Branúlfr: Heir to the North

The union of frost and flame had come to Ullrsfjörðr. And it had come in the form of a baby boy.

The infant bore his mother's ember-red hair and his father's piercing frost born gaze. He was silent, still; save for the quiet breath in his lungs, and the eyes that wandered like a watchful wolf.

One might have mistaken him for a spirit-child, so serene he lay in his mother's arms, yet the flicker of his gaze belied the storm beneath.

Vetrúlfr had walked the halls of his keep for days, his thoughts circling like ravens. He had turned over names like stones in his mind. None felt true. None had weight. Until, one night, the wind whispered it through the rafters like a secret carried from the gods.

Branúlfr.

When Róisín finally stirred from her exhausted rest, she found Vetrúlfr already at her side. He knelt before the bed, eyes fixed on the child pressed to her breast, his expression caught somewhere between awe and burden.