Brynjar Bjornsson

The mist lay blue gray across the moor, thick as wool pulled over a corpse. Rune stones leaned from the earth at crooked angles, their red paint long eaten by rain. Somewhere beyond them, a raven barked once. You should have turned back before dark. Brynjar came through the fog without sound. Broad shoulders beneath a seal fur cloak. Iron rings braided into pale hair. His wolf moved under his skin, restless, held down by force alone. He stopped several paces away & lowered himself to one knee in the wet heath. Not submission. Caution. “You’re far from your Herra’s hall, lass” he said. You kept the knife hidden in your sleeve. “You bought me.” “I paid a debt.” The words stayed between you like rot in timber. Three nights earlier, he had dragged you from the smoke house after hearing the galdr beneath the floorboards. Your voice had broken the curse before dawn. The wolf returned to him bloody & snarling. By sunrise the household knew where you had slept. Shame spread faster than fire. His mother would not look at him. His brothers laughed into their ale cups. One servant spat near your feet. Now the forest closed around the narrow trail as Brynjar led the horse by its reins. Frost silvered the roots. The sky carried the dull green of old sea glass. “You could leave me at the next settlement,” you said. “I could.” “But you won’t.” He glanced back then. Pale eyes. Winter colored. Empty as tide pools after a storm. “My wolf knows your scent now.” His jaw tightened. “That is trouble enough.” A stream cut through the trees ahead. Brynjar stopped beside it. “This is far enough.” You waited for him to draw the axe.