The Reaper's hand hovered inches from Zank's face, the air around it colder than the snow itself. He wanted to scream, but the sound froze in his throat. The skull within the hood tilted, as if studying him.
Then—
A horn's cry shattered the stillness.
It came from the ridge above the valley: deep, defiant, alive. The Reaper's cloak rippled as if struck by firelight. A second horn followed, then shouts—rough, human, fierce.
The figure turned its gaze toward the sound. "Mortals," it whispered. "Always meddling."
When Zank blinked, the Reaper was gone. Only the smell of ash and iron remained.
Through the storm rode six warriors—
Vikings clad in wolfskins and mail, their torches flaring orange against the blizzard. At their front rode a woman with a silver-plated axe and eyes sharp as an eagle's.
"By the gods," she muttered as she saw the boy crouched beside the dead fire. "He's still breathing."
The warriors dismounted, forming a circle around Zank. One of them—a broad man with a braided beard—knelt and lifted the boy's chin. "Blue and silver eyes," he said, grimly. "It's him. The halfborn."
The woman frowned. "Halfborn?"
"The one they whispered about in Eyrheim. The Reaper's get." He made the sign of Thor's hammer on his chest. "No mortal child has eyes like that."
Zank stared up at them, trembling. "Please… don't send me back."
The woman hesitated. Her voice softened. "Back where, little one?"
He looked toward the empty snow. "The dark man. He wanted to take me."
A silence fell among the warriors. Even the storm seemed to hold its breath.
The woman finally said, "No one takes a child of Midgard while I draw breath. My name is Brynja, shield-captain of Frostfall. You'll come with us."
She wrapped her wolfskin cloak around him and lifted him onto her horse.
As they rode north through the storm, Zank looked back one last time.
Far behind them, on the ridge, stood a single dark figure.
The Reaper watched them go — silent, patient — until the snow swallowed him whole.