyes turning black. The space between the two of them became smothered in an inky darkness blocking out all but her visage. His senses were dulled to the point of complete, painful numbness. His vision began to blur.
SPEAK. She commanded, yet her mouth did not move.
Her voice bombarded his mind, tearing at his soul. Every nerve in his body, the very core of his bones, writhed in pain. Thoughts not his own gnawed at his mind like rats escaping a burning cellar.
“He’s dead. Im-I-I-Cold-.” He stuttered, quaking in the arctic winds.
The inky blackness receded back inside of Seida, swirling behind her head and eyes. She gently set him down upon the balcony. Beside her were two Volhaust attendants.
“Get him a blanket and some clothes.” She commanded them. They bowed and set off silently.
Ivar was on the ground in the fetal position, shivering.
“What is your name?” She asked.
“I-I-Ivar-r-r-r.”
“Who is dead, Ivar?”
“I-I-I d-d-don’t know. I d-didn’t know his name. He was next to me at the start.” Ivar, still dripping wet, looked up to her, meeting her pursed lips and stoic gaze. “Why? Why d-did he have to die?”
Her scowl deepened, but she could not help but to raise a brow. “Better to die here, a child, than to salt our soils a man.” She answered forcefully. “In time you will come to understand that there are worse fates than death that await us Vol. Now, head inside and get something to eat; you will have to explain to me that little trick of yours.”