clouds rolling in

spring dawns on a boy irrevocably changed, divorced from the child he’d been a mere season ago. like the melting of ice throughout Boreas, another layer of his innocence has seeped away, revealing a roughened exterior hollowed by grief and fear. as Styrmir picks his way through the undergrowth, he thinks of his family’s slow collapse, the strain of his pack under its new alpha, and his own internal treachery. he feels marked, as though his newly-formed bargain has stained in some obvious new way. that no one else can see it…it feels wrong, strange. they should be able to look upon him, his brothers and sisters, and see the darkness tainting his soul.

‘don’t be so dramatic,’ She purrs, her voice a sultry taunt in his ear. ‘it’s not as evil as all that.’ Styrmir grunts around the squirrel clamped between his jaws, dripping a trail of blood through the grass. ‘this is the right thing,’ she continues, soothing, as always, the doubts from his mind before they have a proper chance to take root. ‘you gave yourself to me, remember? there’s no taking it back now.’ her shrine comes into view, and Styrmir shifts the weight of his catch as he quickens his pace. it’s a shabby thing, made of a hollow tree stump, a layer of moss and several flat rocks. last season’s offering rots at its base, permeating the air with the stomach-roiling scent of death. Styrmir lays the squirrel down beside the carcass and rests a paw across its stomach. it’s body is still warm; he shivers. ‘ready?’ She goades, voice sharp with challenge. Styrmir scrunches his eyes and makes the first incision, working quickly to peel back the pelt in as clean a manner as possible. She laughs in his ear. ‘so squeamish, little one. you’ll grow out of it soon enough.’

there’s such certainty in his voice he doesn’t dare doubt her.

"Styrmir Trygg"