It was a warm spring morning, and the last vestiges of frost had begun to retreat from Iceland's green fjords and black volcanic ridges.
The glaciers loomed still in the distance, but summer whispered her promise across the land.
Before he stirred, Róisín had already lain awake.
This warmth… it's not just the hearth. It's breath and bone. It's the quiet sound of safety.
For years, sleep had been lonely; a thing endured, not embraced. Even in dreams, she had wandered through halls that felt like tombs.
But here, beside the wolf, there was rhythm. His breath. His heartbeat. The heavy silence of contentment.
She had never dared to imagine something like this. And now she feared waking might end it.
Vetrúlfr rose from his bed, the morning light casting pale gold upon the timber walls of his hall. He yawned, stretched like a waking beast, and reached out instinctively across the furs.
