Chapter Seven

  The morning mist still clung to the shoreline like the breath of the sea itself when the ship quietly slipped from the Grimhold docks. Valdis and Argus said nothing to the villagers—just silent nods, a brief word to the harbormaster, and the dull thud of barrels and crates being loaded back into the hull. No questions asked. The redhead girl, Astrid, watched from a distance, her strange white creature curled like a scarf around her neck, eyes narrowing as the sails caught wind.

  They were gone before midday.

  Two days passed in uneasy calm.

  The forest wind returned with a sharper bite, and the first red leaves had begun to scatter across the mossy ground as Ryder and Einar stepped back into Grimhold’s gates.

  They walked slow, covered in dirt and dried blood—trophies from their hunt and the Vardling skirmish. A pair of deer lay tied to a sled behind them, but the weight on Ryder’s shoulders was more than the cargo.

  The village stirred at their arrival—hunters nodding in greeting, children peeking from behind woven walls, and Gorm emerging from his forge with hammer in hand and concern in his eyes. But no alarms. No Crows. Just the ordinary quiet of a people used to hardship.

  “Looks like you were right,” Einar muttered, nudging Ryder. “Still breathing. No strange outsiders in masks dragged you away in your sleep.”

  Ryder offered a faint smirk. “Lucky me.”

  Then he saw her.

  Elva stood by the well, a wooden pail in hand, her long braid swinging behind her cloak. Her gaze found him instantly. No words passed, but the relief in her eyes was unmistakable.

  Ryder gave a short nod and turned toward her, dragging the sled.

  Behind him, the gates of Grimhold closed once again.

  The deer had already been delivered to the smokehouse, and the sun hung low in the sky, painting the village in golds and deep oranges. Ryder and Elva walked the winding path back to the hut in silence for a while. Her steps were steady beside his, hands tucked in her sleeves, the wind tugging gently at the edges of her cloak.

  The familiar creak of the wooden steps greeted them as they reached the door. Inside, the hearth still held a faint warmth, the scent of dried herbs and old smoke lingering in the air. Ryder shrugged off his coat and dropped it on the bench, his limbs aching with exhaustion, both from the hunt—and everything else.

  Elva moved to the hearth, adding a few sticks of wood and stoking the embers until they sparked to life.

  “You were gone longer than expected,” she said quietly, not looking at him.

  Ryder sat down heavily on the low cot, resting his arms on his knees. “We tracked the herd further north than we thought. Must be something spooking them out there.”

  Elva’s hand paused over the fire. “Something like… monsters?”

  He met her gaze for a second, then looked away. “Couple of wolves. Maybe more. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

  It was a lie. But a smooth one.

  She didn’t press further, but the quiet hung heavier than before. Her fingers absently rubbed a smooth pebble on the windowsill—something she did when her thoughts were circling too fast.

  Then, her voice came, soft but pointed. “There’s been a name passed around.”

  He glanced at her.

  She looked at him now, eyes unreadable. “Ravyn. Is it yours?”

  A pause. The fire crackled.

  Ryder’s breath was steady. “No,” he said simply. “I don’t know who that is.”

  Elva studied him, long and searching.

  “I overheard Astrid speaking with the merchants. She said the woman was searching for someone named Ravyn. A name the whole village swears doesn’t exist.”

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  Ryder shrugged. “Then maybe she’s chasing ghosts.”

  “And you’re not hiding something?”

  He offered a tired smile, leaning back against the wooden wall. “I’m a hunter now, Elva. That’s all. Whatever that woman wanted, she didn’t find it here.”

  She looked at him for a long while, but said no more. Just nodded, slowly, and turned back to the fire. Ryder closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the truth he didn’t speak pressing on his chest like stones.

  He had buried Ravyn beneath layers of frost and smoke.

  And for now, it had to stay that way.

  The fire crackled softly, filling the silence with its gentle rhythm. Ryder leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching Elva as the orange glow played against her face. She sat beside the hearth, legs tucked beneath her, her eyes lowered to the flames.

  He exhaled slowly, then asked, “Why did you send me that letter, Elva?”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “You couldn’t have known they were looking for me,” he said more quietly. “No one in the village even knew the name Ravyn. So why warn me?”

  Elva’s gaze didn’t lift, but her fingers curled slightly on her lap.

  “I don’t know,” she said, after a long pause. “Maybe it was the way the woman looked around—like she already knew the answers and was just waiting for someone to lie. She asked strange questions, about shipwrecks, survivors. Not just once. She kept circling around, like a hawk. It didn’t feel like a merchant's curiosity.”

  Ryder said nothing, letting her speak.

  Elva finally turned her head, looking at him. “You washed up from a wreck. No name. No past. Then these strangers arrive, asking about wrecks.”

  He stared into the fire, jaw tight.

  “I knew it was you they were after,” she said. “And… I didn’t want them to find you.”

  Ryder looked at her, brow drawn. “Why?”

  She didn’t flinch. “Because whoever you were before… you’re not that man anymore.”

  He said nothing.

  “I’ve seen how you look after people in the village. How you carry yourself. I don’t need to know your real name, Ryder. I trust the man I see here.”

  The words sat heavy in the space between them.

  Ryder leaned back slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  Elva smiled faintly. She nudged him with her shoulder. “But I meant what I said.”

  Ryder glanced toward the window. The night outside was quiet, peaceful.

  But deep down, the past still hunted him. And now, someone else shared in that danger.

  He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to.

  She already knew.

  The morning mist still clung to the tall grass when Ryder stepped outside the hut, adjusting the leather straps on his quiver. His breath rose in small clouds as he checked the condition of his bow, its wood still cool from the night air. Another day, another hunt—but his mind wasn’t entirely on the task. Not after Elva’s words from the night before.

  He heard the heavy steps before he saw the figure.

  Ulrich, the Jarl of Grimhold, approached with the slow, deliberate gait of a man used to being listened to. A large fur cloak draped over his broad shoulders, and his braided beard swung slightly with each step. His axe rested at his hip—not for intimidation, but because it belonged there, like a limb.

  “Ryder,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

  Ryder straightened, nodding respectfully. “Jarl.”

  Ulrich stopped a few paces from him. For a moment, he just studied Ryder, the way an old wolf studies a new one in its territory.

  “You’ve kept busy,” the Jarl said.

  “I try to earn my keep,” Ryder replied, careful, neutral.

  Ulrich’s gaze didn’t waver. “Strange thing… a man washes up from the sea. No name. No past. Then a merchant ship from Talcroft comes, and their passengers ask about someone who doesn’t exist.”

  Ryder didn’t respond. He didn’t look away.

  The Jarl crossed his arms. “Elva might be kind-hearted. But I’ve seen too many winters to believe in such coincidences.”

  Silence.

  Ulrich stepped closer. “Who is Ravyn?”

  Ryder’s jaw tensed. “I don’t know.”

  The Jarl raised a brow, but didn’t press. He let the words sit there like frost on stone.

  “I don’t need your story,” he said. “Not all of it. But I do need to know if your past is going to bring trouble to this village.”

  Ryder looked him in the eyes. “I didn’t come here to hurt anyone.”

  Ulrich studied him for another moment, then gave a slow nod.

  “Good,” he said. “Because if trouble follows you, it follows my people. And that’s where I draw the line.”

  With that, the Jarl turned and walked away without waiting for a response, his cloak stirring the mist behind him.

  Ryder stood there a long while after—silent, still—until the sun finally broke through the fog.

  As the Jarl’s silhouette vanished into the rising mist, Ryder slung his bow over his shoulder and made his way through the village paths, winding between drying fish racks and smokehouses. The air was sharp with salt and ash, but familiar now—almost comforting.

  Near the stables, he spotted Einar leaning against the fence, chewing on a dried root. The tall, broad-shouldered hunter grinned when he saw him.

  “Still alive, I see,” Einar called. “Didn’t think the Jarl would skin you, but you never know with him.”

  Ryder gave a short laugh, stopping beside him. “Not today, apparently.”

  Einar slapped his shoulder. “Good. You’ve been running through those woods every day for weeks—Jarl says you’ve earned a break.”

  Ryder blinked. “A day off?”

  “Take it before he changes his mind,” Einar smirked. “Go rest. Or chop firewood. Or whatever strange things you Southerners do when you’re not being hunted.”

  Ryder gave a grateful nod. “Thanks, Einar.”

  He turned and started walking back toward the hut, the rhythm of village life moving around him—children chasing each other near the well, a black goat headbutting a barrel near the forge. The weight of the morning still pressed against his chest, but the thought of warmth and silence offered some relief.

  Maybe he’d help Gorm with the forge. Or maybe Elva needed something—her herbs sorted, wood fetched, one of her strange concoctions stirred. He didn’t know.

  The waves slapped against the hull in steady rhythm as the ship cut through the frigid northern waters. The sky overhead was pale with drifting clouds, and a bitter wind bit at exposed skin, but neither Valdis nor Argus seemed to notice.

  They stood at the prow, cloaks snapping behind them, silent for a long time.

  Valdis broke the silence first, arms folded across her chest. “He let us go. He didn’t have to.”

  Argus glanced at her but said nothing.

  “I’ve seen Ravyn kill without hesitation,” she continued. “But he didn’t. Not to us.” Her voice was quieter now. “That means something.”

  Argus exhaled through his nose. “Or he’s playing a longer game.”

  Valdis turned her eyes on him, studying. “You really think he’d lie? After what we saw? After what we shared?”

  Argus didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were distant, staring into the shifting gray sea.

  “I don’t know anymore,” he muttered. “Everything’s cracked open.”

  Valdis waited, letting the silence sit.

  Then, slowly, Argus spoke again.

  “I was fifteen. Just back from my first field mission. Still covered in blood, half out of my mind. We passed a village on the way back to the Emberhol—burned down, bandits most likely. Almost walked past it… but then I heard him crying.”

  His jaw clenched. “He was standing there, barefoot in the mud. Holding his mother’s hand. She was already cold.”

  Valdis watched him now, expression unreadable.

  “I took him back with me. Told Crowfather he was special. I didn’t even know why. Just felt it. Like the gods were pointing.”

  A bitter chuckle escaped him. “He trained like fire. By sixteen, he was lieutenant. Crowfather said he’d never seen someone rise so fast.”

  Valdis’s voice was soft. “And you were proud.”

  Argus nodded once, slowly. “He was the best of us. The heart.”

  She looked away, toward the sea. “Then why did he run?”

  Argus didn’t answer right away.

  “Because something broke him,” he finally said. “And we weren’t there when it did.”

  Valdis sighed. “So who do you trust more? Ravyn… or Hayes?”

  Argus’s jaw tightened again. “Hayes is a snake. Always has been. But a loyal one—at least until now.”

  He looked to her, eyes shadowed. “Ravyn was like a brother. Still is. But the moment he started hiding things from me... from us…” He trailed off.

  Valdis placed a hand on the railing. “Hayes wanted his place. Wanted to be Crowfather’s right hand. We all saw it.”

  Argus grunted. “And maybe he got it.”

  They stood in silence again, the cold air wrapping around them.

  Valdis’s voice cut through it. “We’ll keep the story straight. Wreckage. Locals confirmed—no survivors. Ravyn’s gone.”

  Argus gave a small nod. “We say what we have to. To protect him… and to learn the truth.”

  Above them, gulls circled. The sea carried them away from Islehaim, but neither of their hearts had truly left.