Darkness swallowed him first.
Then pain — sharp and heavy, like fire trapped beneath his ribs.
When Zank's eyes fluttered open, the world swayed in blurs of torchlight and shadow. He lay on a bed of furs inside Frostfall's longhouse. The air smelled of pine resin, blood, and herbs. His chest burned with every breath.
"Easy now," a voice said gently.
He turned his head and saw her — Freja, one of the healers, her auburn hair tied back, hands moving with practiced grace as she pressed a poultice to his wound.
"You're lucky, Zank," she murmured. "The arrow missed your heart by the width of a hair. Brynja found you before you bled out."
He tried to speak, but his throat was dry. "Brynja… is she safe?"
Freja smiled faintly. "She is. Bruised, bloodied — but she's still standing, as always."
Zank's gaze drifted to the firelight flickering on the beams above. "And the clan? How many…"
Her voice softened. "Only three fell. The Bjornskarn broke ranks and fled the moment they saw what you did." She hesitated. "They said the snow turned black where you stood."
Zank's stomach twisted. "I didn't mean—"
"I know." Freja dipped a cloth in water and wiped the sweat from his brow. "But whatever you are, the gods aren't done with you yet."
Before he could answer, the door flap opened and a gust of cold air followed three warriors inside. Their armor was dented, their faces weary but alight with something like awe.
"There he is!" one of them, Einar, said with a broad grin. "The ghost of Frostfall himself."
The others laughed — nervously, at first. They clasped forearms with one another, not daring to touch Zank.
"You should've seen it," Einar said. "The way the Bjornskarn fled! Half of them dropped their weapons and ran screaming. You saved us, lad."
Zank managed a weak smile. "I didn't save anyone. I just… stopped one man."
"Aye," said the second warrior, Orri, lowering his voice. "But the way you did it — gods above. No blade, no blood. Just a whisper, and death answered."
Freja's hands paused for a heartbeat. The room went still.
The third man shifted uneasily. "Folk are talking, Zank. Some call it a miracle. Others… something else."
Zank frowned. "Something else?"
"They say death itself obeys you," Orri murmured. "That maybe you're not meant to walk among us."
The words hung in the air like frost.
Zank looked down at his bandaged hands, feeling the ache beneath them — the ache of what he was.
"I never wanted to be feared," he said quietly.
Einar rubbed the back of his neck, awkward now. "Fear and respect often share the same fire. The clan will decide which burns brighter."
The men gave clumsy nods of respect and left, their boots echoing in the silence.
Freja watched them go, then looked back at Zank. "Don't let their fear make you forget who you are."
He met her gaze, voice trembling. "That's just it. I don't know who that is anymore."
Outside, the wind howled across the mountains — carrying with it a whisper older than the storm itself:
"Every death draws you nearer, child of frost and grave."
Zank shivered, though the fire burned hot beside him.