The Solace of Winter

Autumn had come to Ullrsfjörðr like a painted breath, gilding the birch leaves in gold and umber before the snows would claim them.

Smoke curled gently from longhouse chimneys, carrying the scent of pine resin, roasting meats, and the sharp tang of sea salt.

Within Vetrúlfr's hall, life moved with an almost reverent quiet. Brynhildr, who seemed to age backward with each passing season, sat by the hearth spinning fine red wool.

Her pale blonde hair fell unbound down her back, unmarked by even a single thread of silver.

When the firelight caught her eyes, they gleamed with a cold, otherworldly glint that made some whisper she was more than mortal.

Perhaps still the valkyrie-queen of legend whom she appeared named after, lingering out of love or unfinished doom.

Beside her played little Branúlfr, Vetrúlfr's son by Roisin.

The boy was sturdy already, with a shock of ruddy hair of flame and eyes like frost-rimmed steel.