North of Summer

 

CHAPTER 1

 

The sand glittered like snow in the sunlight- the waves caressed the shore- like gentle hands. Maraina walked the sandy beach as she often did- her eyes searching for small treasures.

She would find seaglass of all different shades- bright green, deep blue, or pink, soft like a lover's blush. Most often it was clear and translucent, but treasure nonetheless. 

She crouched when she spotted a shell that shimmered with mother of pearl, and added it to her bag. Sometimes she would find colorful stones too- smooth and worn by the tide.

She would walk the shoreline with  eyes on the sand and stones.  Sometimes she would look up- to get her bearings or watch the waves. 

It was one of those moments when she found him. He lay in the shallow water where the waves met the sand, half-submerged, motionless. At first she thought he was driftwood—something large and dark the tide had carried in. But driftwood didn't wear clothes. Driftwood didn't have hands.

Maraina dropped her bag and ran.

She reached him and fell to her knees in the surf, salt water soaking through her skirt. She grabbed his shoulder and pulled, trying to turn him over, to get his face out of the water. He was heavy—waterlogged and limp—but she managed to roll him onto his back.

His face was pale, lips tinged blue. A gash across his temple bled sluggishly, the blood already washed thin by seawater. His chest wasn't moving.

"No, no, no—" She pressed her hands to his chest and pushed, the way her grandmother had taught her when she was young. If someone drowns, you give the water back to the sea. Push the water out. Bring the breath back in.

She pushed again. Again. His chest compressed under her palms but nothing happened. No cough, no gasp, nothing.

"Breathe," she begged, pushing harder. "Please—"

Water spilled from his mouth. His body convulsed, and suddenly he was coughing—choking—gasping for air in great shuddering heaves.

Maraina sat back on her heels, hands shaking, heart pounding. He was alive. He was breathing.

She leaned over him, brushing wet blond hair back from his face. "Can you hear me?"

His eyes, fluttered, impossibly blue, but didn't open. He was shivering violently now, his whole body trembling despite the warmth of the sun overhead. How could he be cold? It was never cold in the Summer Lands.

Maraina looked around, frantic. The beach stretched empty in both directions. Her cottage was close—just beyond the dunes—but she'd never be able to carry him that far. He was too big, too heavy, and she was already exhausted from pulling him from the surf.

"You have to help me," she said, gripping his arm. "Please. I need you to stand."

She didn't know if he could hear her, didn't know if he even understood, but she pulled at him anyway. Somehow—through sheer stubborn will or some last reserve of strength—he moved. She got him to his knees, then to his feet, his weight sagging against her shoulder.

They staggered up the beach together, his feet dragging through the sand, her arm locked around his waist. He was mumbling something—incoherent, his voice rough and broken.

By the time they reached her cottage, she was gasping for breath and he had gone silent again, barely conscious.

She kicked the door open and half-dragged, half-carried him inside, lowering him carefully onto the woven mat near the fire.

For a moment, she just stared at him.

He didn't look like one of her people. Didn't look like any of the Summer Landers she'd ever seen—not from Solvara, not from the villages down the coast, not from anywhere she knew.

His skin was paler, his features sharper. Even unconscious and half-drowned, there was something about him that felt... foreign. Out of place.

Where did he come from?

 

He felt Cold.

That was the first thing. Always the first thing. Cold that bit through wool and leather, cold that turned breath to frost, cold that made the soil hard as iron.

Fog rolling in off the frozen sea. Gray swallowing gray.

His mother's hands, worn and strong, tying something around his neck. Leather cord. Carved bone warm from her touch.

'The Gods keep you.'

Stone. Ancient stone carved with symbols he'd seen his whole life but never understood. A door that wasn't a door. An opening in the cliffs.

One step. Just one step forward.

Falling—

Water. Warm water. Wrong. All wrong. The sea was never warm. Choking, drowning, the world spinning, up and down meaningless, lungs burning—

Darkness.

Voices. Soft. A language like water over stones, nothing like the hard edges of his own tongue.

Warmth. Impossible warmth.

Pain—sharp, at his temple. Gentle hands.

Where—?

He tried to open his eyes but the light was too bright, too warm, everything wrong—

Darkness again.

 

When Hárvald finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was blue.

Not the pale, washed-out blue of northern skies or the gray-blue of ice. This was blue—vivid and impossible, the color of summer in a place that had never known winter.

He blinked, trying to make sense of it. A ceiling. Painted or draped with fabric, he couldn't tell. His head throbbed, his thoughts slow and thick like half-frozen mud.

He turned his head—too fast, pain lancing through his temple—and saw her.

She sat in a chair beside the bed, her head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. Asleep, or nearly. Her hair caught the light from somewhere, shining like polished wood. She wore something pale and soft, nothing like the heavy wool and leather he knew.

Where was he?

He tried to sit up. His body protested immediately—every muscle aching, his head spinning. He managed to prop himself on one elbow before she stirred.

Her eyes opened—brown and warm, like sunlight through amber—and she straightened, suddenly alert.

You're awake." Her voice was soft, relieved. She leaned forward, reaching toward him. "Don't try to move too quickly. You nearly drowned."

He stared at her, trying to make sense of the words. They were... familiar, but wrong somehow. Shaped differently. The sounds were softer, rounder, like his own language worn smooth by water and time.

Drowned. He caught that word—drukna—close enough to understand.

She seemed to notice his confusion. Her expression shifted—concern, uncertainty. She spoke again, slower this time, choosing her words carefully. "You... safe. Here. With me."

Safe. Here. The meanings clicked into place, though the pronunciation was strange.

Hárvald's chest tightened. He could understand her—barely, like listening through a thick fog—but he didn't know where he was. Didn't know who she was. Didn't know how he'd gotten here.

He remembered cold. Fog. Falling.

And then... nothing.

She held up her hands, palms out—a gesture he understood. Wait. Calm. Safe.

He let himself sink back against the pillows, watching her warily. She rose slowly, as if afraid sudden movement might startle him, and crossed to a small table. She poured water from a clay pitcher into a cup and brought it to him.

"Drink," she said.

The word was strange—softened, the edges worn smooth—but he understood it. Drikkr. Close enough.

He took the cup. His hands were shaking, he realized. The water was cool and sweet, nothing like the brackish well water back—

Back where?

She watched him drink, then gently touched her own chest. "Maraina."

A name. He understood that clearly. Her name was like rain, gentle and life-giving.

She pointed at him, eyebrows raised in question.

He swallowed, his throat raw. "Hárvald."

"Hárvald," she repeated carefully, and he was surprised—she said it almost correctly, only slightly softened. As if his name wasn't entirely foreign to her tongue.

She smiled—small, tentative, kind.

Something in his chest loosened slightly.

She touched her fingers to his temple, near the wound, her expression questioning. It hurt, but not unbearably. He nodded slightly. She seemed satisfied.

Maraina said something else, her tone gentle, and gestured around the room—her home, he assumed. Then she pointed toward a window where brilliant light streamed in, and beyond it, he could hear something rhythmic and constant.

Waves.

The sea.

He'd been in the water. He remembered that much. Drowning. Choking. The terrible warmth of it.

But how had he gotten there?

Hárvald looked down at himself. He was wearing different clothes—soft, loose, nothing like what he remembered. His own clothes were gone. Somewhere in his fragmented memory, he recalled wool and leather, heavy and salt-stained.

He touched the fabric of the shirt he now wore, confused.

Maraina seemed to understand. She pointed to a corner of the room where his original clothes hung drying on a line—dark, rough-spun, patched in places. They looked wrong here, too heavy and grim against the light walls and soft colors of her home.

He stared at them, trying to remember putting them on. Trying to remember anything before the cold and the fog and the falling.

There was something... a door? Stone carved with old marks. His father's voice, maybe, or his brother's. The weight of expectation. A journey he was supposed to take.

But it was all fragments. Pieces of a shattered pot he couldn't fit back together.

Maraina touched his arm gently, drawing his attention back. She spoke softly, her words still strange but their meaning clear enough in tone and gesture. "Rest. Sleep. You're safe."

Hárvald wanted to argue, wanted to demand answers—where was he? how did he get here? what happened?—but exhaustion pulled at him like a tide. His body was heavy, his head still pounding.

He lay back down, and Maraina pulled a light blanket over him. She settled back into her chair, keeping watch.

The last thing he saw before sleep took him again was her face, patient and kind, backlit by that impossible golden light.

He didn't know where he was.

But for now, he was alive.

 

CHAPTER 2

 

The days blurred together.

Hárvald woke and slept, woke and slept, his body demanding rest even when his mind fought against it. Each time he opened his eyes, Maraina was there—or nearby, moving quietly through her small cottage, tending to tasks he didn't understand.

She brought him food: bread that was soft and golden, fruit he'd never seen before, fish cooked with herbs that smelled like summer. He ate because she insisted, because his body needed it, but everything tasted strange. Too sweet. Too rich. Nothing like the simple, heavy fare he remembered from... from...

He still couldn't remember clearly.

The memories came in dreams—sharp and vivid one moment, gone the next. Cold wind cutting across frozen fields. His mother's face, lined with worry. A proving journey. The cliffs. The door.

Always the door.

But when he woke, the details scattered, leaving only impressions. Feelings. The certainty that he'd lost something important, but not what it was.

Maraina didn't press him. She seemed to understand that he was lost in more ways than one.

They learned to speak to each other—slowly, carefully, meeting somewhere in the middle between his harsh northern tongue and her softer speech. Some words were nearly the same. Others required patience, repetition, gestures to bridge the gap.

"Vatn," he said, pointing at water.

"Vahn," she repeated, smiling. "We say vahn."

Close enough. The roots were the same, just worn smooth by time.

She taught him her words for things he didn't have names for—the bright fruits, the flowers, the warmth that never ended. He taught her his words for cold, for ice, for winter. She repeated them carefully, but he could see the confusion in her eyes. Those weren't things she knew.

Slowly, understanding grew between them.

On the fifth day—or maybe the sixth, he'd lost count—Hárvald woke feeling stronger. The fog in his head had lifted somewhat, and though his body still ached, the deep exhaustion had finally released its grip.

Maraina noticed immediately. She smiled when she saw him sitting up on his own, no longer needing to be propped against pillows.

"Better?" she asked, the word shaped slightly differently than he would say it, but clear enough.

"Betra," he agreed, then tried her version. "Better."

She brightened, pleased.

She brought him breakfast—fruit and bread and something warm to drink—and watched as he ate without prompting. When he finished, she stood and gestured toward the door.

"Outside?" she asked, miming walking. "You come?"

He understood. He nodded.

She helped him stand—he was steadier now, though still weak—and led him to the door. When she opened it, light flooded in, warm and golden and so bright he had to squint against it.

Maraina stepped outside, and after a moment's hesitation, Hárvald followed.

The world that greeted him stole his breath.

Warmth hit him first—not the oppressive heat of a forge or a summer's day laboring in fields, but a gentle, constant warmth that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The sun hung in a sky so blue it hurt to look at, and the air smelled of salt and flowers and something sweet he couldn't name.

The cottage sat just beyond a line of dunes covered in wild grasses that swayed in a breeze he could barely feel. Beyond the dunes, the sea stretched endlessly, its surface glittering like scattered jewels.

It was beautiful.

It was wrong.

Hárvald stood frozen just outside the door, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

Where was the bite of wind? Where was the gray sky, the threat of snow, the hard edge of survival that colored every moment of life?

This place was... soft. Abundant. Easy.

Flowers grew wild along the path to the beach—bright yellow and deep purple and coral pink. Not struggling through rocky soil, but thriving, spilling over themselves in cheerful chaos. The grass was green, lush, impossible.

In his world, green meant spring—a brief, precious window before summer's short warmth gave way to autumn's preparation and winter's brutality. Green was temporary, something to be grateful for while it lasted.

Here, it seemed permanent.

Maraina was watching him, her expression curious and a little concerned. "Beautiful, yes?" she said softly.

He caught the word—fagr, beautiful—though she shaped it differently. He nodded slowly, though beautiful didn't capture what he was feeling.

Overwhelming. Impossible. Wrong.

She gestured toward the beach, and he followed.

They crested the dune, and the full expanse of the sea opened before him. It was the same sea that had tried to drown him—he was certain of that—but it looked nothing like the frozen, gray waters he remembered from home.

This sea was alive. Blue and green and dancing with light, waves rolling in with a rhythm that sounded almost like music. The sand beneath his feet was warm, fine as flour, nothing like the rocky shores he knew.

Maraina walked ahead, her feet bare, completely at ease. She turned back and smiled at him, gesturing for him to follow.

He took a few more steps, then stopped.

"Where am I?" he said aloud, not expecting an answer. "What is this place?"

Maraina tilted her head, catching the confusion in his voice. She walked back to him and gestured around them—the beach, the sea, the sky.

"Sumarlönd," she said. "The Summer Lands."

Summer. He knew that word. But... lands? A whole land of summer?

"Summer," he repeated slowly. "Always summer?"

She nodded, smiling. "Always."

His chest tightened. A place where winter never came. Where cold never bit. Where nothing ever froze or died or struggled.

It was impossible.

But he was standing in it.

Hárvald started walking along the shoreline, his eyes scanning the sand and rocks. He didn't know what he was looking for—wreckage, maybe, or some sign of how he'd ended up in the water. Something to explain the impossible gap in his memory.

Maraina followed a few steps behind, quiet, letting him search.

The beach stretched in both directions, curving gently. To his left, cliffs rose in the distance, dark stone against the brilliant sky. Something about them tugged at his memory—stone, carvings, a door—but when he tried to focus on it, the thought slipped away like water through his fingers.

He kept walking, frustration building with every step that revealed nothing. No debris. No answers. Just endless sand and shells and the gentle, mocking warmth of the sun.

His head began to throb.

He pushed forward anyway, determined. The cliffs weren't that far. If he could just reach them, maybe he'd remember—

The world tilted suddenly.

Hárvald stumbled, his vision blurring at the edges. He tried to catch himself but his legs wouldn't cooperate. Strong hands caught his arm, steadied him.

Maraina was there, her face creased with worry. "No," she said firmly, tugging gently at his arm. "Back. You need rest."

He understood her perfectly.

"No," he said, shaking his head even though it made the dizziness worse. "I need to—the cliffs—I need to remember—"

But his body betrayed him. His knees buckled, and this time Maraina had to brace herself to keep him upright.

"Hárvald," she said, softer now, wrapping his arm over her shoulders. "Please. Back."

By the time they reached the cottage, Hárvald was leaning heavily on Maraina, his strength completely spent. She guided him back to the bed and he collapsed onto it without protest, his head pounding, the room spinning slightly.

She brought him water and made him drink, then pressed a cool cloth to his forehead. The relief was immediate, and he closed his eyes, embarrassed by his own weakness.

He'd barely made it a hundred paces down the beach before his body gave out.

What kind of man was he?

"Rest," Maraina said firmly, her hand resting lightly on his arm. "You push too hard. Your body needs time."

He understood her well enough, even if some of the words were shaped differently than he would say them. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell her he needed answers more than he needed sleep, but she was right.

His body needed time. Time to heal. Time to remember.

Maraina seemed to sense his frustration. She reached out and touched the cool cloth at his temple gently, then met his eyes. "You're safe here," she said softly. "Rest. We have time."

Hárvald let out a slow breath and nodded.

She smiled, small and reassuring, and settled back into her chair.

Within minutes, exhaustion pulled him under again. But this time, as he drifted off, he felt something he hadn't felt since waking in this strange place:

Trust.

She'd found him. She'd saved him. And she wasn't going anywhere.

 

CHAPTER 3

 

The days that followed blurred into a rhythm Hárvald hadn't expected to find comforting.

He grew stronger. Slowly at first—standing without dizziness, walking the length of the cottage without needing to rest, then venturing outside for short stretches. Maraina watched him carefully those first few days, ready to catch him if he stumbled, but gradually her vigilance eased into something more relaxed.

He helped where he could. Small things at first: carrying water from the well, mending a loose board on her door, splitting kindling for her fire—though she barely seemed to need one in this place of endless warmth. She accepted his help with quiet gratitude, and he was glad for it. He couldn't repay what she'd done for him, but he could at least try not to be a burden.

Their conversations grew easier as the days passed. The language gap narrowed—not gone, but manageable. Some words still eluded him, and his accent made her smile sometimes, but they understood each other well enough.

She told him about her life here: the fishing, the garden she tended, the neighbors who lived further down the coast. He listened, trying to picture a life so... gentle. So unhurried. Where survival wasn't a constant battle against cold and scarcity.

He didn't talk much about his own life. Partly because he still couldn't remember clearly—the fragments came and went, never staying long enough to form a complete picture. But partly because he didn't know how to explain a world so different from hers.

How could he describe winter to someone who'd never felt cold?

 

It was perhaps a week after he'd woken—maybe more, he'd lost count.

One afternoon, Maraina asked him to help in the garden.

It was a small plot behind her cottage, bordered by smooth stones and filled with herbs, vegetables, and other plants he didn't recognize. The soil was dark and rich, and the air smelled of earth and growing things.

"I thought you might like to see where your food comes from," she said with a small smile.

Hárvald followed her between the rows, watching as she pointed out different plants—leafy greens, climbing beans, herbs with names he struggled to pronounce. Flowers

She stopped at a freshly turned section of soil and knelt, gesturing for him to join her.

"Here," she said, holding out a small seed. "Your first planting."

Hárvald took it carefully, the seed tiny and light in his palm.

"Make a small hole," Maraina said, handing him a small trowel. "Not too deep."

He took it with his other hand, buried the head of the trowel into the soft earth, set aside the dirt, and she nodded.

"Good," she said, "Now drop it in."

He did, and the seed disappeared into the dark earth.

"Now cover it," she said softly.

Hárvald reached to push the soil back over the hole, but Maraina's hand moved at the same time, guiding his.

Her fingers rested lightly over his as they pressed the earth down together, gentle and careful.

Hárvald's breath caught.

Her hand was warm. Soft. And it lingered—just for a moment—before she seemed to realize and pulled away.

She stood quickly, brushing the dirt from her hands, her cheeks faintly flushed.

"There," she said, her voice a little unsteady. "In a few weeks, it will sprout. You'll see."

Hárvald stared down at the spot where they'd planted the seed, his heart pounding.

He could still feel the warmth of her hand over his.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Maraina smiled, not quite meeting his eyes. "Come on. Let's get you washed up for dinner."

She turned and walked back towards the cottage, and Hárvald followed, his hand still tingling where hers had touched it.

 

It was that night when the dream came again- stronger, clearer.

Stone. Carvings. A door carved into the cliff face, ancient and weathered. His father's voice, stern and expectant: 'Prove yourself, Hárvald. Come back a man, or don't come back at all.'

The weight of it. The fear. The desperate need to be worthy.

He'd stepped through the door—

Hárvald woke with a gasp, his heart pounding, the dream scattering like smoke.

He lay still for a moment in his bedroll, trying to hold onto it, but the details slipped away. Only the feeling remained: cold. Stone. Expectation. Loss.

He sat up carefully. Maraina was asleep in her bed on the other side of the small room, her breathing soft and even. The cottage was dark except for the faint glow of moonlight through the window. She'd given him the bedroll and a corner near the hearth—warm, out of the way, respectful of the space they shared.

He couldn't go back to sleep. Not yet.

Moving quietly, Hárvald slipped outside.

The night air was warm—of course it was—and the sky was scattered with more stars than he'd ever seen. The moon hung low and full over the sea, painting a silver path across the water.

He walked down to the beach and sat on the sand, just above the tide line, and watched the waves roll in.

It was beautiful. Peaceful. Everything his world wasn't.

And it made his chest ache with a longing he couldn't name.

He thought about home—what little he could remember. Gray skies. Wind that cut through wool and leather. The constant work of survival: hunting, fishing, storing food for winter, keeping the fires burning. His mother's worried face. His father's disappointment.

The proving journey. The door.

What had he been trying to prove? And to whom?

He didn't know anymore.

Hárvald?"

He turned. Maraina stood a few paces behind him, wrapped in a light shawl, her expression concerned.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Did I wake you?"

"No." She came closer and sat beside him on the sand, tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. "I heard you leave. Are you well?"

"I'm fine," he said, though it wasn't quite true. "Just... couldn't sleep."

She nodded, accepting that, and for a moment they sat in companionable silence, watching the moonlight dance on the water.

Then, softly, she asked, "What do you dream of?"

He hesitated. "Home," he said finally. "I think. It's hard to remember clearly."

"What is it like?" she asked. "Your home?"

Hárvald looked out at the gentle, glittering sea and tried to find the words.

"Cold," he said. "Always cold. Even in summer, there's a chill in the air. In winter..." He shook his head. "Winter is hard. The wind bites. Snow covers everything. The sea freezes at the edges. You have to work constantly just to survive—hunting, gathering, storing food. If you don't prepare, you die."

Maraina was quiet, listening.

"The sky is gray more often than blue," he continued. "The sun is weak. Green things only grow for a short time before the cold comes back. Everything is... hard. Sharp. Unforgiving."

He glanced at her. "Nothing like this place."

She was staring at him, her expression strange—something between wonder and disbelief.

"What?" he asked.

"My grandmother," she said slowly, "used to tell me a story. An old, old story. About a land of ice and snow, where winter never ends. Where the cold bites and the wind howls." She met his eyes. "I thought it was just a tale. Something to make me grateful for the warmth."

Hárvald's breath caught. "Your people know of my world?"

"I don't know," she said, shaking her head. "It was just a story. I never thought..." She trailed off, searching his face. "How did you get here, Hárvald? There's no cold land near us. Just sea. Endless sea."

"I don't know," he admitted. "I remember... a door. Carved into stone. I went through it, and then..." He gestured helplessly. "Cold. Falling. Water. And then I woke here."

"A door," she repeated softly, her brow furrowed. "Carved into stone?"

"Yes," he said. "I think so. It's hard to remember clearly."

She was quiet for a long moment, thinking. Then she shook her head slowly. "I don't know what that means. There's nothing like that here. Just... sea and sand and cliffs."

Hárvald felt frustration rise in his chest. Another dead end. Another fragment that led nowhere.

Maraina seemed to sense his disappointment. She leaned her shoulder gently against his.

"You'll remember," she said softly. "Give it time. Your memories are coming back, piece by piece."

He wanted to believe her. But what if the pieces never fit together? What if he was stuck here forever, not knowing how he'd arrived or how to get back?

Did he even want to get back?

The thought surprised him. But sitting here in the warm night air, beside someone who'd shown him nothing but kindness, the cold gray world of his memories felt distant. Almost unreal.

"Stay," Maraina said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "At least until you're fully healed. At least until you remember more."

He looked at her—this woman who'd saved him, cared for him, asked for nothing in return.

"I'll stay," he said.

For now.

She smiled, small and relieved, though something flickered in her eyes—understanding, maybe, or acceptance of what he hadn't quite said. She heard the unspoken words beneath his promise, but she didn't press.

He was quiet for a moment, then added, almost absently, "I had a necklace. Before. My mother gave it to me when I left."

Maraina looked over at him. "What happened to it?"

He gestured toward the sea. "It took it. Along with everything else."

There was no bitterness in his voice, just a quiet acceptance. But his hand moved unconsciously to his chest, where the necklace would have rested.

"I'm sorry," Maraina said softly.

Hárvald shrugged, but his jaw tightened slightly. "It's just... I wish I still had it. Something to hold onto. Something that was mine. Something that proved I came from somewhere, that I had a life before this."

Maraina reached over and squeezed his hand gently, her fingers warm against his.

"You do have a life," she said quietly. "Here. Now. With us."

He looked down at their joined hands, something tight loosening in his chest.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She leaned her shoulder gently against his, and they sat together in comfortable silence, watching the moonlight dance on the gentle waves.

 

CHAPTER 4

 

 Maraina brought him to the village on a morning bright with sunlight and the smell of the sea.

Hárvald had been in Solvara for nearly two weeks now—though he'd seen little beyond Maraina's cottage and the stretch of beach between it and the water. He was stronger now, steady on his feet, and restless in a way that made staying inside feel impossible.

"Come," Maraina had said that morning, smiling at his pacing. "You should meet the others. They've been curious about you."

He wasn't sure he wanted to be curious about, but he followed her anyway.

The village sat nestled between the dunes and a gentle rise of land that sloped up toward a forest—dense and green, its canopy a living wall between the settlement and the distant cliffs beyond. The trees were broad-leafed and ancient, their trunks thick with age, bark ranging from smooth silver-gray to deep russet-brown. They should have been bare, Hárvald thought distantly. In any sensible world, trees like these would shed their leaves, stand skeletal through winter, sleep until spring returned.

But there was no winter here. The forest stayed green, lush and full, as if locked in an eternal summer. Vines wound up the trunks, and the undergrowth was thick with ferns and flowering shrubs. Birds called from the canopy—bright, unfamiliar songs that echoed through the leaves.

It was beautiful. And deeply, fundamentally wrong to someone who'd grown up where seasons ruled and nothing stayed green for long.

The village itself was small—maybe twenty buildings clustered around a central square where a fire pit sat ringed with smooth stones worn pale by countless gatherings.

The architecture was strange but sturdy- a blend of practicality and comfort. Some structures were built of dark stone, their walls thick and solid, foundations sunk deep as if they'd grown from the earth itself. Doorways were framed with carved lintels—intricate knotwork and spiraling patterns that reminded Hárvald faintly of home, though softer somehow, the edges worn smooth by salt air and time. Moss crept up the northern faces of the stone buildings in patches of deep green and gold, and tiny flowers had taken root in the cracks between stones, their petals bright against the gray.

Other buildings were wood—lighter, more open, with walls of woven reed and timber frames that seemed to breathe with the sea breeze. Their roofs were thatched with dried grasses that rustled softly, and some had climbing vines growing up their sides, heavy with small white blossoms that smelled sweet and faintly spiced.

It was a strange blend. The stone spoke of permanence, of roots driven deep and walls built to last. The wood spoke of adaptation, of flowing with the land rather than fighting it. Familiar and foreign all at once, like two languages woven into a single song.

People were already moving about their morning tasks—mending nets strung between posts, tending garden plots bursting with vegetables Hárvald didn't recognize, carrying woven baskets of silvery fish from the docks. Smoke rose from cooking fires, carrying the scent of baking bread and herbs. Children darted between buildings, their laughter bright and easy.

Everything was alive here. Growing. Thriving.

So different from the gray, hard-edged world he remembered.

They looked up as Maraina and Hárvald approached, and he felt the weight of their attention settle on him like a physical thing.

He'd expected suspicion. Wariness. In his world, strangers were threats until proven otherwise.

But what he saw in their faces was mostly curiosity. Some smiled. A few nodded in greeting. Children peeked out from behind their parents, wide-eyed and whispering.

Maraina led him toward the center of the village, where an older man stood speaking with a group of fishermen. He was tall, broad-shouldered despite his age, with gray-streaked hair pulled back and a face weathered by sun and sea. When he saw Maraina, he smiled warmly.

"Maraina," he said, his voice deep and steady. Then his gaze shifted to Hárvald, assessing but not unkind. "And this must be the stranger the sea brought us."

"This is Hárvald," Maraina said. "Hárvald, this is Haldor. He leads our village."

Hárvald inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you for allowing me to stay."

Haldor's eyebrows rose slightly—surprised, maybe, by how well Hárvald spoke their language. "You're welcome here," he said simply. "Maraina says you've been helping her. A man who works is a man who earns his place." He clapped Hárvald on the shoulder, firm and approving. "We'll find use for you, I'm sure."

It was easier than Hárvald had expected. Almost too easy.

Then a voice cut through the moment, sharp and cold.

"You welcome him so quickly, Haldor?"

Hárvald turned.

An old woman stood at the edge of the square, leaning on a gnarled walking stick. She was small, her frame bent with age, but her eyes were sharp as flint and fixed on Hárvald with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

"Vísenda," Haldor said, his tone patient but edged with exasperation. "The man nearly drowned. Maraina saved him. What would you have us do—throw him back into the sea?"

"I would have us be cautious," Vísenda said, her gaze never leaving Hárvald. "The sea does not give without reason. And it does not take without cause."

She stepped closer, her stick tapping against the packed earth. Hárvald held still, meeting her eyes. There was something in her expression—not just suspicion, but recognition. As if she saw something in him that the others didn't.

"Where do you come from, stranger?" she asked, her voice low and deliberate.

"I don't know," Hárvald said honestly. "I can't remember clearly. Just... cold. And stone. And falling."

Vísenda's eyes narrowed. "Cold," she repeated softly. "Stone."

"Vísenda," Maraina said gently, stepping forward. "He's been hurt. His memories are fragmented. He's not a threat."

"You don't know that," Vísenda said, still watching Hárvald. "You see a man in need and you help him. That is your nature, child. But I see something else."

"What do you see?" Hárvald asked, unable to stop himself.

Vísenda tilted her head, studying him. "A door opening," she said quietly. "And something coming through that which should have stayed closed."

The words sent a chill down his spine.

Haldor sighed heavily. "Enough, Vísenda. You're frightening the man with your riddles." He turned back to Hárvald, his expression apologetic. "Don't mind her. She's old and sees omens in everything. You're welcome here, Hárvald. Truly."

But Vísenda didn't move. She stood there, watching, her sharp eyes full of something Hárvald couldn't name.

Fear, maybe.

Or certainty.

 

Maraina led him away after that, introducing him to others—fishermen, weavers, the woman who tended the small farm at the forest's edge where fruit trees grew heavy with unfamiliar harvests. Most were kind, welcoming in the easy way of people who had little reason to fear strangers.

But Hárvald couldn't shake the feeling of Vísenda's gaze on his back.

And then he met Froki.

The young man was near the docks, sharpening a hunting knife with sharp, deliberate strokes. He looked up as Maraina and Hárvald approached, and his expression darkened immediately.

"Froki," Maraina said, her tone carefully neutral. "This is Hárvald. He's staying with me for now."

Froki's jaw tightened. He stood, sliding the knife into his belt, and looked Hárvald up and down with barely concealed hostility.

"So you're the one everyone's talking about," Froki said. "The stranger Maraina pulled from the sea."

"I am," Hárvald said evenly.

"And now you're living in her house."

"She saved my life," Hárvald said. "I owe her everything."

Froki's eyes flashed. "You owe her, do you?" He stepped closer, his posture aggressive. "Then maybe you should repay her by moving on. We don't need strangers here."

"Froki," Maraina said sharply. "That's enough."

"Is it?" Froki turned to her, his expression hurt and angry. "You bring him here, you care for him, you defend him—"

"Because it's the right thing to do," Maraina said firmly. "And you know it."

Froki looked between them, his hands clenched into fists. Then he turned and walked away without another word.

Maraina let out a slow breath. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "He's... complicated."

"He cares for you," Hárvald said.

She looked at him, surprised.

"I can see it," Hárvald said. "And he sees me as a threat."

Maraina's expression softened, but there was sadness in it. "Froki wants things I can't give him. I've told him that. But he doesn't listen."

Hárvald nodded slowly. He understood jealousy. He understood the ache of wanting something—someone—who didn't want you back.

But he also understood that Maraina wasn't for Froki. Whatever her choice, he would respect it.

 

CHAPTER 5

 

The days that followed settled into a rhythm that was both comforting and strange.

Hárvald worked. It was what he knew, what made sense when everything else felt uncertain. Haldor had been true to his word—there was always work to be done in Solvara, and Hárvald threw himself into it with a focus that kept the questions at bay, at least for a while.

He mended nets with the fishermen, learning the particular knots they used, the way they tested each line for weakness. The fish they pulled from the sea were unlike anything from his fragmented memories—scales that shimmered with vivid blues and deep crimsons, some flashing green like polished emeralds in the sunlight. Even the catch was alive here, brilliant and almost too beautiful to be food. In his world, fish had been gray and silver, practical things. Here, they looked like jewels spilled from the ocean's hand.

He helped repair a section of dock that had been damaged in a recent storm, driving posts deep into the sand and lashing crossbeams with rope that smelled of salt and tar. He carried water, split wood, dug irrigation channels for the garden plots at the forest's edge.

The work was different from what he remembered of home—gentler, somehow. Less desperate. In his fragmented memories, work had always been about survival: hunt or starve, gather or freeze, build or die. Here, it felt more like... maintenance. Tending. Keeping something good rather than fighting off something terrible.

 

One evening, after a long day helping Haldor repair the dock, Hárvald walked back to Maraina's cottage as the sun was setting.

His muscles ached in a good way, the kind of tiredness that came from honest work. His hands were rough with salt and rope burn, and he smelled of the sea.

As he approached the cottage, he saw her through the window.

She was moving around inside, her silhouette backlit by the warm glow of the fire. He could see her at the table, chopping something, her movements efficient and practiced.

She was humming. He could hear it faintly—a melody he didn't recognize but that made something in his chest tighten.

Hárvald stopped on the path, just watching.

He'd been here for weeks now, and every day, she made space for him. Fed him, taught him, answered his endless questions with patience and kindness.

She never asked for anything in return.

Never made him feel like a burden, even though he had nothing to offer her.

And somewhere along the way—he wasn't sure when—he'd stopped thinking of her as just the woman who'd saved him.

He thought about her when she wasn't there. Wondered what she was doing, if she was happy, if she ever thought about him the way he thought about her.

He noticed things. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was concentrating. The way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. The way she moved through the world with quiet confidence, like she knew exactly who she was and didn't need anyone's approval.

He wanted to know more. Wanted to understand what made her laugh, what made her sad, what she dreamed about when she closed her eyes at night.

He wanted-

The truth of it landed, sudden and certain.

He wanted her.

The realization hit him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming.

This was dangerous.

He had no past, no future, no idea who he was or where he'd come from.

He had nothing to offer her.

And yet—

Maraina appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth.

"There you are," she called, smiling at him. "I was starting to wonder if Haldor had worked you to death. Dinner's almost ready."

Hárvald's chest ached with something he couldn't name.

He walked towards her, and when he reached the doorway, she stepped aside to let him pass.

Their shoulders brushed, just barely, and Hárvald felt the warmth of her even through his shirt.

She looked up at him, and for a moment, their eyes met.

Something passed between them—unspoken, fragile, electric.

Then Maraina looked away, her cheeks flushing faintly, and gestured inside.

"Go wash up," she said softly. "Before it gets cold."

Hárvald nodded and stepped inside, his heart still racing.

He washed his hands at the basin, trying to focus on the simple task, but all he could think about was the way she'd looked at him.

And the way he'd wanted to reach out and touch her face, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

He didn't.

But he wanted to.

 

The villagers were kind. Most of them, anyway.

Kael was the first to approach him outside of formal introductions. He was around Hárvald's age, lean and quick with an easy smile and curious eyes. He worked the fishing boats most days, but he had a way of appearing wherever Hárvald was working, offering help or asking questions.

"Is it true you don't remember how you got here?" Kael asked one afternoon as they hauled a net up onto the beach to check for tears.

"It's true," Hárvald said. "Pieces, but nothing that makes sense."

"That must be strange," Kael said thoughtfully. "Not knowing where you came from."

"It is."

Kael was quiet for a moment, then grinned. "Well, you're here now. That's something."

Hárvald found himself smiling back. "It is."

Torven was different. He was broader than Kael, stronger, with a serious face and watchful eyes. He didn't speak to Hárvald directly, but Hárvald felt his gaze often—assessing, measuring, waiting for something. He was one of Froki's closest friends, and his loyalty was clear. When Froki scowled at Hárvald across the village square, Torven stood beside him, arms crossed, silent but present.

Hárvald didn't blame him. Loyalty was something he understood.

Brenna was Maraina's friend—a weaver with quick hands and a quicker laugh. She had dark hair braided down her back and a way of teasing Maraina that made the other woman blush and swat at her.

"So this is the mysterious stranger," Brenna said the first time Maraina brought Hárvald to her workshop, a small wooden building filled with looms and baskets of dyed thread. She looked him up and down with open curiosity. "Handsome enough, I suppose. No wonder you've been spending so much time at home, Maraina."

"Brenna," Maraina said, her cheeks coloring.

Brenna laughed. "I'm only saying what everyone's thinking." She turned back to Hárvald, her expression warm. "You're welcome here, stranger. Anyone Maraina vouches for is good enough for me."

"Thank you," Hárvald said, oddly touched.

"Just don't break her heart," Brenna added lightly, though her eyes were serious. "Or I'll have to break something of yours."

Maraina groaned, but Hárvald only nodded. "Understood."

 

But despite the work, despite the kindness, despite the slow integration into the rhythms of Solvara, Hárvald couldn't shake the restlessness that gnawed at him.

He needed answers

How had he come here? Why couldn't he remember? And—most pressing of all—who was he?

The fragments weren't enough. Cold. Stone. His father's voice, harsh with disappointment. A door. But what did any of it mean? What kind of man had he been before the sea took him? What had he been trying to prove?

He worked alongside these people, spoke their language, wore the name Hárvald—but was that even truly his? Or just another fragment, a piece of something larger he couldn't see?

And how could he decide whether to stay or go back when he didn't even know who he was?

Did he want to go back?

The question haunted him more than he wanted to admit. The fragments of his old life were cold and hard-edged: gray skies, biting wind, and snow. Here, everything was warm and abundant and easy. The people were kind. Maraina was...

He didn't let himself finish that thought.

But he needed to know. Needed to understand. Not just where he'd come from, but who he'd been. Who he was.

So he searched.

He walked the shoreline for hours, scanning the sand and rocks for anything unusual. A carving. A marker. Some sign of how he'd arrived. But there was nothing—just endless beach, gentle waves, and the occasional piece of driftwood worn smooth by the sea.

He explored the cliffs nearest the village—the accessible ones, the places where children played and fishermen sometimes climbed to watch for schools of fish. He ran his hands over the stone, looking for carvings, for doors, for something. But the rock was bare, weathered by salt and time, offering no answers.

One evening, he found himself standing at the water's edge, staring out at the darkening sea.

He'd come from the water. Maraina had pulled him from the waves, half-drowned and broken. Maybe the answer was still out there. Maybe if he went back in, swam out far enough, dove deep enough—

It was a desperate thought. An irrational one.

The sea had nearly killed him.

But what if it was the only way?

He stepped forward. The water was warm against his feet, gentle waves lapping at his ankles. Another step. The sand shifted beneath him, and the water rose to his shins. Then halfway up his calves.

What secret did the sea hold? What had it taken from him—or given him?

He stared at the horizon, the dying light painting the water gold and crimson, and felt the pull of it. Just a little farther. Just deep enough to—

"Hárvald?"

He froze. Turned. Maraina stood on the beach behind him, her expression stricken with worry.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He looked down at the water around his legs, as if seeing it for the first time. Had he waded out this far without realizing? Or had he known exactly what he was doing?

He didn't have an answer.

He moved back toward shore, water sloshing around his legs, sand pulling at his feet with each step.

"Thinking," he said finally as he reached the dry sand, though it felt like a lie.

"About going back in?"

He didn't answer.

She stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. "You nearly drowned, Hárvald. The sea won't give you answers. It'll only take you again. The currents are strong here. If you go back in..." She shook her head. "Please. Don't."

"I don't know what else to do," he admitted. "I don't know how I got here. I don't know how to get back. I don't even know who I am." His voice cracked slightly on the last words. "The memories are just pieces. Fragments. What if I never remember? What if I'm just... lost forever?"

Maraina was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "Maybe the answer isn't in the sea. Maybe it's somewhere else."

He looked at her. "Where?"

She hesitated, her gaze drifting toward the forest and the cliffs beyond. Then she shook her head. "I don't know. But not the water. Please."

There was something in her voice—fear, maybe. Or something deeper.

He nodded slowly. "All right. Not the water."

She let out a breath, relieved. "Come back to the cottage. It's getting dark."

He followed her, but the restlessness didn't leave.

Somewhere, there were answers.

He just had to find them.

CHAPTER 6

Maraina asked him to help gather herbs from the forest edge a few days later.

"There's a clearing not far in," she said, slinging a woven basket over her shoulder. "The plants there are good for healing—I use them for salves and teas. But it's easier with two people."

Hárvald agreed without hesitation. He was glad for the work, and gladder still for her company.

The forest was cooler than the open beach, though still far warmer than any forest Hárvald remembered. The canopy filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns that shifted and danced across the forest floor. Birds called from the branches—bright, trilling songs that echoed through the leaves. The undergrowth was thick with ferns and flowering shrubs, their blooms vivid purples and yellows that seemed almost too bright to be real.

Everything here was alive. Insistently, abundantly alive.

Maraina led him along a narrow path that wound between the trees, her steps sure and familiar. She pointed out plants as they went—this one for fever, that one for wounds, another for calming restless sleep.

"You know a lot," Hárvald said.

She smiled. "My mother taught me. And her mother taught her. It's... something we pass down."

"Do you live alone because you want to?" he asked, then immediately regretted the question. "I'm sorry. That's not—"

"It's all right," she said, glancing back at him. "I don't mind." She was quiet for a moment, then continued. "I like the quiet. I like having my own space, my own rhythms. Some people need to be surrounded by others all the time. I'm not one of them."

"But you're not lonely?"

"No," she said simply. "I have friends. I have the village. But I also have myself. That's enough."

Hárvald thought about that. In his fragmented memories, he'd always been surrounded by people—family, clan, the constant press of bodies and voices. Privacy had been a luxury, not a choice.

"I think I understand," he said.

She looked at him, something warm in her expression. "I think you do."

They reached the clearing—a small open space where sunlight poured down in a golden shaft, illuminating a carpet of low-growing plants with delicate white flowers and silvery leaves.

"These," Maraina said, kneeling and setting down her basket. "We need the leaves, but only the young ones. The older ones are too bitter."

Hárvald knelt beside her and began carefully plucking leaves, following her example. The work was meditative, quiet except for the rustle of plants and the distant calls of birds.

"Can I ask you something?" Maraina said after a while.

"Of course."

"What if you never remember?" she asked gently. "What if the fragments are all you ever get?"

Hárvald's hands stilled. He'd been asking himself the same question for days.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Part of me thinks I need to remember to know who I am. But another part wonders if..." He trailed off, searching for the words. "If maybe I could just... become someone new. Start over."

"Would that be so bad?" she asked.

He looked at her. "I don't know. It feels like giving up. Like I'd be abandoning whoever I was before."

"Or," she said softly, "maybe you'd be choosing who you want to be now."

The words settled over him like a weight and a relief all at once.

"Is that what you did?" he asked. "Chose who you wanted to be?"

She smiled, a little sad. "In a way. I chose to live alone. To heal people. To be... myself, instead of what others expected." She plucked another leaf, adding it to her basket. "It wasn't easy. Some people didn't understand. But it was right for me."

Hárvald nodded slowly. "I think that's brave."

She laughed softly. "I think you're brave. Braver than you know, Hárvald. You woke up in a strange world with no memory and no answers, and you're still here. Still trying. That takes strength."

He didn't feel strong. He felt lost.

But sitting here beside her, the sunlight warm on his shoulders and her quiet presence steady beside him, he felt a little less adrift.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For pulling me from the sea. For not giving up on me."

She met his eyes, and something passed between them—understanding, maybe. Or something deeper.

"I didn't give up on you then," she said softly. "And I won't give up on you now."

They worked in comfortable silence after that, filling the basket with silvery leaves. Hárvald found himself watching her sometimes—the way her hands moved with practiced care, the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the small smile that played at the corners of her mouth when she found a particularly good cluster of leaves.

He realized, with a quiet certainty that surprised him, that he cared about her. Not just gratitude for saving his life, but something more. Something that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his still-healing ribs.

He didn't know what to do with that feeling.

So he said nothing, and kept gathering leaves.

 

They didn't see Froki watching from the edge of the clearing.

He stood in the shadow of the trees, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Torven stood beside him, shifting uncomfortably.

"Come on," Torven said quietly. "Let's go."

But Froki didn't move. He watched Maraina laugh at something Hárvald said, watched the easy way they worked together, the way she looked at the stranger with warmth and trust.

She'd never looked at Froki that way.

"I'm the best hunter in Solvara," Froki said, his voice low and hard.

"I know," Torven said.

"My father leads this village. Someday I will too."

"I know."

"So why does she look at him like that?" Froki's voice cracked slightly, and he hated himself for it.

Torven didn't have an answer.

Froki turned away from the clearing, his expression dark. "I'm going hunting tomorrow. Deep forest. There's a boar that's been spotted near the cliffs—big, dangerous. No one's been able to bring it down."

"Froki—"

"I'm going to kill it," Froki said. "And I'm going to bring it back. Then everyone will see. My father. The village. Her."

Torven looked worried. "That boar's dangerous. You shouldn't go alone."

"I'm not asking you to come," Froki said sharply. Then, softer, "But I won't stop you if you do."

Torven sighed. "You know I will."

Froki nodded, his jaw set. "Tomorrow, then. At first light."

He cast one last look back at the clearing—at Maraina and Hárvald, still working side by side in the sunlight—and then turned and walked away.

 

CHAPTER 7

 

Hárvald had been tracking the stag since before dawn.

It was massive—easily the largest deer he'd ever seen, even in the fragments of memory that sometimes surfaced. Its antlers were wide and branching, and it moved through the forest with a kind of regal confidence, as if it knew it had nothing to fear.

Hárvald had used every skill he could remember: reading the tracks, moving downwind, patience that bordered on meditation. When the moment came, his throw had been clean and true.

The stag had fallen in a small clearing deep in the forest. Hárvald had knelt beside it, offering a quiet word of thanks—something instinctive, a habit from a life he couldn't quite remember. Then he'd left it there with his spear, planning to return with help to haul it back to the village.

There was enough meat here to feed Solvara for weeks. The antlers alone would be a trophy worth displaying.

He was making his way back when he heard the shouting.

Hárvald ran toward the sound, his heart pounding.

The scene he found was chaos.

A massive boar—easily twice the size of any pig Hárvald had seen in the village—stood at the edge of a pit trap, snorting and pawing at the ground. Its tusks were long and wickedly curved, and its small eyes gleamed with aggression.

In the pit below, Froki crouched, his face pale and his hands braced against the earthen walls. The trap was deep—too deep to climb out easily—and the sides were smooth and steep.

A few paces away, Torven hung suspended in a net trap, tangled and struggling. The ropes had caught him mid-chest, and every movement only seemed to tighten the snare.

"Froki!" Torven shouted, his voice strained. "I can't—"

The boar snorted again, circling the pit. It was agitated, dangerous, and far too close.

Hárvald assessed the situation in seconds. His spear was back where he'd left the stag—too far to retrieve, and there was no time. He couldn't fight the boar unarmed, not without risking injury to himself or the others. He needed to drive it away.

His eyes scanned the clearing, looking for anything he could use.

And then he saw it.

High in a tree near the edge of the clearing, a large beehive hung from a branch, heavy and buzzing faintly. It was directly above the boar's path.

Hárvald picked up a rock—smooth and heavy, about the size of his fist. He took a breath, aimed, and threw.

The rock struck the hive dead-center.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the hive split open, and the air filled with the furious hum of a thousand angry bees.

The boar squealed—a high, panicked sound—and bolted. It crashed through the underbrush, the swarm of bees chasing after it in a dark, buzzing cloud.

Hárvald waited until the sound faded, then moved quickly.

He freed Torven first, cutting the net ropes with his knife and helping the young man down. Torven was shaken but unhurt, his eyes wide with shock.

"Are you all right?" Hárvald asked.

Torven nodded mutely.

Together, they pulled Froki out of the pit. He was pale and trembling, his hands scraped from trying to climb the walls. He didn't look at Hárvald as he stood, brushing dirt from his clothes.

"Thank you," Torven said quietly, his voice sincere.

Hárvald nodded. "Are you hurt?"

"No. Just... embarrassed." Torven glanced at Froki, who still hadn't spoken.

Froki's jaw was tight, his fists clenched. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe thank Hárvald, maybe curse him—but the words wouldn't come.

"Come with me," Hárvald said. "I have something to show you."

He led them deeper into the forest, following the path he'd taken earlier. Neither Froki nor Torven spoke, though Hárvald could feel their confusion.

When they reached the clearing, both young men stopped dead.

The stag lay where Hárvald had left it, massive and still. Its antlers spread wide, catching the dappled sunlight. Hárvald's spear rested beside it.

"Gods," Torven breathed, his eyes wide. "That's... that's enormous."

Froki stared at the stag, his expression unreadable.

Hárvald stepped forward and retrieved his spear. Then he turned to face them.

"Take it," he said simply.

Froki blinked. "What?"

"Take the stag. Tell them you caught it."

Froki's face went through a series of emotions—confusion, disbelief, anger. "Why would you—"

"Because you need this more than I do," Hárvald said quietly.

Froki stared at him. "I don't understand."

"You don't have to," Hárvald said. "It's too big to move alone. Go back to the village and get help—bring a sledge and at least four men. Tell them it's yours."

Torven was watching with wide eyes, his mouth slightly open.

Froki looked down at the stag—at the massive antlers, the sleek body, the sheer size of it. This was the kind of hunt that became a story. The kind of success that would make his father proud, that would prove to the village—and to Maraina—that he was capable. Strong. Worthy.

And Hárvald was just... giving it to him.

"This is... I can't..." He looked up at Hárvald, searching for something—an explanation, a reason, anything that would make this make sense.

"You can," Hárvald said.

Torven stood frozen, his mouth slightly open. He looked between Hárvald and the stag, then at Froki, but no words came. The gesture was too enormous, too incomprehensible. No one in the village would have done this. No one.

Hárvald nodded toward the path. "Go. Get help before it gets dark."

 

They returned a little later with Haldor, Kael, and three other men, pulling a sturdy wooden sledge.

Hárvald had stayed with the stag, sitting quietly in the clearing. He stood when they arrived.

Haldor's eyes widened when he saw the deer. "By the Gods," he said, his voice filled with awe. "Froki, this is... this is magnificent."

Froki's expression was complicated—pride and shame warring on his face. But he nodded, accepting the praise.

The men worked together to lift the stag onto the sledge, lashing it down with ropes. It took all of them to move it, even with the sledge.

As they prepared to leave, Haldor clapped Froki on the shoulder. "Your best hunt yet, my son. The village will feast tonight."

Froki glanced at Hárvald, who stood a little apart, his spear resting against his shoulder.

Their eyes met.

Hárvald gave a small nod.

Froki looked away, but something in his expression had shifted.

 

When they reached the village, people gathered immediately, exclaiming over the size of the stag, congratulating Froki, clapping him on the back.

Haldor stood in the center of the square, his voice carrying over the crowd. "My son has brought us a great gift! Tonight, we feast!"

The villagers cheered.

Torven caught Hárvald's eye across the square and gave him a small, knowing nod.

Hárvald turned and walked away before anyone could ask him questions.

 

Maraina found him later, sitting on the beach and watching the waves.

"I heard about the stag," she said, sitting down beside him. "Froki's being celebrated as a hero."

"Good," Hárvald said.

She was quiet for a moment. Then, gently, "Torven told me what really happened."

Hárvald didn't respond.

"You saved them," she said. "And then you gave Froki the credit."

"He needed it more than I did," Hárvald said simply.

Maraina looked at him, something soft and wondering in her expression. "You're a good man, Hárvald."

He wasn't sure about that. But he didn't argue.

They sat together in comfortable silence, watching the sun sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose.

CHAPTER 8

The feast began as the sun touched the horizon. They could hear the sounds of preparation from the village—voices calling, laughter, the crackle of fires being lit. The feast was beginning.

"We should go," Maraina said softly, though she didn't move.

Hárvald looked towards the village, then back at her. "Do you want to?"

She smiled. "I do. It's been a long time since we've had a celebration like this. The whole village will be there." She paused, then added, "And they'll want to see you."

"Me?"

"You're part of this Village now," she said. "Whether you realize it or not."

He thought about that. Part of the Village. Part of something larger than himself.

It felt... good.

"All right," he said. "Let's go."

She stood and offered him her hand. He took it, and they walked together toward the firelight and the music and the warmth of the gathering.

 

Fires had been lit in the village square—three large pits ringed with stones, flames leaping high and casting dancing shadows across the gathered faces. Tables had been set up, laden with bread and cheese, roasted vegetables from the gardens, and fish caught fresh that morning. And at the center of it all, the massive stag, already butchered and turning on spits over the fires, its rich scent filling the air.

Now Hárvald stood at the edge of the square, watching the villagers laugh and talk, children running between the tables, the firelight warm on his face. It was... overwhelming. And strangely wonderful.

"Here," Maraina said, pressing a cup into his hand. "Drink."

He took a sip and nearly choked. The liquid was sweet and strong, with a bite that burned pleasantly down his throat.

She laughed at his expression. "Honey wine. We make it ourselves. It's traditional for celebrations."

He took another, more careful sip. "It's good."

"It's strong," she corrected, smiling. "Pace yourself."

 

The feast unfolded around them in waves of sound and warmth.

People ate and drank, their voices rising in laughter and conversation. Musicians appeared—a woman with a drum, a man with a flute carved from wood, another with a stringed instrument Hárvald didn't recognize. They began to play, and the music was bright and lively, filling the square with rhythm.

People began to dance.

It wasn't formal or structured—just movement, joy, bodies swaying and spinning in time with the music. Children danced with their parents, friends with friends, couples together.

Maraina watched them, her foot tapping in time with the drum.

"Do you want to dance?" Hárvald asked before he could stop himself.

She looked at him, surprised and pleased. "Do you know how?"

"I... don't know," he admitted. "But I'm willing to try."

She laughed and took his hand, pulling him toward the dancers.

He was clumsy at first, unsure of the steps, but Maraina was patient. She showed him the basic rhythm, the way to move with the music rather than against it. And slowly, he began to understand.

It wasn't about precision. It was about feeling.

They moved together, her hand warm in his, the firelight flickering across her face. She was smiling, her eyes bright, and Hárvald felt something shift in his chest—something warm and terrifying and wonderful all at once.

He didn't want this moment to end.

The music shifted, slowing into something softer, and the dancers adjusted, moving closer. Maraina stepped into his space, her other hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

"You're doing well," she said quietly.

"I have a good teacher," he said.

She smiled, and they swayed together in comfortable silence, the world narrowing to just the two of them and the music and the warmth of the fire.

Hárvald realized, with a clarity that was almost painful, that he didn't want to leave this place.

He didn't want to leave her.

 

Later, when the dancing had slowed and people had returned to the tables to eat and rest, the storytelling began.

Haldor stood near one of the fires, his voice carrying over the crowd.

"Tonight, we give thanks," he said. "For the hunt. For the bounty. For the blessings we've been given." He gestured to the roasting stag. "And we remember the old stories. The ones that remind us who we are and where we come from."

The villagers settled, children climbing into laps, cups refilled. The firelight flickered, and the night seemed to lean in closer.

Haldor began.

"Long ago, when the world was young and the Gods still walked among mortals, there was Solmar, the Sun Bringer. He saw that the people lived in darkness and cold, and his heart was moved with compassion. So he took a piece of the sun itself and brought it down to the earth, teaching the people how to make fire, how to warm themselves, how to cook their food and light their homes."

Hárvald listened, his chest tightening. He knew this story. But in his memory, it was different.

'Solmundr the Sun God didn't give fire out of compassion. He demanded tribute first—a sacrifice of the finest cattle, the strongest warriors sent to die in his name. Only then, when the people had proven their worth through suffering, did he grant them fire. And even then, it came with a warning: fail to honor him, and he would take it back.'

The warmth. The cold. The expectation.

Hárvald's hands clenched around his cup.

"Are you all right?" Maraina whispered beside him.

He forced himself to nod. "Just... remembering."

An older woman stood next, her voice soft but clear.

"I will tell you of Maerith, the Sea Mother," she said. "In the days when our ancestors first came to these shores, the sea was wild and treacherous. Storms raged, and many boats were lost. The people prayed to Maerith, asking for her protection. And she heard them."

The woman's eyes gleamed in the firelight. "Maerith rose from the depths, her hair like seaweed, her eyes like the deep ocean. She said, 'I will calm the waters for you, but you must respect the sea. Take only what you need, give thanks for what you receive, and never forget that the ocean is both giver and taker of life.' The people agreed, and Maerith blessed them. From that day forward, the waters around Solvara have been gentle, and our nets have always been full."

Hárvald's breath caught.

'Mærgríðr, the Sea Witch. She didn't rise to help—she rose to punish. In his world, she was a Goddess of storms and drowning, of ships pulled under and sailors claimed by the depths. She demanded blood sacrifices—prisoners thrown into the sea, offerings of silver and gold sunk to the ocean floor. She was beautiful and terrible, and she showed no mercy to those who failed to appease her.'

He remembered standing on a cliff, watching his father throw a carved wooden ship into the waves, praying for safe passage. Remembered the fear in the old man's voice.

"Hárvald?" Maraina's hand touched his arm gently.

He realized he was trembling. "I'm sorry. I just—the stories are different. In my memories, the Gods are... harsher."

She looked at him with concern. "What do you remember?"

"Sacrifice," he said quietly. "Blood and fear. The Gods didn't help because they were kind. They helped because we proved we were worthy. And if we failed..." He trailed off.

Maraina's expression was sad. "That sounds like a hard way to live."

"It was," he said, though he wasn't sure how he knew that.

A younger man stood next, grinning. "Let me tell you about Riven the Clever!"

The children perked up, and several adults chuckled. This was clearly a favorite.

"Riven was a trickster, always playing jokes on the other Gods. One day, he decided to steal the moon, just to see if he could. He crept into the sky-realm and plucked the moon right out of the heavens, hiding it in his cloak. The world went dark, and the Gods were furious!"

The storyteller's voice rose dramatically. "They searched everywhere, but Riven was too clever. He disguised himself as a beggar and walked among mortals, laughing at the chaos he'd caused. But then he met a little girl who was crying because she was afraid of the dark. And Riven's heart softened. He realized his joke had gone too far."

Hárvald felt a flicker of recognition.

"So Riven returned the moon to the sky," the man continued. "And he promised the little girl that he would never steal it again. The Gods forgave him, and from that day on, Riven used his cleverness to help people instead of causing trouble. Well... most of the time."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

But Hárvald's memory was darker.

'Hrafn the Deceiver. The trickster God who stole the moon not as a joke, but as a challenge to the other Gods' power. When he was caught, they punished him brutally—chained him to a rock and left him to suffer for a hundred years. There was no little girl, no softening of heart. Only pain and humiliation. And when he was finally freed, Hrafn's tricks became cruel, vindictive. He was a God to be feared, not loved.'

Hárvald closed his eyes, trying to reconcile the two versions. The same Gods, the same stories... but so different.

"They're gentler here," he said aloud, almost to himself.

"What?" Maraina asked.

"The Gods. In your stories, they're kind. Forgiving. In mine, they're..." He struggled for the word. "Unforgiving. Demanding. We had to earn everything through suffering."

Maraina was quiet for a moment. Then she said softly, "Maybe the Gods reflect the people who tell the stories. Or maybe... maybe your people needed harsher Gods to survive a harsher world."

Hárvald looked at her, struck by the thought.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe the Gods weren't different at all. Maybe it was the people—and the worlds they lived in—that had changed.

The storytelling continued, each tale stirring more fragments in Hárvald's mind. Memories of cold stone halls, of his father's stern face, of rituals performed in the dark. Of a world where survival meant strength, and weakness meant death.

He remembered sitting around a fire much like this one, listening to his father's voice telling the old stories. Remembered the weight of expectation, the need to prove himself worthy of the Gods' attention.

Remembered the door in the cliff. The test. The cold.

And then... nothing.

He closed his eyes, trying to hold onto the memories, but they slipped away like water through his fingers

And yet here, in this warm, abundant place, the same Gods were celebrated with joy instead of fear.

It made his head ache. Made his heart ache.

He didn't know which version was true. Or if both could be.

 

As the night wore on, with the last story told, Froki stood.

The square quieted. People turned to look at him, curious.

Froki's face was serious, his jaw set. He looked at his father first, then at the gathered villagers, and finally at Hárvald.

"I need to say something," Froki said, his voice steady but strained.

Haldor frowned slightly. "Froki—"

"Please, Father. Let me speak."

Haldor nodded slowly, and the square fell silent.

Froki took a breath. "I didn't kill the stag."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Haldor's expression shifted to confusion.

"Hárvald did," Froki continued, his voice stronger now. "I went into the forest to hunt, to prove myself. But I was reckless. I fell into my own trap—a pit I'd dug for the boar. Torven tried to help me and got caught in a net. We were trapped, and the boar was circling, and we couldn't get free."

He paused, his hands clenched at his sides. "Hárvald found us. He drove the boar away and freed us both. He saved our lives."

The villagers were silent, listening.

"And then," Froki said, his voice quieter now, "he showed us the stag he'd killed. It was the most magnificent animal I'd ever seen. And he told me to take it. To tell you all that I'd caught it."

Froki looked at Hárvald, his expression raw. "He tried to give me his glory because he thought I needed it. And I... I took it. I let you all believe I was the one who brought down the stag."

Haldor's face was unreadable. The villagers murmured, some surprised, some nodding as if pieces were falling into place.

"But I can't keep lying," Froki said. "Hárvald saved my life. He gave me a gift I didn't earn. And the least I can do is tell the truth." He turned to face Hárvald fully. "I'm sorry. And thank you. For everything."

The square was silent.

Then Hárvald stood.

He picked up one of the antlers that had been resting nearby and walked across the square to where Froki stood.

Froki's eyes widened. "Hárvald, I—"

"You told the truth," Hárvald said quietly, so only Froki and those nearest could hear. "That takes more courage than any hunt."

He held out the antler. "Keep the other one. You've earned it."

Froki stared at him, his throat working. "I don't understand. Why—"

"Because you did the right thing," Hárvald said simply. "And that matters more than pride."

Froki took the antler with trembling hands, his eyes bright.

Then Haldor stood, his voice ringing out across the square. "My son has shown great courage tonight. Not in the hunt, but in speaking the truth when it would have been easier to stay silent." He looked at Hárvald. "And Hárvald has shown us what it means to be generous and wise."

He raised his cup. "To both of them. To honesty. To friendship. To the bonds that make us strong."

The villagers raised their cups, echoing the toast. "To honesty! To friendship!"

Froki clasped Hárvald's arm, his grip firm. "Thank you," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

Hárvald nodded. "You're welcome."

And in that moment, whatever tension had existed between them dissolved completely.

The feast continued, but the mood had shifted—warmer, somehow. Deeper.

Kael caught Hárvald's eye from across the square and grinned, raising his cup in approval. Torven nodded solemnly, respect clear in his expression. Even Vísenda, sitting at the edge of the firelight, watched Hárvald with something that might have been grudging approval.

Maraina slipped her hand into his, squeezing gently.

"That was well done," she said softly.

"He deserved it," Hárvald said. "He was brave."

"So were you."

He looked at her, and the warmth in her eyes made his chest ache.

 

Eventually, as the night deepened and the fires burned low, Hárvald and Maraina slipped away from the celebration, walking down to the beach. The moon was full and bright, painting the water silver.

They sat together on the sand, the sounds of the feast distant and warm behind them.

"That was a good thing Froki did," Maraina said.

"It was," Hárvald agreed.

"You've changed things here," she said quietly. "Changed him. Changed... a lot of things."

He looked at her. The moonlight caught in her hair, turned her eyes luminous. She was beautiful, and kind, and everything he hadn't known he needed.

"You changed things for me too," he said softly.

She met his eyes, and something passed between them—understanding, connection, something deeper than words.

He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to tell her that he was falling for her, that this place—this life—felt more real than anything he could remember.

And maybe it was the honey wine, or the warmth of the night, or the way she was looking at him—but this time, he didn't stop himself.

He leaned in and kissed her.

It was soft, tentative, full of longing. Her lips were warm, and she made a small sound of surprise before kissing him back, her hand coming up to rest against his chest.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them—the taste of honey wine, the sound of the waves, the warmth of her breath.

Then Hárvald pulled back, his heart pounding.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough. "I shouldn't have—"

"Why not?" Maraina asked, her eyes searching his.

"Because I don't know who I am," he said. "I don't know where I came from, or why I'm here, or—" He broke off, frustrated. "You deserve better than someone who can't even tell you his own story."

"I know who you are," Maraina said firmly.

He shook his head. "You don't—"

"I do." Her voice was steady, certain. "You're kind. You're brave. You saved Froki's life and gave him your glory. You help in the gardens, you listen when people speak, you treat everyone with respect." She cupped his face gently. "I don't need to know where you came from to know who you are, Hárvald. I see you. Every day, I see you."

His throat tightened. "But what if—what if I remember, and I'm not the person you think I am? What if I was someone... terrible?"

"Were you?" she asked quietly.

He didn't know. That was the problem.

"I don't think so," he said finally. "But I can't be sure."

Maraina was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "The man I know wouldn't have done the things you've done here if he had cruelty in his heart. Whatever you were before, you're a good man now. That's what matters."

"I want to believe that," he whispered.

"Then believe it," she said. "And believe this: I want you to stay. Not because I need you to be someone else, but because I want you. The person sitting here with me right now."

Hárvald closed his eyes, her words washing over him like a balm.

He wanted to stay. Gods, he wanted to stay.

But the questions still haunted him. The door in the cliff. The cold. The fragments of a life he couldn't quite grasp.

"I need to know," he said finally, opening his eyes. "I need to understand where I came from. Not because I want to leave, but because... I can't move forward until I know what I'm leaving behind."

Maraina's expression was sad, but understanding. "Then find your answers," she said softly. "But know that whatever you discover, you have a place here. With me. If you want it."

"I want it," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "More than anything."

She leaned forward and kissed him again—gentle, lingering, full of promise.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against his.

"Then come back to me," she whispered. "When you've found what you're looking for. Come back."

"I will," He promised. 

They sat together in the moonlight, holding each other, the waves whispering against the shore.

And Hárvald knew, with a certainty that ached in his chest, that he was falling in love with her.

 

CHAPTER 9 

The days after the feast should have been happy.

Maraina told herself that as she worked in the garden, pulling weeds and checking the herbs for new growth. The celebration had been beautiful—the dancing, the storytelling, the moment when Froki had stood and told the truth. And afterward, on the beach, when Hárvald had kissed her...

She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering.

It should have been the beginning of something wonderful.

Hárvald had become restless.

At first, she'd thought it was just the lingering effects of the feast—the honey wine, the late night, the emotional weight of everything that had happened. But as the days passed, she realized it was something deeper.

He was searching again.

Not aimlessly, the way he had in the early days after he'd woken. This was different. More focused. More desperate.

She saw it in the way he stood at the edge of the village, staring out at the cliffs. In the way he wandered the forest paths, his expression distant and troubled. In the way he woke in the night, gasping, his hands clenched into fists.

Her heart went out to him. And there- alone in her garden- Maraina found she couldn't stop thinking about him.

 

That afternoon, the sun was warm and bright, and Maraina decided to plant a new bed of herbs near the back of the garden.

Hárvald found her there, kneeling in the soil with a basket of seedlings beside her.

"Need help?" he asked.

She looked up and smiled. "Always."

He knelt beside her, and she handed him a small basil plant, its leaves bright green and fragrant.

"We'll plant these here," she said, gesturing to the freshly turned earth. "Basil, thyme, lemon balm. They'll grow quickly in this spot—plenty of sun, good drainage."

Hárvald nodded and watched as she demonstrated, digging a small hole with her hands, settling the seedling into the earth, pressing the soil gently around its roots.

"Not too tight," she said. "You want to give them room to breathe, to spread their roots. But firm enough that they feel secure."

Hárvald copied her movements, carefully digging a hole for his basil plant.

The soil was warm beneath his fingers, soft and yielding. It smelled rich and alive, with a faint sweetness that reminded him of growth and possibility.

He settled the seedling into the hole and pressed the earth around its base, his hands moving slowly, carefully.

When he sat back to look at it, something settled in his chest.

The plant was small. Fragile. Just a few green leaves reaching towards the sun.

But it would grow.

With care and water and time, it would grow into something strong and useful and beautiful.

And he would help it.

The thought filled him with a quiet satisfaction he didn't quite understand.

"You're good at this," Maraina said, glancing over at him.

Hárvald looked up, surprised. "Am I?"

"Yes." She gestured to the seedlings he'd planted. "Look at them. They're all perfectly spaced, perfectly settled. You have gentle hands."

Hárvald looked down at his hands—calloused and strong.

Gentle.

He'd never thought of himself that way before.

At least, he didn't think he had.

"It feels right," he said quietly.

Maraina tilted her head, studying him. "What does?"

"This." He gestured to the garden, the soil, the plants. "Working with the earth. Helping things grow. It feels... right. Like this is what I'm supposed to be doing."

Maraina's smile widened, warm and genuine. "Maybe it is."

Hárvald looked back at the seedlings, his chest warm.

He didn't know why it felt so right. Didn't know if he'd done this before, in the life he couldn't remember.

But it didn't matter.

Because here, now, with his hands in the warm soil and the sun on his back and Maraina working beside him, he felt whole.

Like he'd found something he didn't know he'd been missing.

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant call of seabirds.

Hárvald planted the last of the basil seedlings and sat back, wiping his hands on his trousers.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"Now we water them," Maraina said. "And then we wait. In a few weeks, they'll be big enough to harvest. We'll use them for cooking, for tea, for medicine."

"And then?"

"And then we plant more." She smiled. "That's how it works. You plant, you tend, you harvest. And then you start again."

Hárvald nodded slowly, something settling deeper in his chest.

Plant. Tend. Harvest. Repeat.

It was simple. Steady. Purposeful.

Not about conquest or glory.

Just about nurturing. Growing. Helping things thrive. In a way, it was its own type of glory.

He looked down at his hands again—dirt under his nails, soil staining his skin—and felt a deep sense of peace.

This was right.

This was him.

He didn't know how he knew.

But he did.

Maraina reached over and squeezed his hand, her fingers warm against his.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get these watered before the sun gets too hot."

Hárvald stood and helped her carry the watering cans from the well, and together they tended the new seedlings, giving them their first drink in their new home.

 

"Another dream?" she'd asked him the next morning. She found him sitting outside the cottage before dawn, his face pale and drawn.

He'd looked at her with haunted eyes. "The door," he'd said quietly. "I keep seeing it. Stone and cold and... waiting."

She'd wanted to tell him to stop searching. To let the past go. To stay with her, and build a life in the present.

But she couldn't.

Because she understood.

He wanted to be with her—she could see it in the way he looked at her, in the careful way he touched her hand, in the promises he'd made on the beach. But he couldn't move forward until he knew where he'd come from.

And so she watched him search, her heart aching, knowing that whatever he found might take him away from her.

 

It was late afternoon when she decided to follow him.

He'd left the village after the midday meal, heading towards the cliffs with that same focused, driven expression. Maraina had hesitated, torn between giving him space and the growing fear that he was going to do something reckless.

In the end, fear won.

She followed at a distance, keeping to the trees, watching as he climbed the rocky paths that led up into the hills. He moved with purpose, as if he knew exactly where he was going, though she was certain he'd never been this way before.

The cliffs here were old and weathered, carved by wind and sea into strange, twisting shapes. Maraina had played here as a child, but she'd always avoided the deeper caves—the ones that tunneled back into the rock, dark and cold and unwelcoming.

No one went into the caves.

It was an unspoken rule in Solvara, passed down through generations. The caves were dangerous. People who went inside didn't always come back. And those who did... they were changed. Wrong, somehow.

Maraina's grandmother had told her stories when she was young—tales of villagers who'd ventured too deep and been lost to the darkness, or who'd returned with empty eyes and broken minds, speaking of things that made no sense.

'The caves remember,' her grandmother had said, her voice low and serious. 'They hold the past, and the past is not always kind.'

Maraina had never questioned it. The caves were forbidden, and that was enough.

But now, watching Hárvald climb higher, she felt a cold dread settle in her chest.

He was heading straight for them.

She quickened her pace, scrambling over the rocks, her breath coming fast. "Hárvald!" she called, but the wind carried her voice away.

He didn't hear her.

He stopped at the base of a cliff face, staring up at something she couldn't see from her angle. His whole body had gone still, tense, like a bowstring pulled taut.

Maraina climbed faster, her hands scraping against the rough stone.

When she finally reached him, she saw what he was looking at.

A cave entrance.

It was larger than most of the others—tall and narrow, like a doorway carved into the rock. The stone around it was smooth and dark, almost black, and there were markings etched into the surface. Old markings. Symbols she didn't recognize.

Hárvald stood frozen, staring at the entrance with an expression of terrible recognition.

"I know this place," he whispered.

Maraina's blood ran cold. "Hárvald—"

"I've seen it before." His voice was distant, almost dreamlike. "In my memories. The door in the cliff. This is it. This is where I came from."

He took a step forward.

"No!" Maraina lunged forward and grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "Hárvald, stop!"

He turned to look at her, his eyes unfocused, as if he were seeing something else entirely. "I have to go inside. The answers are in there. I can feel it."

"No one goes in the caves," Maraina said, her voice shaking. She tightened her grip on his arm, anchoring him. "No one, Hárvald. It's forbidden."

"Why?" he asked, his gaze snapping back to hers, suddenly sharp.

"Because people don't come back," she said. "Or if they do, they're... they're not the same. The caves are dangerous. They're—" She struggled for the words. "They're wrong."

"But I came from there," he said, his voice breaking. "Don't you see? This is where I came from. If I go inside, I'll understand. I'll know who I am."

"You'll die," Maraina said, her voice fierce. "Or worse."

He stared at her, and she could see the war raging behind his eyes—the desperate need for answers battling against the fear of what he might find.

"Please," she whispered, her hands trembling as she held onto him. "Please don't go in there. Not yet. Not like this."

"Maraina—"

"I know you need answers," she said, her voice cracking. "I know. But not like this. Not alone. Not without—" She broke off, tears stinging her eyes. "I can't lose you."

He looked at her, really looked at her, and she saw the moment the compulsion broke.

His shoulders sagged, and he closed his eyes, his breath shuddering out of him.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to—"

"I know," she said. She pulled him away from the cave entrance, guiding him back down the rocks, away from the dark doorway and the terrible pull it exerted.

He followed, but she could feel the resistance in every step, the way his body wanted to turn back, to go inside.

When they were far enough away that the cave was out of sight, he stopped and sank down onto a flat rock, his head in his hands.

"It's there," he said, his voice muffled. "The answers are right there, and I can't—"

"Not yet," Maraina said, kneeling beside him. "But maybe... maybe there's another way. Maybe we can find someone who knows about the caves. Someone who can help."

He looked up at her, his expression raw. "Do you really think that's possible?"

She didn't know. But she nodded anyway, because she couldn't bear the look in his eyes.

"We'll find a way," she said. "Together."

He reached out and took her hand, holding it tightly, as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For stopping me."

She squeezed his hand, her heart aching. "Always."

They walked back to the village together as the sun began to set, the sky turning into a masterpiece of light and color.

But Maraina couldn't shake the image of the cave entrance—the dark doorway, the strange symbols, the way Hárvald had looked at it with such terrible recognition.

And she knew, with a certainty that made her chest tight, that this wasn't over.

The cave had called to him once.

It would call to him again.

 

That night, Maraina lay awake in her cottage, staring at the ceiling.

Across the room, she could hear Hárvald's restless breathing. He'd gone to bed hours ago, but she knew he wasn't sleeping. She could see the tension in his silhouette, the way he shifted on the bedroll, unable to find peace.

The wind whispered outside, and the distant crash of waves against the shore should have been soothing. Peaceful sounds. Familiar sounds.

He'd agreed to leave today because she'd begged him. Because he cared about her.

But how long could that last?

How long before the need for answers became stronger than his fear? Stronger than his feelings for her?

She heard him shift again, a quiet, pained sound escaping him.

"Hárvald?" she whispered into the darkness.

A pause. Then, quietly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," she said. "I couldn't sleep either."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid.

"It's still calling to me," he said finally, his voice barely audible. "Even now. I can feel it."

Maraina's chest tightened. She wanted to go to him, to hold him, to somehow anchor him here with her.

But she didn't move.

"I know," she whispered.

And in the darkness, they both lay awake, knowing that the cave—and the answers it held—would not let him go.

 

CHAPTER 10

 

Hárvald woke to the sound of waves and the pale light of dawn filtering through the cottage window.

He hadn't slept well. Again.

The dreams had been relentless—flashes of the cave entrance, the dark stone, the symbols carved into the rock. And beneath it all, a pull so strong it felt like a physical ache in his chest.

He sat up carefully, trying not to wake Maraina, and ran a hand through his hair. His whole body felt tense, restless, like he was waiting for something he couldn't name.

Across the room, Maraina stirred and opened her eyes.

"You're awake early," she said softly.

"The dreams again," he admitted.

She nodded- a look of concern crossing her face. Maraina was quiet for a moment, then said, "Come with me today. I'm keeping my promise—I'm going to ask Vísenda about the caves."

Hárvald looked at her, surprised. "You think she'll tell us?"

"I don't know," Maraina said. "But we have to try."

 

Vísenda's cottage sat at the edge of the village, slightly apart from the others. It was older than most, built from dark wood and stone, with herbs hanging in bundles from the eaves and strange carvings etched into the doorframe.

Maraina knocked, and after a long pause, the door opened.

Vísenda stood in the doorway, her sharp eyes moving from Maraina to Hárvald. Her expression didn't change, but Hárvald felt the weight of her scrutiny like a physical thing.

"Maraina," Vísenda said, her voice cool. "And the stranger. What brings you here?"

"We need to ask you about the caves," Maraina said.

Vísenda's eyes narrowed. "The caves are forbidden. You know this."

"I know," Maraina said. "But Hárvald found one. And he... he recognized it. He thinks it might be connected to where he came from."

Vísenda's gaze shifted to Hárvald, and for a moment, something flickered in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or fear.

"Come inside," she said finally, stepping back.

The interior of the cottage was dim and cluttered, filled with shelves of jars and bundles of dried plants. A fire burned low in the hearth, and the air smelled of smoke and herbs.

Vísenda gestured for them to sit, then settled into a chair across from them, her hands folded in her lap.

"You found a cave," she said, her tone flat.

"Yes," Hárvald said. "Near the cliffs. There were symbols carved into the stone. I've seen them before—in my memories."

Vísenda was silent for a long moment. Then she said, "The caves have been here longer than Solvara. Longer than any of us. They are old. Dangerous."

"Why?" Maraina asked. "What's inside them?"

"Nothing good," Vísenda said sharply. "People who go into the caves do not return. Or if they do, they are... changed. Broken. The caves are not meant for the living."

"But why?" Hárvald pressed. "What are they? Where do they lead?"

Vísenda's expression hardened. "That is not a question you should be asking."

"I need to know," Hárvald said, his voice rising slightly. "I need to understand where I came from. If the caves are connected to my past—"

"Then your past is best left buried," Vísenda said coldly. She leaned forward, her eyes boring into his. "You do not belong here, stranger. You never have. The caves know this. They call to you because you are other. And if you go inside, you will not come back."

Maraina's hand tightened on Hárvald's arm. "Vísenda, please. If you know something—"

"I know enough to tell you to stay away," Vísenda said. She stood, her posture rigid. "The caves are forbidden for a reason. If you value your life—and Maraina's peace—you will not go near them again."

Hárvald stood as well, frustration boiling in his chest. "You're hiding something. You know more than you're saying."

"Perhaps," Vísenda said. "But I will not be the one to lead you to your death." She moved to the door and opened it, a clear dismissal. "Go. And do not come back asking questions I will not answer."

They walked back through the village in silence, Hárvald's hands clenched into fists.

"She knows," he said finally. "She knows what the caves are, and she won't tell us."

"She's afraid," Maraina said quietly. "I've never seen her like that. Whatever the caves are, they terrify her."

Hárvald stopped walking and turned to face her. "I have to go inside, Maraina. It's the only way I'll know."

"Not yet," she said, her voice pleading. "Please. Just... give it a little more time. Maybe there's another way."

He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her that there was no other way, that Vísenda's refusal had only made the need stronger.

But he saw the fear in her eyes, and he couldn't.

"All right," he said quietly. "A little more time."

She took his hand and squeezed it gently. "Thank you."

The next few days passed in a blur of activity.

Hárvald threw himself into village life, trying to distract himself from the pull of the cave. He helped Kael repair fishing nets, worked in the gardens with Maraina, and spent time with Froki, teaching him the finer points of tracking and patience.

 

One morning, Kael invited him down to the docks to help with repairs on one of the fishing boats. Hárvald had seen the boats before, of course, but he'd never really looked at them closely.

They were small and sturdy, built from light wood and designed for coastal waters. The prows were gently curved, and the hulls were painted in bright colors—blues and greens and yellows.

Hárvald ran his hand along the side of one, and a memory surfaced, sharp and vivid.

'A massive ship, its hull dark and imposing, carved with intricate designs. A dragon's head at the prow, fierce and proud. Oars lined the sides, and a single square sail billowed in the wind. The ship cut through the waves like a blade, powerful and unstoppable.'

He blinked, and the memory faded.

"You all right?" Kael asked, watching him with concern.

"I just... I remembered something," Hárvald said. "A ship. Much larger than these. Built for... for war, I think."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "War? Why would you build a ship for war?"

Hárvald didn't have an answer. In the Summer Lands, the sea was a source of life, not conquest. The boats were tools for fishing and trade, not weapons.

But in his world—the world he'd come from—the sea had been something else entirely.

"I don't know," he said finally. "It's just what I remember."

Kael clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, we don't need war ships here. Just good, honest boats that'll bring us home safe."

Hárvald nodded, but the memory lingered, unsettling and strange.

They finished the repairs and pushed the boat back into the water to test it. Kael invited Hárvald to come along, and they sailed out into the bay, the wind filling the small sail.

The water was calm and clear, the sunlight turning it a brilliant blue-green. Hárvald stood near the prow, watching the waves, and felt the tension in his chest ease slightly.

Then Kael pointed. "Look there!"

Hárvald followed his gaze and saw them—massive shapes moving beneath the surface, dark and graceful. They were probably about twice the size of their small ship.

"Whales," Kael said, grinning. "A pod of them. They come through here every few weeks."

As Hárvald watched, one of the whales surfaced, its enormous body breaking through the water in a spray of mist. It was beautiful—sleek and powerful, but gentle somehow.

Another surfaced nearby, and then another, until the bay was filled with them, their low, haunting calls echoing across the water.

Hárvald's breath caught.

In his memories, the sea was a place of danger. Storms and cold and creatures that could drag a ship under. His people had feared the ocean, fought against it, tried to conquer it with their massive ships and their iron will.

But here, the sea was different.

The whales swam alongside the boat, close enough that Hárvald could have reached out and touched them. They didn't attack or threaten—they simply were, moving through the water with a kind of peaceful majesty.

"They're not afraid of us," Hárvald said, his voice filled with wonder.

"Why would they be?" Kael asked, laughing. "We don't hunt them. We respect them. The sea gives us what we need—fish, safe passage, beauty like this. We don't take more than we're given."

Hárvald stared at the whales, his chest tight with an emotion he couldn't name.

In his world, the sea had been an enemy to be conquered.

Here, it was a partner. A friend.

One of the whales rolled onto its side, its massive eye visible just beneath the surface. For a moment, Hárvald could have sworn it was looking at him—seeing him, the way Maraina did.

Then it dove, disappearing into the depths, and the pod moved on, their calls fading into the distance.

Kael clapped Hárvald on the shoulder. "Beautiful, aren't they?"

"Yes," Hárvald said quietly. "They are."

But as they sailed back to shore, the contrast weighed on him.

His world had been harsh, unforgiving, built on strength and survival.

This world was gentle, abundant, built on respect and balance.

And he didn't know which one he truly belonged to.

 

A few days later, Haldor invited Hárvald to join a trading voyage along the coast.

"We're taking supplies to Aelmar," Haldor explained. "It's a village about half a day's sail south. Good people. They'll trade us grain and cloth for our fish and herbs."

Hárvald agreed, grateful for the distraction.

The journey was smooth, the sea calm and bright under the morning sun. Hárvald stood at the prow of the boat, watching the coastline slide past, and felt a strange sense of peace.

But when they arrived at Aelmar, the peace shattered.

The village was smaller than Solvara, nestled in a sheltered cove. The people who came down to the docks to greet them were darker-skinned than most of Solvara's residents, with black hair and warm brown eyes.

And they stared at Hárvald.

He was used to standing out—his height, his build, his features were different from most of the people in Solvara. But here, the difference was stark.

Children pointed and whispered. Adults watched him with wary curiosity. One woman pulled her child closer, her expression guarded.

Hárvald felt the weight of their stares like a brand.

"Don't mind them," Haldor said quietly. "They're not used to outsiders. Especially ones who look like you."

Hárvald nodded, but the discomfort didn't fade.

The trading went smoothly, but Hárvald stayed near the boat, unwilling to venture further into the village. He could feel the eyes on him, the unspoken questions.

Who is he? Where did he come from? Why is he here?

When they finally set sail for home, Hárvald felt a rush of relief.

"They seemed... uncomfortable," he said to Haldor as they left the cove behind.

"They're cautious," Haldor said. "Aelmar doesn't see many strangers. And you're... well, you're very different from them."

Hárvald looked down at his hands—pale, scarred, foreign. "I'm different from everyone."

"Not in Solvara," Haldor said. "We've had travelers before. People from other places. You're not the first, and you won't be the last." He paused, then added, "You belong with us, Hárvald. Don't let a few stares make you think otherwise."

Hárvald wanted to believe him. But the memory of those wary eyes lingered.

 

When they returned to Solvara, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of fire and violets.

As Hárvald stepped off the boat, he heard a chorus of voices shouting his name.

"Hárvald! Hárvald!"

A group of children came running down the beach, their faces bright with excitement.

"You're back!" one of them shouted—a little girl with dark curls and a gap-toothed grin.

"We've been waiting forever!" another added, a boy with freckles and wild hair.

Hárvald couldn't help but smile. "Waiting for what?"

"To play!" the girl said, as if it were obvious. "You promised you'd be the monster next time!"

Hárvald blinked. "I did?"

"Yes!" several of them chorused.

He glanced at Haldor, who was grinning. "You'd better go," Haldor said. "They won't let you rest until you do."

Hárvald laughed—a real, genuine laugh—and let the children pull him toward the village square.

"All right," he said. "But you'd better run fast. This monster is hungry!"

The children shrieked with delight and scattered, and Hárvald chased after them, roaring and stomping dramatically.

They darted between cottages, climbed over fences, hid behind barrels and carts. Hárvald pretended to be slow and clumsy, letting them escape just in time, and their laughter rang out like bells.

At one point, he caught the little girl and scooped her up, growling playfully. She squealed and kicked her legs, giggling uncontrollably.

"Help! The monster's got me!"

The other children swarmed him, tugging at his arms and legs, "rescuing" her with exaggerated bravery.

Hárvald set her down gently and staggered back, clutching his chest. "You've defeated me!" he declared, collapsing dramatically onto the ground.

The children cheered and piled on top of him, laughing and shouting.

From across the square, Maraina watched, her hand pressed to her chest.

He looked so happy. So at ease. So home.

And her heart ached, because she knew it wouldn't last.

 

Later that evening, after the children had been called home for supper, Hárvald found Maraina sitting on the beach.

He sat down beside her, still slightly out of breath from the game.

"That looked fun," she said, smiling.

"It was," he admitted. "I didn't realize how much I needed it."

She looked at him, her expression soft. "They love you, you know. The children. The whole village."

"I know," he said quietly. And then, softer, "I love them too."

Maraina's smile faltered. "Then why do you still want to leave?"

"I don't want to leave," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "But I need to know, Maraina. I need to understand who I am. Where I came from. It's not about wanting to go—it's about needing to know."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "And if the answers take you away from us?"

"I'll come back," he said. "I promised you that."

"But what if you can't?" she whispered.

He didn't have an answer for that.

They sat together in silence, watching the waves, the weight of the unspoken future pressing down on them both.

 

The next day, Hárvald took Froki into the forest to teach him how to track.

They moved quietly through the trees, Hárvald pointing out signs—broken branches, disturbed earth, the faint impression of hoofprints in the soft ground.

"You have to be patient," Hárvald said. "Tracking isn't about speed. It's about observation. Understanding the animal's behavior. Where it's going, why it's moving."

Froki nodded, his expression serious. "Like the stag."

"Exactly," Hárvald said. "I tracked that stag for hours before I got close enough to make the throw."

Froki was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I'm sorry. For how I treated you when you first arrived."

Hárvald glanced at him, surprised. "You already apologized. At the feast."

"I know," Froki said. "But I wanted to say it again. You've been... you've been good to me. Better than I deserved."

"You were protecting what mattered to you," Hárvald said. "I understand that."

Froki smiled faintly. "Maraina?"

"And your place in the village," Hárvald said. "Your father's respect. Those things matter."

"They do," Froki agreed. "But I was wrong to see you as a threat. You're... you're a good man, Hárvald. I'm glad you're here."

Hárvald's throat tightened. "Thank you."

They continued tracking in comfortable silence, and Hárvald felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the sun filtering through the trees.

This was what belonging felt like.

And it made the thought of leaving even harder.

 

That night, the dreams returned with a vengeance.

Hárvald stood before the cave entrance, the dark stone looming above him. The symbols glowed faintly, pulsing with a light that seemed to come from within the rock itself.

A voice whispered from the darkness, low and insistent.

'Come. You know this place. You belong here.'

He took a step forward, and the pull was overwhelming, irresistible.

'Come home.'

He woke with a gasp, his heart pounding, his hands clenched into fists.

Across the room, Maraina stirred. "Hárvald?"

"I'm all right," he said, though his voice shook.

But he wasn't all right.

The cave was calling to him, louder and stronger than ever.

And he didn't know how much longer he could resist.

CHAPTER 11

The days blurred together, each one heavier than the last.

Hárvald tried to focus on the present—on the work in the gardens, the laughter of the children, the warmth of Maraina's hand in his. But the pull of the cave was relentless, a constant ache in his chest that grew stronger with each passing night.

The dreams had become unbearable.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the cave entrance. The dark stone. The symbols glowing faintly in the darkness. And the voice, low and insistent, calling him home.

'Come. You know this place. You belong here.:

He would wake gasping, his heart pounding. And each time, it took longer to convince himself to stay.

Maraina noticed. Of course she did.

She watched him with quiet concern, her eyes shadowed with worry. She didn't ask him about the dreams anymore—she didn't need to. She could see the toll they were taking.

One morning, she touched his arm gently and said, "Come with me today. I want to show you something."

He looked at her, surprised. "What?"

"A place I love," she said. "I think you'll like it too."

He wanted to refuse. Wanted to tell her that nothing would help, that the pull was too strong, that he was running out of time.

But he saw the hope in her eyes, and he couldn't say no.

"All right," he said quietly.

They left the village just after dawn, walking along the forest paths that wound through the hills. The air was cool and fresh, filled with the scent of pine and wildflowers.

Maraina led him deeper into the woods, away from the familiar trails, until they reached a place he'd never seen before.

A clearing, hidden among the trees.

And in the center of the clearing were the pools.

Hárvald stopped, his breath catching.

There were three of them, each perfectly round and still, their surfaces so clear and smooth they looked like glass. The sky above was reflected in the water with such perfect clarity that it was impossible to tell where the pools ended and the heavens began.

"Sky pools," Maraina said softly. "I used to come here as a child. When I needed to think. To be still."

Hárvald walked to the edge of the nearest pool and knelt, staring down into the water.

The reflection was flawless. He could see the clouds drifting overhead, the pale blue of the morning sky, the branches of the trees swaying gently in the breeze.

And his own face, staring back at him.

He looked different than he remembered. His hair was longer and sun-bleached. His skin was tanned from days spent working in the sunshine. His eyes were the same—blue and troubled—but there was something else there now. Something softer.

He looked like he belonged here.

But he didn't. Not really.

"It's beautiful," he said quietly.

Maraina sat down beside him, her reflection appearing next to his in the water. "I thought you might need this. A moment of peace."

He looked at her, and his chest tightened. "Thank you."

They sat together in silence, watching the sky reflected in the pools, and for a brief, fragile moment, Hárvald felt the pull of the cave ease.

After a while, Maraina stood and held out her hand. "There's more. Come on."

He took her hand and let her lead him deeper into the forest.

The trees grew thicker here, their branches forming a canopy overhead that filtered the sunlight into soft, golden beams. The air was warm and still, filled with the hum of insects and the distant call of birds.

And then they stepped into the meadow.

Hárvald stopped, his eyes widening.

The meadow was filled with flowers—bright yellows and oranges and reds, swaying gently in the breeze. But it wasn't the flowers that took his breath away.

It was the butterflies.

There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, resting on the flowers with their wings folded. They were so perfectly camouflaged that at first, Hárvald thought they were part of the blooms themselves.

But then Maraina laughed and stepped forward, and the butterflies erupted into the air.

It was like watching the meadow come alive.

A living cloud of color and movement, swirling and dancing in the sunlight. Wings of every shade—blue and gold and crimson and violet—fluttering and spinning in a chaotic, beautiful symphony.

Hárvald stood frozen, his heart pounding, as the butterflies filled the air around him.

One landed on his shoulder. Another on his hand. He could feel the delicate brush of their wings, light as breath.

Maraina was laughing, her arms outstretched, her face tilted toward the sky as the butterflies swirled around her.

She looked radiant. Joyful. Alive.

And Hárvald felt something crack open in his chest.

He loved her.

He loved this place.

He loved the life he'd built here, fragile and uncertain as it was.

And the thought of leaving—of losing this—was almost unbearable.

The butterflies began to settle again, drifting back down to the flowers, and the meadow grew quiet once more.

Maraina turned to him, her smile soft. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said, his voice rough. "It is."

She walked over to him and took his hand. "One more place. I promise it's worth it."

 

The Tower Cliff rose from the forest like a sentinel, its dark stone weathered and ancient. He'd seen it from a distance but had just assumed it was another rock formation- part of the cliffs around it.

Hárvald stared up at it, his breath catching. The formation was massive, hollowed out by centuries of wind and water, with a narrow path spiraling up the inside.

"It's safe," Maraina said, seeing his hesitation. "I've climbed it a hundred times."

He nodded and followed her up the path.

The climb was steep, the stone smooth beneath his feet. The path coiled upward, winding through the hollow interior of the cliff, and with each turn, the light grew brighter.

And then they reached the top.

Hárvald stepped out onto the flat summit and stopped, his breath stolen by the view.

The entire Summer Lands spread out before him.

He could see the coastline stretching in both directions, the villages dotting the shore like scattered jewels. The forests rolled inland, green and lush, broken by rivers that glittered in the sunlight. The sea stretched to the horizon, vast and endless, its surface shimmering like glass. Laid out before them like a living map.

It was breathtaking.

"I used to come here when I was younger," Maraina said, standing beside him. "When I wanted to see the whole world. Or at least, my whole world."

Hárvald couldn't speak. He could only stare, his chest tight with an emotion he couldn't name.

This was the Summer Lands. This was the place that had taken him in, healed him, given him a home.

And he was about to leave it.

"Hárvald," Maraina said softly.

He turned to look at her, and the expression on her face nearly broke him.

"I know you have to go," she said, her voice trembling. "I know you need answers. But I need you to see this. To remember it. Because no matter what you find in that cave, no matter where you came from... this is real. This place. These people. Me." Her voice cracked. "We're real. And we want you to stay."

"I know," he whispered. "I know."

"Then why—"

"Because I can't move forward until I understand where I came from," he said, his voice breaking. "I want to stay, Maraina. More than anything. But I need to know who I am first. I need to know if I even have the right to stay."

She looked at him, tears shining in her eyes. "You have every right. You've earned it."

"Maybe," he said. "But I won't believe it until I know the truth."

She closed her eyes, and a tear slipped down her cheek.

Hárvald reached out and gently wiped it away. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she said, her voice fierce. "Just come back to me. Promise me you'll come back."

"I will," he said. "I promise. I swear it by all the Gods, yours and mine."

She pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly, and he held her just as fiercely, memorizing the feel of her, the warmth of her, the way she fit against him.

They stood together on the top of the Tower Cliff, the Summer Lands spread out below them, and Hárvald knew that no matter what happened, he would carry this moment with him forever.

That night, the dreams were worse than ever.

Hárvald woke in the darkness, his heart pounding, his body drenched in sweat. The pull of the cave was so strong it felt like a physical force, dragging him toward the cliffs.

He sat up, breathing hard, and realized he was shaking.

Across the room, Maraina stirred. "Hárvald?"

"I can't—" His voice broke. "I can't do this anymore. I have to go. Now."

She sat up, her eyes wide in the darkness. "Now? In the middle of the night?"

"I can't wait," he said, his voice desperate. "If I wait, it'll only get worse. I have to go now, Maraina. I have to."

She was silent for a long moment. Then she began pulling on her boots.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Coming with you," she said, her voice steady.

"No," he said immediately. "It's too dangerous. I don't know what's in there—"

"I don't care," she said, turning to face him. "I'm not letting you go alone. I'm not letting you disappear into that cave without me there."

"Maraina—"

"No," she said fiercely. "You don't get to protect me from this. If you're going, I'm going with you. That's not a choice."

He stared at her, his chest tight, and saw the determination in her eyes.

She wasn't going to back down.

"All right," he said quietly. "All right."

 

They walked through the village in silence, the night air cool and still around them.

Maraina's heart was pounding, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She was terrified—of the cave, of what they might find, of losing him.

But she wasn't going to let him face this alone.

She'd made that decision the moment he'd said he was leaving. If he was going into the darkness, she was going with him. As far as she could.

The cliffs loomed ahead, dark and jagged against the starlit sky.

Hárvald led the way, moving with a certainty that made her chest ache. He knew exactly where he was going. The cave had been calling to him for so long, he could probably find it with his eyes closed.

When they reached the entrance, Maraina stopped, her breath catching.

The cave mouth was darker than she remembered, a yawning void carved into the stone. The symbols etched into the rock seemed to shimmer faintly in the moonlight, though she couldn't be sure if it was real or just her imagination.

Hárvald stood at the threshold, staring into the darkness.

"Are you sure?" she asked quietly.

He turned to look at her, and the expression on his face nearly broke her.

"No," he said. "But I have to do this anyway."

She nodded and took his hand. "Then let's go."

Together, they stepped into the cave.

CHAPTER 12

 

The cave was colder than Maraina had expected.

She'd been inside caves before—small ones, near the village, where children played and hid treasures. But this was different.

This cave felt ancient.

The air was heavy and still, pressing against her skin like a weight. The darkness was absolute, swallowing the moonlight behind them within a few steps.

Hárvald had brought a torch, and the flickering light cast long, dancing shadows on the walls.

Maraina held his hand tightly, her heart pounding.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," she lied.

They walked deeper.

The passage was narrow at first, forcing them to move single file, but after a few minutes, it began to widen. The walls grew smoother, as if they'd been carved rather than formed naturally.

And then Maraina saw the glow.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the torchlight. But as they moved forward, she realized the walls themselves were glowing—faintly, like embers buried in ash.

"Hárvald," she whispered.

He stopped, lifting the torch higher.

The glow came from markings etched into the stone—symbols and patterns that spiraled across the walls in intricate, flowing designs. They pulsed softly, as if alive, casting a pale, eerie light that made the shadows twist and shift.

"What are they?" Maraina asked, her voice barely audible.

"I don't know," Hárvald said. But his voice was tight, uncertain.

They kept walking.

The passage opened suddenly into a cavern so vast that the torchlight couldn't reach the ceiling. The walls were covered in carvings—deep, deliberate cuts in the stone that formed images and symbols. And beyond the carvings, there were paintings.

Faded and ancient, but still visible.

Maraina stopped, frozen in a state of awe.

The paintings depicted figures—tall, broad-shouldered, with long hair and fierce expressions. They carried weapons—axes and swords and spears. Some were on ships, massive vessels with dragon-headed prows. Others stood in groups, as if gathered for battle or ceremony.

"Vísenda was right," Maraina whispered. "This place is old. So old."

Hárvald didn't answer.

He was staring at the walls, his face pale, his eyes wide.

And Maraina realized, with a cold, sinking feeling, that he recognized what he was seeing.

 

The symbols were familiar.

Hárvald stood frozen, staring at the carvings, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.

He knew these runes.

They were the same ones he'd seen in his fragmented memories—carved into doorways, etched into weapons, painted on the prows of ships. The language of his people.

His hands trembled as he stepped closer, tracing the symbols with his fingers.

"Strength. Honor. Conquest. Home."

The words came to him unbidden, rising from some deep, buried part of his mind.

And the paintings—

He turned to look at them, his breath catching.

The figures in the paintings were warriors. His people. Tall and fierce, with axes and shields, their faces hard and unyielding.

The paintings told a story.

In the first image, the warriors stood before a great stone door, carved into the side of a cliff. The door was covered in runes, glowing faintly, and beyond it, there was light.

In the second image, the warriors were stepping through the door, their weapons raised, their expressions determined.

In the third image, they were gone. The door was closed. And on the other side, there was only darkness.

Hárvald's chest tightened.

This was it.

This was where his people had come from.

They had crossed through the door—through the portal—into this world. The Summer Lands.

But why?

He moved along the wall, studying the paintings, trying to piece together the story.

There were more images—warriors fighting, building, claiming land. And then, further along, the images changed.

The warriors were fewer. Scattered. Some were alone, wandering through forests and along coastlines. Others were with the Summer Landers, their weapons set aside, their expressions softer.

And in the final image, there was only the door again. Closed. Silent. Waiting.

Hárvald stepped back, his mind reeling.

His people had come here. Some had stayed, blending into the Summer Lands over generations. Building Solvana stone by stone.

And some—like him—had tried to go back.

He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the cavern, and then he saw it.

At the far end of the cavern, carved into the stone, was the door.

The same door from his dreams. The same door from the paintings.

Tall and narrow, covered in glowing runes, its surface smooth and dark.

It was waiting for him.

Hárvald walked toward it, his legs moving on their own, as if pulled by an invisible thread.

Behind him, he heard Maraina's voice, distant and muffled. "Hárvald? What is it? What do you see?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

The door filled his vision, massive and ancient, and as he approached, the runes began to glow brighter, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

He stopped in front of it, his hand reaching out, trembling.

This was it.

The way home.

The way back to the cold, harsh world he'd come from. The world of stone halls and unforgiving Gods, of strength and survival and sacrifice.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he tried to picture Maraina there.

Tried to imagine her in that world—her warmth, her laughter, her gentle hands tending gardens in the frozen North.

But he couldn't.

She didn't belong there. She would wither in that cold, break under the weight of that harshness.

And he couldn't do that to her.

He turned, and she was standing a few feet away, her face pale in the torchlight, her eyes wide and filled with tears.

"You're going, aren't you?" she whispered.

"I don't know if I can come back," he said, his voice breaking. "Vísenda said I wouldn't return. I don't know if she was trying to scare us, or if she was telling the truth."

Maraina's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Then don't go."

"I have to," he said. "I have to know. I have to understand."

"And if you can't come back?" Her voice cracked. "What then?"

"I don't know," he whispered.

She took a step toward him, and he saw the war raging in her eyes—the desperate need to hold him, to pull him close, to beg him to stay.

But she didn't.

She stopped, her hands trembling, and forced herself to stay still.

Because she knew.

If she held him now, if she let herself cry in the comfort of his arms, she would never let him go.

And he needed to make this choice.

Even if it destroyed her.

"I love you," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"I love you too," he said, and the words felt like they were tearing him apart.

He longed to kiss her again, to pull her close one last time, but he knew that would only make it worse. For both of them.

So he backed away slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.

Then he turned towards the door.

He took a couple of steps forward.

The runes flared brighter, and the door began to hum—a low, resonant sound that vibrated through the stone, through his bones.

He hesitated then.

And turned around.

She was standing there, tears streaming down her face, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She was holding herself back with everything she had, giving him the choice, even though it was killing her.

He memorized her face. The way the torchlight caught in her hair. The tears on her cheeks. The love in her eyes.

And then the door pulled him in.

 

The light was so bright it burned.

Maraina threw up her arm, shielding her eyes, and when she lowered it, the cavern was dark again.

The torch had fallen to the ground, its flame sputtering weakly.

And Hárvald was gone.

She stood frozen, staring at the place where he'd been, her hand still outstretched, reaching for empty air.

"Hárvald?" she whispered.

Silence.

"Hárvald!"

Her voice echoed through the cavern, bouncing off the walls, mocking her.

She ran forward, her hands slamming against the stone door, but it was cold and unyielding. The runes had stopped glowing. The door was closed.

"No," she gasped. "No, no, no—"

She pounded on the door, her fists aching, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

"Come back," she whispered. "Please. Please come back."

But the door didn't answer.

The cave was silent.

And Maraina sank to her knees, her hands pressed against the cold stone, and let herself break.

 

CHAPTER 13

 

The cold hit him like a fist.

Hárvald gasped, stumbling forward as the light released him, and fell to his knees on frozen ground.

The air was sharp and bitter, cutting through his clothes like knives. He'd been smart enough to dress warmly before leaving—had pulled on his old furs and the heavy cloak he'd arrived in—but even that wasn't enough.

The cold was brutal.

He'd forgotten how brutal.

He pushed himself to his feet, his breath coming in ragged clouds, and looked around.

He was standing on a narrow ledge carved into the side of a cliff. Snow covered the ground, thick and white, and the wind howled through the rocks, biting at his exposed skin.

And behind him, carved into the stone, was the door.

Tall and dark, covered in glowing runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light.

Hárvald turned and stared at it, his heart pounding.

The door that had pulled him here. The door that had taken him from Maraina.

He reached out, his hand trembling, and pressed his palm against the stone.

It was cold. Unyielding.

Closed.

"No," he whispered.

He pushed harder, his fingers tracing the runes, searching for a way to open it, to go back.

But the door didn't respond.

The runes dimmed, fading to dull gray, and the stone went silent.

Hárvald's chest tightened, panic rising in his throat.

He was trapped.

He couldn't go back.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

He sank to his knees again, his hands pressed against the door, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

Maraina.

She was on the other side of this door, alone in the dark, thinking he'd abandoned her.

And he had no way to reach her.

Memories came flooding back.

Not all at once—not the overwhelming rush he'd feared—but in pieces, like fragments of a shattered mirror slowly fitting back together.

He remembered his name. Hárvald Erikson.

He remembered his father—tall and broad-shouldered, with a beard streaked with gray and hands rough from years of working the land.

He remembered his mother, her voice soft and steady as she sang over the fire.

He remembered the village. The longhouse. The fields stretching out toward the forest, the sea crashing against the cliffs.

And he remembered the proving journey.

Every young person took one when they came of age. A test to discover who they truly were, what they were meant to become.

Most went into the wilderness—hunted, survived, proved their strength.

But some were called to the door.

Hárvald closed his eyes, his breath shaking.

He'd been called.

He didn't know why. Didn't know what had marked him as different. But the pull had been undeniable, a voice in his mind that whispered, 'Come. You need to see.'

And he'd gone.

He'd stepped through the door, into the light, and—

And he'd forgotten.

Everything.

The door had stripped his memories away, left him blank and lost, washed up on a foreign shore.

Why?

Hárvald didn't know.

But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: the door had called him back for a reason.

And he needed to find out what it was.

He stood slowly, his legs shaking, and turned away from the door.

The ledge opened onto a narrow path that wound down the cliffside, and beyond it, he could see the familiar landscape of his homeland.

Snow-covered hills rolled towards the horizon, broken by dark forests of pine and spruce. The trees stood stark and skeletal against the white, their branches heavy with snow. The sea stretched beyond the cliffs, gray and churning, its surface broken by whitecaps that crashed against the rocks below.

The sky was pale and colorless, the sun a dim smudge behind thick clouds.

It was harsh. Unforgiving. Beautiful in its own way.

But it didn't feel like home anymore.

Hárvald pulled his cloak tighter around himself and started down the path.

The village sat in a valley between two hills, sheltered from the worst of the wind but still exposed to the biting cold.

As Hárvald approached, he could see smoke rising from the longhouses—thick, gray plumes that drifted into the sky and were torn apart by the wind. The smell of burning wood and roasting meat filled the air, mingling with the sharp scent of snow and pine.

The longhouses themselves were massive structures, their walls built from thick timber and their roofs thatched with layers of sod and straw, now buried under snow. Carved beams framed the doorways, etched with runes and symbols meant to ward off evil spirits and bring good fortune.

The village was alive with sound—the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the lowing of cattle in their pens, the shouts of children playing in the snow. Dogs barked and ran between the houses, their breath steaming in the cold air.

Hárvald walked through the gates—tall wooden posts driven deep into the frozen ground, their tops carved into the shapes of ravens and wolves—and was immediately surrounded.

"Hárvald!"

"You're back!"

"Where have you been?"

Faces pressed in around him—familiar faces, people he'd known his whole life. Rough hands clapped his shoulders. Voices overlapped, asking questions he couldn't answer.

He saw Bjorn, the blacksmith, his face smudged with soot, his arms thick with muscle. Astrid, the weaver, her hands stained with dye. Torsten, the hunter, his cloak still dusted with snow from the morning's hunt.

And then his father pushed through the crowd.

Erik Hárvaldson was a big man, broad-shouldered and strong despite his age. His beard was streaked with gray, his face weathered by years of wind and cold. His hands were rough and calloused, scarred from a lifetime of working the land.

He gripped Hárvald's shoulders, his eyes searching his son's face.

"Hárvald," he said, his voice rough with relief. You've been gone for eight days. We thought—"

He stopped, his brow furrowing as he took in details that didn't make sense.

Hárvald's skin was darker than it should be—tanned, as if he'd spent weeks under a summer sun. His hair was longer, sun-bleached at the ends. He looked healthy. Well-fed. Rested.

Not like a man who'd been gone for eight days in the dead of winter.

"Where did you go?" Erik asked, his voice quieter now, uncertain.

Eight days.

Hárvald's chest tightened.

He'd been in the Summer Lands for weeks—maybe two or three months. But here, only eight days had passed.

Time moved differently there.

Which means—

His stomach dropped.

Every moment he spent here, Maraina was living days, maybe weeks, without him.

He had to get back. Fast.

But first, he needed answers.

"I need to see the Seer," Hárvald said, his voice rough.

His father frowned. "The Seer? Why—"

"Please," Hárvald said. "I need answers. Now."

Erik studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he nodded slowly. "All right. But after, you'll tell me what happened."

Hárvald nodded, though he wasn't sure he could.

How could he explain the Summer Lands to people who had never seen warmth? How could he describe Maraina to a world that valued killing over kindness?

He didn't know.

But he would try

 

CHAPTER 14

 

The cave was silent.

Maraina sat with her back pressed against the cold stone door, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around herself.

The torch had fallen when Hárvald disappeared, and its flame had sputtered and died hours ago.

Now there was only darkness.

And silence.

And the unbearable weight of his absence.

She'd called his name until her voice was hoarse. She'd pounded on the door until her hands were bruised and aching. She'd traced the runes with trembling fingers, searching for a way to open it, to follow him.

But the door was cold and unyielding.

It had taken him, and it wouldn't give him back.

Maraina closed her eyes, her breath shaking.

He'd promised.

Standing on top of the Tower Cliff, with the Summer Lands spread out below them, he'd promised he would come back.

'I will. I promise. I swear it by all the Gods, yours and mine.'

But Vísenda had said he wouldn't return.

And Maraina didn't know which one was true.

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to cling to his words, to the certainty in his voice when he'd said them.

But the door had pulled him through so suddenly, so completely, and she didn't know if he'd had a choice.

She didn't know if he could keep his promise.

The cold seeped into her bones, and her body began to shake.

She should leave. She knew that.

The cave was freezing, and she had no light, no warmth, no way to survive here.

But she couldn't make herself move.

What if he came back and she wasn't here?

What if the door opened again, and he stepped through, and she was gone?

She couldn't risk it.

So she stayed.

Time blurred.

Maraina didn't know how long she sat there. Hours, maybe. The darkness was absolute, disorienting, and without the sun or the stars, she had no way to measure the passing time.

Her body grew numb with cold. Her thoughts became slow and heavy.

She drifted in and out of awareness, her mind slipping between waking and dreaming.

In her dreams, the door opened.

Hárvald stepped through, whole and safe, and pulled her into his arms.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'I'm so sorry. I'm here now. I'm not leaving again.'

But when she woke, the cave was still dark.

And she was still alone.

 

She didn't hear Vísenda approach.

The old woman appeared out of the darkness like a ghost, carrying a lantern that cast flickering shadows on the walls.

Maraina looked up, her vision blurry, and saw Vísenda's face—lined and weathered, her expression unreadable.

"Maraina," Vísenda said quietly.

Maraina didn't answer. She didn't have the strength.

Vísenda knelt beside her, setting the lantern down, and placed a hand on Maraina's shoulder.

"You need to come with me," she said gently.

Maraina shook her head weakly. "He might come back."

"Not tonight," Vísenda said.

"You don't know that."

"I do." Vísenda's voice was firm but not unkind. "The door is closed, child. And you will freeze to death if you stay here."

Maraina's chest tightened, and tears slipped down her cheeks. "I can't leave him."

"You're not leaving him," Vísenda said. "You're surviving. And when he comes back—if he comes back—he will need you alive."

Maraina closed her eyes, and a sob broke free.

Vísenda helped her to her feet, wrapping a thick cloak around her shoulders, and guided her toward the entrance.

Maraina followed numbly, her legs shaking, her body too cold and exhausted to resist.

But as they stepped out of the cave and into the pale morning light, Maraina looked back one last time.

She knew the door was still there, carved into the stone, silent and dark.

The door that had taken him from her.

And refused to give him back.

 

The village was worried.

Maraina could see it in their faces as Vísenda led her through the streets—the way they watched her with quiet concern, the way they whispered to each other when they thought she couldn't hear.

Brenna was waiting at Maraina's house, her face pale and tight with worry.

"Maraina," she breathed, rushing forward. "We've been looking everywhere—"

She stopped, her eyes widening as she took in Maraina's appearance.

Maraina knew what she looked like. Her clothes were damp and dirty, her hands bruised and scraped. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen.

She looked broken.

Because she was.

Brenna pulled her into a tight embrace, and Maraina sagged against her, too tired to hold herself up.

"It's all right," Brenna whispered, though her voice was shaking. "You're all right. I've got you."

Vísenda spoke quietly from the doorway. "She needs warmth. Food. Rest."

Brenna nodded, guiding Maraina inside.

But Maraina barely noticed.

Her mind was still in the cave, still pressed against the cold stone door, still waiting.

Brenna tried.

She built up the fire until the room was warm. She made tea and soup and coaxed Maraina to eat a few bites. She wrapped her in blankets and sat beside her, holding her hand.

But Maraina couldn't stay.

As soon as Brenna's attention drifted—just for a moment, just long enough to stir the pot on the fire—Maraina slipped out the door.

She didn't go back to the cave.

She went to the beach.

The sand was cold beneath her feet, the waves crashing against the shore in a steady, relentless rhythm.

Maraina walked to the place where she'd found him.

The place where he'd washed ashore, broken and lost, with no memory of who he was.

She sat down on the sand, pulling her knees to her chest, and stared out at the sea.

It had happened once.

The sea had brought him to her once.

Maybe it would bring him back again.

The wind tugged at her hair, and the salt spray stung her eyes, but Maraina didn't move.

She just waited.

 

Brenna found her there as the sun began to set.

She didn't say anything. She just walked over, wrapped a blanket around Maraina's shoulders, and sat down beside her.

They sat together in silence, watching the waves roll in and out, the sky fading from pale blue to soft pink to deep purple.

"He's not coming back, is he?" Maraina whispered finally.

Brenna was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "I don't know."

Maraina closed her eyes, and fresh tears slipped down her cheeks.

"He's just... gone," she said, her voice breaking. "And I don't know if he's safe. I don't know if he's hurt. I don't know anything."

Brenna reached over and took her hand, squeezing it tightly.

"He's strong," she said softly. "He'll come back to you."

Maraina nodded, wanting to believe it.

The waves kept crashing.

The sky grew dark.

And Maraina stayed on the beach, waiting for a man who might never return.

 

CHAPTER 15

The Seer lived on the edge of the village, in a small house built into the hillside.

Hárvald had been there once before, as a child, and the memory came back to him now as he walked through the snow—dim firelight, the smell of herbs and smoke, the old woman's sharp eyes watching him from across the room.

His father had brought him when he was sick with fever. The Seer had given him something bitter to drink, and the fever had broken by morning.

He remembered being afraid of her.

Not because she was cruel, but because she knew things. She looked at people and saw past their skin, past their words, straight into the truth of them.

And Hárvald had always been afraid of what she might see.

The path to her house was narrow and steep, winding up the hillside through snow-covered pines. The trees stood close together here, their branches heavy with snow, blocking out most of the pale winter light.

It was quiet.

The sounds of the village—the clang of the blacksmith's hammer, the shouts of children, the lowing of cattle—faded behind him, swallowed by the forest.

All Hárvald could hear was the crunch of his boots in the snow and the whisper of wind through the branches.

He pulled his cloak tighter around himself and kept walking.

The Seer's house was small and low, built from dark timber and stone, its roof covered in a thick layer of sod and snow. Smoke rose from a hole in the center of the roof, drifting up into the gray sky.

The door was painted red—a bright, startling splash of color against the white and brown of the winter landscape.

Hárvald stopped in front of it, his breath steaming in the cold air, and hesitated.

What was he going to say?

I went through the door. I lost my memories. I lived in another world. I fell in love. And now I need to go back.

It sounded insane.

But the Seer would understand. She had to.

He raised his hand and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, as if she'd been waiting for him.

The Seer stood in the doorway, small and bent with age, wrapped in layers of wool and fur. Her hair was long and white, braided and pinned at the back of her head. Her face was lined and weathered, her skin the color of old parchment.

But her eyes were sharp. Bright and clear, like chips of ice.

She looked at him for a long moment, her gaze traveling over his face, his sun-darkened skin, his longer hair.

Then she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that made Hárvald's chest tighten.

"Hárvald Erikson," she said, her voice like gravel. "You've returned."

"You knew I would," he said.

"Of course." She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. "Come. Sit. You have questions."

The interior of the house was dim and warm, lit by a fire burning in a stone hearth at the center of the room. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and herbs—sage and pine and something sharper, something Hárvald didn't recognize.

The walls were lined with shelves, cluttered with jars and bundles of dried plants, carved wooden figures, and stones etched with runes. A loom stood in one corner, half-finished weaving stretched across its frame. Furs and blankets were piled on a low bench near the fire.

The Seer moved slowly, her steps careful and deliberate, and lowered herself onto a stool by the hearth. She gestured to another stool across from her.

Hárvald sat, his hands resting on his knees, and waited.

The Seer studied him in silence, her sharp eyes taking in every detail.

Finally, she spoke.

"You went through the door."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Hárvald said.

"And you came back."

"Yes."

"But you don't want to stay."

Hárvald swallowed hard. "No."

The Seer nodded slowly, as if this confirmed something she'd already known. She reached for a clay cup sitting on the stones near the fire and took a slow sip.

"Tell me," she said. "What did you find on the other side?"

Hárvald hesitated. He wasn't sure how to explain.

But the Seer was waiting, her gaze steady and patient.

So he told her. He started at the beginning.

He told her about waking on the beach with no memory of who he was. About Maraina finding him, taking him in, caring for him. About the village and the gardens and the warmth of the sun.

He told her about learning to live in a world that was soft instead of hard, abundant instead of scarce, gentle instead of harsh.

And he told her about falling in love.

The Seer listened without interrupting, her expression unreadable.

When Hárvald finished, she was silent for a long moment.

Then she said, "The proving journey is not about strength. It is not about survival. It is about knowing yourself. Truly knowing yourself. Your nature. Your soul."

Hárvald nodded. "I know that now."

"Do you?" The Seer's eyes glittered in the firelight. "Most young people prove themselves in the wilderness, against beasts and cold and hunger. They learn what they are made of. They discover their limits, their courage, their will to survive. And when they return, they know what they want to become."

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharpening.

"But you," she said, "were marked by the Gods. Chosen for a deeper test."

"The door."

"Yes." The Seer nodded. "The door has stood in those cliffs for longer than anyone can remember. It is a crossing point between worlds. A threshold. And it calls to those who need more than the wilderness can teach them."

"Why?" Hárvald asked. "Why me?"

The Seer smiled faintly. "Because you could not know yourself in this world alone. You needed to see another way of being. Another way of living. Only then could you understand your true nature."

Hárvald stared at her, his mind reeling.

"The Gods took your memories," the Seer continued, "so you could build yourself anew. So you could see who you are without the weight of expectation, without the voice of your father or your village telling you what you should be. You were given a blank slate. A chance to discover yourself from nothing."

"And now?" Hárvald asked, his voice shaking. "What happens now?"

"Now," the Seer said, "you choose. You have walked both worlds. You have seen the harshness of the North and the gentleness of the Summer Lands. You know who you are. And now you must decide what you will become."

Hárvald's hands clenched into fists. "I already know."

The Seer's smile widened. "Do you?"

"Yes," Hárvald said. "I want to go back. I want to return to the Summer Lands. To Maraina. That's where I belong."

The Seer studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face.

Then she said, "The door will not open for want. It will not open for love. It will only open for truth."

Hárvald frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means," the Seer said, "that you must know yourself completely. Not just what you want. Not just what you love. But who you are. Your nature. Your soul. Your place in the web of wyrd."

She leaned back, her gaze never leaving his.

"When you stand before the door," she said, "you must speak your truth. Declare who you are and where you belong. And if your words are true—if they come from the deepest part of yourself—the door will answer."

Hárvald's chest tightened. "And if they're not?"

"Then the door will remain closed," the Seer said simply. "And you will stay here. In the world you were born to."

Hárvald stared at her, his heart pounding.

"How do I know?" he asked quietly. "How do I know what the truth is?"

The Seer smiled, and for the first time, there was warmth in her expression.

"You will know," she said. "When the time comes, you will know."

Hárvald left the Seer's house as the sun was setting, his mind spinning.

'You must know yourself completely.'

He thought he did.

He thought he knew exactly who he was and where he belonged.

But now, walking back down the hillside through the snow, doubt crept in.

What if he was wrong?

What if his love for Maraina was clouding his judgment, making him believe he belonged in the Summer Lands when he didn't?

What if he stood before the door and spoke his truth, and the door didn't open?

What if he was trapped here forever?

Hárvald stopped in the middle of the path, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

He didn't know.

He thought he did, but he didn't.

And until he did—until he knew himself completely, without doubt, without fear—the door would stay closed.

CHAPTER 16 

When he reached the longhouse, his father was waiting for him.

Erik sat by the fire, his hands resting on his knees, his expression serious. The firelight cast deep shadows across his weathered face.

"Sit," he said.

Hárvald sat across from him, the fire crackling between them, and pulled off his snow-dusted cloak.

Erik studied him for a long moment, his eyes sharp and searching.

"What did the Seer tell you?" he asked.

Hárvald hesitated, then told him.

He told him about the proving journey—how it wasn't about strength or survival, but about knowing yourself. He told him about the door, how it was a crossing point between worlds, how it called to those who needed more than the wilderness could teach them.

He told him that the door had stripped his memories away so he could build himself anew, so he could discover who he was without expectation, without the weight of what others thought he should be.

And he told him that the door would only open again if he knew himself completely—if he could stand before it and speak his truth.

Erik listened without interrupting, his face unreadable.

When Hárvald finished, Erik was silent for a long time, staring into the fire.

Then he said, "You were never meant to be a warrior, Hárvald."

Hárvald blinked, surprised. "What?"

"I've known it for years," Erik said quietly. "You trained because it was expected. Because you thought it was what you wanted. But I saw the way you looked when you came back from practice. I saw the way you forced yourself to keep going, even though your heart wasn't in it."

Hárvald stared at him, his chest tight.

"I thought," Erik continued, "that the proving journey would help you find your path. That you'd come back and tell me you wanted to be a hunter, or a craftsman, or a sailor. Something that fit you better than being a warrior."

He paused, his expression softening.

"I didn't expect you to find another world," he said. "But maybe that's what you needed."

Hárvald's throat tightened. "I don't want to disappoint you."

"You haven't," Erik said firmly. "The proving journey is about knowing yourself. Not about becoming what others expect. If you've found where you belong, then you've succeeded."

He reached out and gripped Hárvald's shoulder, his hand strong and steady.

"But you have to be sure," he said. "The door won't open for doubt. Only for truth."

Hárvald nodded, his eyes burning.

"I know," he whispered.

Erik held his gaze for another moment, then released his shoulder and turned back to the fire.

"Get some rest," he said quietly. "You look like you need it."

But Hárvald knew he wouldn't sleep.

He lay in his childhood bed that night—narrow and hard, covered in furs that smelled of smoke and wool—and stared at the ceiling beams above him.

The longhouse was warm, the fire in the central hearth still glowing faintly, casting flickering shadows on the walls. He could hear his father's steady breathing from the other side of the room, his mother's softer sighs.

Familiar sounds. Comforting sounds.

But they didn't feel like home anymore.

Hárvald closed his eyes and tried to picture himself staying here. Tried to imagine waking up in this bed every morning, training with the other warriors, raiding along the coast, proving his strength in battle.

He couldn't.

The image wouldn't form. It felt wrong, like trying to wear clothes that no longer fit.

His father's words echoed in his mind.

'You were never meant to be a warrior.'

'The door won't open for doubt. Only for truth.'

But what if he didn't know the truth yet?

What if he was still too uncertain, too confused?

Hárvald turned onto his side, pulling the furs tighter around himself, and tried to sleep.

But sleep wouldn't come.

He thought about Maraina. About watching her sleep when sleep eluded him. He thought about the sunshine and the way it cast shadows. The rhythm of the sea and tides. The villagers of Solvara. The friends he had made there.

He had felt alone before, but this was different. It was deep and aching. A longing stronger than the call of the door. He would find his way back. He had to.

'I love you,' she had said.

He let out a shaking breath. Squeezed his eyes shut. He pushed the feelings down as far as he could. He would not let sorrow take him.

He spent the night tossing and turning. Wondering about who he was meant to be.

 

He rose before dawn, pulling on his furs and boots, and slipped out of the longhouse.

The village was still asleep, the sky pale and gray, the air bitterly cold. Snow crunched beneath his feet as he walked through the empty streets, his breath steaming in the frigid air.

He didn't have a destination in mind. He just needed to move, to think, to see.

The village looked the same as it always had.

The longhouses stood in neat rows, their roofs heavy with snow. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, thin gray plumes that drifted into the sky. The animal pens were quiet, the cattle and goats huddled together for warmth.

Everything was still. Silent. Waiting for the sun.

Hárvald walked to the edge of the village and stopped, looking out over the snow-covered landscape.

The fields lay buried beneath white, but beyond them, he could see the dark line of the forest and, further still, the gray expanse of the sea.

This was the world he'd grown up in. Harsh. Unforgiving. Beautiful in its own stark way.

A world that valued strength above all else.

Hárvald had always planned to become a warrior.

It was what young men did. What was expected. His father had been a farmer, content to work the land, but Hárvald had wanted more. He'd wanted honor, glory, respect. He'd wanted to prove himself in battle, to earn his place among the warriors, to be someone people looked up to.

He'd trained for it. Practiced with sword and axe, learned to fight, to endure pain, to push through exhaustion.

But his heart had never been in it.

He'd gone through the motions because it was expected, because he thought it was what he wanted, because he didn't know what else to be.

But he'd never been good at it. Not really.

He was competent—strong enough, fast enough—but he lacked the fire, the hunger for battle that the best warriors had.

He'd told himself it would come with time. That once he completed his proving journey, once he declared himself a warrior, the passion would follow.

But now, standing here in the cold, he knew it wouldn't.

Because he didn't want to be a warrior.

He never truly had.

He spent the day walking through the village, watching, listening, remembering. Forcing himself to focus on the present moment.

He watched Bjorn the blacksmith at his forge, hammering red-hot iron into shape, his face set in grim concentration. The heat from the forge was intense, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the air. Sparks flew with each strike, bright against the dim morning light.

Bjorn was making a sword—Hárvald could see the blade taking shape, long and deadly.

Bjorn looked up as Hárvald passed and nodded, his expression unreadable, sweat gleaming on his soot-streaked face.

Hárvald nodded back and kept walking.

He watched the hunters return from the forest, their cloaks dusted with snow, a deer slung between two of them on a long pole. They looked tired but satisfied, their faces hard and weathered, their breath steaming in the cold air.

One of them—Torsten, a man Hárvald had known since childhood—called out to him.

"Hárvald! Good to see you back. Thought you'd gotten yourself lost."

Hárvald forced a smile. "Something like that."

Torsten laughed and clapped him on the shoulder with a heavy hand. "Well, you're here now. That's what matters. We'll have fresh meat tonight. You should join us."

"Maybe," Hárvald said.

But he knew he wouldn't.

 

He found himself at the training grounds near the center of the village, where the young men practiced with swords and axes.

They moved through the snow in pairs, their breath steaming, their movements sharp and precise. The clash of wood on wood echoed through the cold air, punctuated by shouts and grunts of effort.

Hárvald remembered that he had trained here as a boy. He'd learned to fight, to defend himself, to prove his strength. 

One of the young men interrupted his thoughts—a boy named Leif, maybe sixteen or seventeen, broad-shouldered and eager. He had noticed Hárvald watching and called out.

"Hárvald! Want to spar?"

Hárvald shook his head. "Not today."

Leif grinned, spinning his practice sword. "Afraid I'll beat you?"

The other boys laughed, their voices bright and competitive.

Hárvald smiled faintly. "Maybe."

But the truth was, he just didn't care.

He didn't care about proving his strength, about winning a fight, about being the best with a sword or an axe.

It didn't matter to him anymore.

And maybe it never had.

He watched them for a few more minutes—the way they moved, the way they threw themselves into the fight with fierce determination—and felt nothing.

No desire to join them. No longing to prove himself.

Just... emptiness.

He turned and walked away.

 

That night, Hárvald lay awake again, staring at the ceiling.

He thought about the Seer's words. 'The door will not open for want. It will not open for love. It will only open for truth.'

If only Love had been the key. The door would always be open for him. 

Hárvald closed his eyes and thought about the Summer Lands.

He thought about Maraina—her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at him like he mattered.

He thought about the gardens—the warm soil beneath his hands, the way the plants grew eagerly, the satisfaction of nurturing something instead of destroying it.

He thought about planting seeds and watching them grow. About tending the earth, coaxing life from it, helping things flourish.

It was the opposite of being a warrior.

Warriors took life. Destroyed. Conquered.

But in the Summer Lands, he'd learned to give life. To nurture. To grow.

And it had felt right.

More right than swinging a sword had ever felt.

He thought about this place—the cold, the harshness, the endless struggle to survive. He thought about his father, his mother, the village he'd grown up in.

And he realized something.

He loved them. He would always love them.

But he didn't belong here anymore.

He'd thought the proving journey was about choosing between two worlds.

But it wasn't.

It was about understanding that he'd already chosen.

The moment he'd stepped through the door, the moment he'd woken on that beach and let Maraina take his hand, the moment he'd knelt in warm soil and planted seeds and felt the sun on his face—

He'd chosen.

He just hadn't known it yet.

He wasn't a warrior.

He was a gardener.

He was someone who nurtured instead of destroyed, who grew things instead of taking them, who chose compassion over conquest.

And that was who he'd always been.

He just hadn't had the words for it until now.

Hárvald sat up, his heart pounding.

He knew.

He finally knew.

And then another realization hit him, sharp and painful.

Time.

He'd been here two days. Maybe less.

But in the Summer Lands, a week had passed. Maybe more.

Maraina had been alone.

Waiting. Grieving. Thinking he'd abandoned her. He thought about her face before the door pulled him through. The tears on her face.

Every hour he spent here was days for her. Every moment he delayed was time she spent in agony, believing he was gone forever.

Hárvald's chest tightened, his breath coming faster.

He had to get back. Now.

He wanted to run to the cliffs immediately, to throw himself at the door and demand it open. But the path was treacherous even in daylight. In the dark, one misstep could send him over the edge.

Maraina would never forgive him if he came back injured. And if the worst happened—if he fell—he wouldn't be able to make it back to her at all.

So he would wait for dawn. He would say goodbye to his parents properly. And then he would go

Because Maraina was waiting.

And he'd already made her wait far too long.

 

CHAPTER 17

 

A week had passed.

Seven days since Hárvald had disappeared through the door in the cave.

Seven days since Maraina's world had shattered.

She sat on the floor of her small house, staring at his bedroll.

It was still there, spread out beside hers, exactly where he'd left it. The blanket was rumpled, the pillow still bearing the indent of his head.

She hadn't touched it.

Couldn't touch it.

Because if she did, if she smoothed the blanket or fluffed the pillow, it would erase the last physical proof that he'd been here.

And she wasn't ready to let that go.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Her chest ached—a sharp, stabbing pain that had been there since the moment the door had closed. It felt like something inside of her had broken, like her heart had cracked clean through and the pieces were grinding against each other with every breath.

Sometimes the pain was so intense she couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could only sit and wait for it to pass.

Other times, she felt nothing at all.

Just... emptiness.

A hollow numbness that was almost worse than the pain because at least the pain meant she still felt something.

Maraina wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes.

She could still see him. Could still hear his voice, his laugh. Could still feel the warmth of his hand in hers.

But he was gone.

And she didn't know if he was ever coming back.

 

Brenna came by every day.

She brought food that Maraina couldn't eat, tea that Maraina couldn't drink. She sat with her in silence, or talked softly about nothing in particular, filling the space with words so Maraina didn't have to.

Today, Brenna found her on the beach.

Again.

Maraina had lost count of how many times she'd come here. How many hours she'd spent sitting on the sand, staring out at the waves, waiting for something that never came.

She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

The sea was calm today. The waves rolled in gently, their rhythm steady and unchanging.

It should have been soothing.

But it wasn't.

Because the sea had brought him to her once, and now it refused to bring him back.

Brenna sat down beside her without a word, wrapping a light blanket around both their shoulders.

They sat in silence for a long time.

Finally, Brenna spoke.

"You need to eat something, Maraina."

Maraina didn't answer.

"You're going to make yourself sick," Brenna said gently.

"I'm not hungry," Maraina whispered.

"I know." Brenna's voice was soft. "But you still need to eat."

Maraina closed her eyes, and tears slipped down her cheeks.

She was so tired.

Tired of hurting. Tired of waiting. Tired of hoping for something that might never happen.

"I used to think I didn't mind being alone," Maraina said quietly.

Brenna looked at her, waiting.

"I told him that once," Maraina continued, her voice shaking. "I said I was comfortable with solitude. That I didn't mind being alone."

She wiped at her eyes, her breath hitching.

"But I was wrong," she whispered. "I wasn't alone before. I just... I just hadn't found the right person yet. I didn't know what I was missing."

Her voice broke.

"Now I know," she said. "And I can't go back. I can't unknow it. I can't unfeel it."

Brenna reached over and took her hand, squeezing it tightly.

"There's a difference," Maraina said, "between choosing to be alone and being left behind. And I don't know how to live with this. I don't know how to go back to the way things were."

"You don't have to," Brenna said softly. "You don't have to go back. You just have to keep going forward."

Maraina shook her head. "I don't know how."

"One day at a time," Brenna said. "One breath at a time. That's all you can do."

Maraina looked out at the sea, her vision blurred with tears.

"What if he doesn't come back?" she whispered.

Brenna was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Then you'll survive anyway. Because that's what you do. You survive."

Maraina closed her eyes, and the tears came harder.

Because she didn't want to survive.

She wanted to live.

And she didn't know how to do that without him.

 

The next day, Maraina climbed the Tower.

She didn't know why. Maybe because it was the last place they'd been together before everything fell apart. Maybe because she needed to see the world from a height, to remind herself that it was still there, still turning, even though hers had stopped.

The climb was exhausting. Her body felt heavy, like she was moving through water, and her legs shook with every step.

But she kept going.

When she reached the top, she stepped out onto the flat summit and looked out over the Summer Lands.

The view was breathtaking.

The village spread out below, small and peaceful. The gardens stretched towards the forest, green and lush. The sea glittered in the distance, endless and blue.

It was beautiful.

But Maraina felt nothing.

Just that hollow numbness again, like her heart had been scooped out and replaced with stone.

She walked to the edge and looked down.

The ground was far below. Too far.

If she fell—

If she jumped—

It would be over.

The pain would stop. The waiting would end. The unbearable weight of his absence would finally lift.

Maraina stood at the edge, the wind tugging at her hair, and stared down.

It would be so easy.

Just one step.

And then—

Vísenda's voice echoed in her mind, sharp and clear.

'If he returns and you are gone, what then? You must survive. For him. For yourself.'

Maraina's breath caught, and she stepped back from the edge.

Her legs gave out, and she sank to the ground.

What was she doing?

What was she thinking?

She pressed her hands to her face and sobbed—deep, wrenching sobs that tore through her chest and left her gasping for air.

She couldn't do this.

She couldn't give up.

Because what if Vísenda was wrong? What if he did come back?

What if he stepped through that door, came looking for her, and she was gone?

She couldn't do that to him.

Even if it hurt. Even if the pain was unbearable.

She had to survive.

For him.

For herself.

Maraina sat on the stone summit of the Tower Cliff, her arms wrapped around her knees, and let herself cry until there were no tears left.

Then she stood, wiped her face, and started the long walk back down.

That night, she lay in her bed and stared at his empty bedroll.

The pain in her chest was still there. Sharp and relentless.

But beneath it, buried deep, was something else.

A tiny, fragile spark of hope.

He'd promised.

Standing at the top of the Tower, he'd promised he would come back.

She had to believe he would try.

She had to.

Because if she didn't—if she let go of that hope—she didn't know what would be left.

So she held on.

Even though it hurt.

Even though she didn't know how much longer she could bear it.

She held on.

And she waited

 

CHAPTER 18

It seemed to take forever for dawn to arrive. But as soon as it did, he was prepared to face the door.

He knew who he was.

He knew where he belonged.

And today, he would say goodbye.

He rose, and dressed in the clothes he'd arrived in—the simple tunic and trousers from the Summer Lands, now layered beneath his furs against the cold.

When he stepped out of the sleeping alcove, his mother was already awake, tending the fire.

She looked up as he approached, and something in her expression told him she'd been expecting this.

"You're leaving," she said softly.

It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Hárvald said.

His mother—Revna—was a small woman, her hair streaked with gray, her hands worn from years of work. But her eyes were sharp and kind, and they studied him now with a mixture of sadness and understanding.

"Today?" she asked.

"Yes."

She nodded slowly, then gestured to the bench by the fire. "Sit. Eat something first."

Hárvald sat, and she placed a bowl of porridge in front of him, thick and warm, sweetened with honey.

He ate, savoring each bite, knowing it would be the last meal his mother made for him.

Maybe ever.

Erik emerged from the sleeping alcove a few minutes later, already dressed, his expression somber.

He sat across from Hárvald and accepted a bowl from Revna without a word.

They ate in silence, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the scrape of spoons against wood.

Finally, Erik set down his bowl and looked at his son.

"You've made your choice," he said.

"Yes," Hárvald said.

Erik nodded. "And you're certain."

"I am."

Erik studied him for a long moment, his gaze searching. Then he said, "Tell me about her."

Hárvald blinked, surprised. "What?"

"The woman," Erik said. "The one you're going back to. Tell me about her."

Hárvald's chest tightened, and for a moment, he didn't know what to say.

Then he said, "Her name is Maraina. She found me when I washed up on the beach. I had no memory, no name, nothing. And she took me in anyway. She gave me a place to stay, taught me how to live in her world, never asked for anything in return."

He paused, his voice softening.

"She's kind," he said. "And patient. And strong in a way that has nothing to do with fighting or surviving. She grows things. She nurtures things. She makes the world gentler just by being in it."

His throat tightened.

"And I love her," he said quietly. "More than I thought it was possible to love anyone."

Revna's eyes glistened, and she reached across the table to take his hand.

"Then you must go to her," she said.

Hárvald nodded, his vision blurring.

Erik was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You understand what you're giving up."

"I do," Hárvald said.

"You'll never see us again," Erik said, his voice rough. "Never come back to this village. Never walk these fields or sit by this fire."

"I know," Hárvald whispered.

Erik's jaw tightened, and for a moment, Hárvald thought he might argue, might try to convince him to stay.

But then Erik nodded, his expression resigned.

"Then go," he said. "And live well."

Revna stood and disappeared into the back of the longhouse, returning a moment later with something clutched in her hands.

She sat down beside Hárvald and held it out to him.

It was a necklace.

The cord was made of braided leather, dark and supple, woven with intricate care. Hanging from it was a small wooden pendant, carved in the shape of a raven in flight, its wings spread wide. The wood was smooth and polished, the details delicate and precise.

"I made this," Revna said softly, "when you were born. I carved the raven myself. It's meant to guide you, to protect you, to remind you of home no matter where you go."

She pressed it into his hands, her fingers trembling.

"I always knew you would leave," she said, her voice breaking. "I didn't know how, or when, or where you would go. But I knew. A mother always knows."

Hárvald stared down at the necklace, his throat too tight to speak.

"This raven will watch over you, as I cannot. However far you travel. Wherever you go. Remember us."

She paused, her eyes glistening with tears.

"Wear it," Revna said. "Remember where you came from. And that you carry Home with you, wherever you go."

Hárvald closed his fingers around the pendant, feeling the weight of it, the warmth of the wood.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Revna pulled him into a tight embrace, and Hárvald held her, breathing in the familiar scent of wool and smoke and herbs.

"Be happy," she whispered against his shoulder. "That's all I ask. Be happy."

"I will," Hárvald said, his voice shaking. "I promise."

Erik walked with him to the edge of the village.

They didn't speak. There was nothing left to say.

At the gates, Erik stopped and turned to face his son.

"You've completed your proving journey," he said. "You know who you are. That's more than most men ever achieve."

He gripped Hárvald's shoulder, his hand strong and steady.

"Go," he said. "And don't look back."

Hárvald nodded, his chest aching.

"Thank you," he said. "For everything."

Erik's expression softened, just for a moment. Then he released Hárvald's shoulder and stepped back.

"Go," he said again.

Hárvald turned and walked away, the necklace heavy around his neck, his mother's words echoing in his mind.

He didn't look back.

 

The climb up the cliffside was brutal.

The wind tore at his cloak, and the snow made the path treacherous. But Hárvald didn't stop.

He reached the ledge just as the sun broke through the clouds, casting pale light over the snow-covered landscape.

The door stood before him, dark and silent, its runes dull and lifeless.

Hárvald stepped forward, his heart pounding, and pressed his hand against the stone.

It was cold. Unyielding.

Waiting.

He took a deep breath and spoke.

"I am Hárvald Erikson," he said, his voice steady. "Son of Erik and Revna. I have walked both worlds. I have seen the harshness of the North and the warmth of the Summer Lands. And I know who I am."

The runes began to glow, faint at first, then brighter.

"I am a warrior of the land, not of the sword. A man who nurtures instead of destroys. A man who grows things instead of taking them. A man who chooses kindness over killing, life over survival, love over duty."

The door hummed, the sound vibrating through the stone, through his bones.

"I choose the Summer Lands," Hárvald said, his voice breaking. "I choose Maraina. I choose home."

The door would not open for choice, but for truth. And he had spoken his truth.

The runes flared bright, blazing with golden light, and the door began to open.

Light spilled out, warm and welcoming, and Hárvald felt the pull—gentle this time, like a hand reaching out to guide him.

He stepped forward, into the light, and let it carry him home.

CHAPTER 19 

The light faded, and Hárvald stumbled forward, his feet hitting solid ground.

He gasped, his lungs filling with warm, salt-tinged air.

The cold was gone. The snow, the wind, the biting chill—all of it vanished in an instant.

He opened his eyes.

He was standing on the beach.

The same beach where Maraina had found him all those weeks ago, where everything had begun.

The sun was setting, painted in shades of amber and rose. The waves rolled in gently, their rhythm steady and familiar. The air was warm, soft, welcoming.

He was home.

Hárvald's legs gave out, and he sank to his knees in the sand, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He'd done it.

He'd found the door. He'd spoken his truth. He'd come back.

But where was she?

He stood and looked around, his heart pounding, searching for any sign of Maraina.

The beach was empty.

Panic clawed at his chest.

What if she wasn't here? What if she'd given up waiting? What if—

"Hárvald?"

The voice was barely a whisper, trembling and disbelieving.

He turned.

Maraina stood at the edge of the beach, where the sand met the grass. She looked like she'd been walking—maybe coming back from the village, or the cliffs, or somewhere she'd gone to escape the waiting.

She was staring at him like she couldn't believe he was real.

Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed and shadowed. She looked thinner than he remembered, like she hadn't been eating. Like she'd been carrying a weight too heavy to bear.

And the moment their eyes met, she broke.

"Hárvald," she gasped, and then she was running.

She ran across the sand, her feet stumbling, her breath coming in sobs, and Hárvald had time only to take one step forward, when he caught her in his arms.

She crashed into him, her arms wrapping around him so tightly he could barely breathe, and he held her just as fiercely, burying his face in her hair.

"You're here," she sobbed against his chest. "You're here. You're real. You came back."

"I'm here," he said, his voice breaking. "I'm here. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands framing his face, her eyes searching his like she was afraid he might disappear again.

"I thought—" Her voice cracked. "I thought you were gone. I thought I'd lost you. I didn't know if you were alive, if you'd chosen to leave, if—"

"I didn't choose to leave," Hárvald said, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing away her tears. "I was pulled through. I didn't want to go. I tried to fight it, but I couldn't—"

"I know," she whispered. "Vísenda told me. But I didn't know if you'd come back. I didn't know if you could come back."

"I promised you," Hárvald said, his forehead pressing against hers. "I promised I'd come back. And I meant it."

Maraina let out a broken laugh, tears streaming down her face. "You kept your promise."

"I did," he said. "And I'm never leaving again. Never."

She kissed him then, desperate and fierce, and Hárvald kissed her back with everything he had, pouring all his love, all his relief, all his certainty into that kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both crying. Tears of happiness, and relief, and sadness for the time they'd spent apart. 

"How long?" Hárvald asked, his voice rough. "How long was I gone?"

"Two weeks," Maraina whispered. "Maybe more. I lost count."

Hárvald's chest tightened with guilt. "For me, it was only two days. Maybe three."

She closed her eyes, fresh tears spilling over. "It felt like forever."

"I know," he said, pulling her close again. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

They stood there on the beach, holding each other as the sun set and the stars began to appear, and Hárvald knew he would never take this for granted again.

He was home.

And he was never letting her go.

 

Maraina couldn't stop touching him.

She kept her hands on his face, his shoulders, his arms—anywhere she could reach—just to prove to herself that he was real. That he was here. That he hadn't vanished like a dream.

"Tell me what happened," she said, her voice still shaking. "Tell me everything."

Hárvald took her hand and led her to sit on the sand, and she curled against his side, her head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her.

And he told her.

He told her about the North, about the cold and the snow and the village. About his family—his father, his mother, the life he'd left behind. About the Seer and the proving journey and the door that had stripped his memories away.

He told her about the choice he'd had to make, and the truth he'd had to speak.

"I had to know myself completely," he said quietly. "I had to stand before the door and speak my truth without doubt, without fear. And I couldn't do that until I understood who I was."

"And who are you?" Maraina asked softly.

Hárvald looked down at her, his eyes warm and certain.

"I'm not a warrior of the sword," he said. "I'm a warrior of the land. I choose kindness, and life, and love." His voice broke. "I choose you. And I am yours, Maraina. If you'll have me."

Maraina's breath caught, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Of course I'll have you," she whispered. "I've been waiting for you. I'll always wait for you."

Hárvald kissed her forehead, soft and lingering.

"You won't have to wait anymore," he said. "I'm here. And I'm staying."

Maraina closed her eyes and let herself believe it.

He was here.

He was real.

He was home.

And so was she.

 

They sat together on the beach until the stars filled the sky, talking softly, holding each other, letting the relief and the love wash over them like the waves.

At some point, Hárvald reached into his shirt and pulled out something—a necklace, braided leather with a small wooden pendant.

"My mother gave this to me," he said quietly, holding it up so Maraina could see. "She said it would remind me of home. That I'd carry home with me, wherever I went."

He looked at Maraina, his eyes soft.

"But she was wrong," he said. "Not about the necklace. About where my home is."

He took her hand and placed the necklace in her palm, closing her fingers around it.

"You're my home, Maraina," he said. "You always have been."

Maraina stared down at the necklace, her vision blurred with tears.

"Hárvald—"

"Keep it," he said. "So you always know. No matter what happens, no matter where we go—you're my home."

Maraina looked up at him, her heart so full it ached.

"And you're mine," she whispered.

She leaned forward and kissed him, soft and slow and full of promise.

And when they finally pulled apart, Hárvald helped her fasten the necklace around her neck.

The wooden raven rested against her chest, warm from his hands, and Maraina pressed her fingers to it, feeling the weight of it, the meaning of it.

Home.

She was his home.

And he was hers.

CHAPTER 20 - EPILOGUE

The days that followed were gentle.

Hárvald had expected questions—from Brenna, from Haldor, from the others who'd watched him disappear and then return. But the people of Solvara seemed to understand that some things didn't need explaining.

He was back. That was enough.

Brenna hugged him tightly when she saw him, her eyes bright with tears. "I knew you'd come back," she said. "I told Maraina you would."

Haldor clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm and approving. "Good to have you home."

Even Kael, usually quick with a joke, simply smiled and said, "Welcome back."

And Hárvald realized—this was home.

Not because of the place, though the Summer Lands were beautiful and warm and everything the North wasn't.

But because of the people. Because they'd made space for him, accepted him, welcomed him without question.

Because Maraina was here.

 

He returned to the garden.

It felt right to be there, his hands in the warm soil, tending the plants that Maraina had cared for while he was gone.

The seedlings they'd planted together weeks ago had grown—small green shoots reaching toward the sun, thriving under her care.

Hárvald knelt beside them and smiled.

"They're doing well," Maraina said, coming to stand beside him.

"You took good care of them," he said.

"I had help," she said softly. "Brenna came by. And I kept thinking about what you said—about planting, tending, harvesting. About the cycle of it. It helped. Gave me something to focus on."

Hárvald stood and took her hand, squeezing gently.

"I'm sorry you had to do it alone," he said.

"You're here now," she said. "That's what matters."

They worked together in comfortable silence, weeding and watering, their movements synchronized like they'd been doing this for years.

And maybe, Hárvald thought, they would be.

For years and years to come.

 

That evening, they sat on the beach as the sun set, watching the waves roll in.

Maraina leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, the wooden raven pendant resting against her chest.

"Do you ever think about going back?" she asked quietly. "To the North. To see your family."

Hárvald was quiet for a moment, considering.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "I think about my mother. My father. I wonder if they're well, if they think of me."

He paused, his hand finding hers.

"But the door is closed now," he said. "I made my choice. And I don't regret it."

Maraina looked up at him, her eyes searching his face.

"You gave up everything," she said. "Your family. Your home. Your whole world."

"No," Hárvald said, turning to meet her gaze. "I didn't give up everything. I chose what mattered most."

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"I chose you," he said. "I chose this life. I chose to be the person I want to be, not the person I was expected to be."

Maraina's eyes filled with tears, but she was smiling.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," he said.

And he meant it with every fiber of his being.

 

The weeks turned into months, and Hárvald settled into his new life with a sense of peace he'd never known before.

He worked in the gardens, helping Maraina tend the plants and harvest the herbs. He learned the rhythms of the Summer Lands—the tides, the seasons, the way the light changed throughout the day.

He helped the villagers when they needed it, mending nets and repairing docks and carrying water from the well.

And every evening, he came home to Maraina.

They cooked together, ate together, sat by the fire and talked about their days. Sometimes they walked on the beach, watching the stars appear one by one. Sometimes they simply sat in comfortable silence, content to be near each other.

It was a simple life.

But it was theirs.

And it was enough.

 

One morning, Hárvald woke to find Maraina already up, standing at the window and looking out at the garden.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice still rough with sleep.

She turned and smiled at him, her hand resting on the wooden raven at her throat.

"I was thinking," she said, "that maybe we should expand the garden. Plant more herbs. Maybe some fruit trees."

Hárvald sat up, intrigued. "Fruit trees?"

"Why not?" she said, coming to sit beside him on the bed. "We have the space. And you're good at this. Better than I am, maybe."

Hárvald laughed softly. "I don't know about that."

"I do," she said, her eyes warm. "You have a gift for it. For making things grow."

He looked at her, his chest tight with emotion.

"Then let's do it," he said. "Let's plant fruit trees. Let's expand the garden. Let's build something together."

Maraina's smile widened, and she leaned forward to kiss him.

"Together," she said.

They planted the first tree that afternoon—a small sapling with delicate leaves and the promise of sweet fruit in the years to come.

Hárvald dug the hole, and Maraina settled the tree into the earth. Together, they pressed the soil around its roots, firm but gentle, giving it room to grow.

When they were finished, they stood back and looked at it, their hands clasped together.

"It'll take time," Maraina said. "Years, maybe, before it bears fruit."

"That's all right," Hárvald said. "We have time."

She looked up at him, her eyes shining.

"Yes," she said. "We do."

And as the sun set over the Summer Lands, casting golden light across the garden and the beach and the village beyond, Hárvald knew that he had found what he'd been searching for all along.

Not answers about where he'd come from.

Not a past to reclaim.

But a home.

A life.

A love.

And a future worth growing.

THE END