Aldrigvinter—a pce where nothing but flowers and dead trees live, a nd poisoned by the dark ash from the grey mountain in the south. Winter grips this realm eternally, cursing the very soil. Even the rgest seed would rather die in the cold than draw from this tainted earth, sooner drowning in the salted channel than taking root in this forsaken nd. And the folk who call it home? They’ve gone insane.

  “Aye! If Ingrid hadn’t had her young ‘un in her, she’d have sughtered more of those Skal!” a burly man roared, smming his fist on a table.

  “I heard Ragnar twisted the arm of one of their princelings! Yahahaha!” another shouted, swigging red liquid from a grey cup, his beard dripping with it.

  “Hah! And yet the same princeling left a scar on his face! Yahahaha!” a woman cackled nearby, her voice cutting through the din.

  Men and women drank deep and ughed as bards struck up tunes on bone flutes and deer-skin drums. Their voices, rough and fierce, rose like a storm, loud enough to shake snow from the mountain’s slopes. It was a celebration as if they’d won a great victory—but they hadn’t. They’d returned empty-handed.

  “It’s a shame we didn’t take their ships,” a grizzled warrior muttered, kicking at the fire. “The Lahtians would’ve been as easy as wrestling a bear!”

  “Those Skal snow shitters did make things fun,” another grinned, tossing a bone into the fmes.

  “Aye! They fought as if each breath be their st!” a woman cheered, raising her cup.

  “More bark rum and roasted winter camellia!” someone bellowed.

  “Praise be!” the crowd roared back.

  They danced until the dimmest stars blurred and time slipped through the winter winds. Laughter mingled with the crackle of the fire as bark-brewed rum and the sweet-bitter tang of roasted camellias warmed their bellies, marrying the cold air they gulped down.

  This was the life of the Aldrigs—to fight was to live, to raid was to thrive, to drink was to honor the fallen. Each cup raised saluted the lost, a toast to surviving another day. They stalked the trade routes linking Skal and Lahti, taking what they needed. In a nd where only flowers and winter-white trees grew, even brittle iron or tough bread was a luxury.

  “But Gunnar, look at this,” a woman said, stepping through the revelry to a man seated behind a long table spanning the room. She handed him something small and glinting.

  Gunnar, broad-shouldered and stern, turned it over in his calloused hands. “This…” It was cold, thin, and hard. “What is this shit?”

  “Aye, it’s too thin to parry a sword!” the woman scoffed. The slender bde wasn’t even sharpened on its sides—a frail thing compared to the broad, brutal steel the northerners wielded.

  Gunnar slid his thumb along the tip and winced as blood welled up. “It’s as sharp as the ice that falls on our roof.”

  “I’ll order the bcksmith to forge it into a butcher knife,” she replied, crossing her arms.

  “Alright, Hilda,” Gunnar said, setting the bde on the table with a clink. “You may do that.”

  Their voices were nearly swallowed by the singing and shouting ahead. Men and women punched each other in a drunken game, blood streaking their faces, yet their wide grins drowned out the cuts. They were having fun.

  A man approached, leaning close to whisper in Hilda’s ear. She nodded. “Let him in,” she said, leaving Gunnar frowning in confusion.

  The heavy white oak doors groaned open, and a boy draped in furs barreled toward Gunnar, dragging another behind him—a silver-haired d with striking golden eyes.

  “Father!” the fur-cd boy shouted.

  “Bjorn, lower your voice,” the silver-haired boy hissed, tugging at his arm.

  “Erik, you’re too slow!” Bjorn shot back, grinning.

  “Young Lord Bjorn,” Hilda said, stepping forward with a raised brow, “what might be your reason for coming here?”

  “Missus Hilda,” Bjorn said, puffing out his chest, “I’m here to ask Father to let me venture south!”

  Gunnar’s stern face softened, his eyes warm with affection for his only child, barely seven winters old. “Bjorn,” he said gently, “we do not venture south. This is our home.”

  “But Father,” Bjorn protested, pulling a crumpled scroll from his furs, “according to these, the South is warm! Snow melts there!” His voice gleamed with excitement.

  Hilda chuckled. “Young Lord Bjorn, the south is foreign to us. A fke like you would melt the moment you stepped there.”

  “But Missus Hilda,” Bjorn pressed, “if we find a home in the south, we don’t need to fight anymore! We could eat as much por bear meat as we want, as much bck Lahtian bread as we could desire! We don't have to rely on the White Oak Garden to survive!”

  “It’s not that easy, Bjorn,” Gunnar said, his tone firm but kind.

  “Father?” Bjorn’s eyes widened.

  “This is our home, my dear Bjorn. We are safe here. Well—you’re too young to understand that yet. For now, py with Erik and the others. And no, you will not go south.” Gunnar’s voice turned solemn.

  “But Father…” Bjorn started.

  “I’ll give you the wolf you wanted if you leave this be,” Gunnar interrupted, picking up the thin bde and offering it to him.

  “A WOLF?!” Bjorn’s face lit up. “ERIK, WE’RE GETTING A WOLF!” He snatched the bde, eyeing it like a prized toy. “What’s this, Father?”

  “Keep it,” Gunnar sighed, met with Bjorn’s gleeful smile.

  “Alright, Father! Erik, let’s go!” Bjorn bolted for the door.

  Erik lingered, bowing slightly. “Sorry for this, Lord Gunnar.”

  “Just go with Bjorn,” Gunnar said, waving him off. Erik hurried after his friend.

  Hilda smirked, a teasing glint in her eye. “To think history would repeat itself like this.”

  “Urgh…” Gunnar grumbled, rubbing his temple.

  “If it wasn’t for her, you’d have ventured south too,” she said.

  “He’ll outgrow it.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “I’ll ask the wards to get him a wolf then,” Gunnar decided.

  “Pick something small,” Hilda advised.

  “Aye.”

  “Hilda.”

  “…?”

  “We’ll try to work on peace with Skal and Lahti,” Gunnar said quietly, gncing at the door the boys had vanished through. “For those children, at least.”

  "Your will shall be done, Lord Gunnar."

  They stood in silence, watching the empty threshold.

  In his mind, Gunnar was filled with worry... 'The south has worse monsters than the winter who is so keen on killing us.' He thought.

  .

  .

  .

  Eight winters ter, the boys had grown into… well, still boys, though taller and bolder.

  “Erik! We need to go now!” Bjorn called, his voice sharp with urgency.

  “Lord Gunnar will kill all of us,” Erik shot back, his golden eyes wide with worry.

  “Yahahaha! Then we’ll just go faster than them!” Bjorn ughed, stroking the back of a wolf half the size of a por bear.

  “Did you bring enough meat for Hund?” Erik demanded, kneeling to rub the beast’s broad belly. He gred at the battered sword in Bjorn’s hand—thin and worn, dubbed ‘Needle’ after eight years of use. “I’d beat you up if you brought that crap but no food for this pup.”

  “Of course I did,” Bjorn said, grinning. “We need to go now, while Father’s still on his campaign. I left a scroll for Missus Hilda.”

  Erik nodded, turning to the sailors nearby. “Prepare to venture!”

  Where were they going? Well…

  “To Iskallio!” Bjorn, now fifteen winters old, shouted, his voice ringing over the wind.