The wind had teeth that morning. It was spring, but still felt like winter. Biting through the stone streets of Ullrsfjörðr it licked at the ramparts of the keep, curling mist around the high mound where the Hall stood.
Róisín stood beneath the shadow of the great doors, her cloak wrapped tight around her, eyes fixed on the figure descending the long stairs.
Vetrúlfr.
No guards. No heralds. Just him. His wolf-skin cloak, travel sack, and his sword held tightly to his body by his leather baldric. Its sister blade, hanging horizontally from his waist by its belt.
He paused only once, halfway down the stairwell.
"Keep to the hall," he said. "Don't wander beyond my walls, least of all into the woods. They remember you now."
She didn't understand what that meant. Not yet.
He said not another word. Simply walked by and patted the girl's head. A simple gesture, but a farewell to one who recognized it. For how long? Only he knew.
