The mist clung to Vinterhavn like a shroud as I trudged back to my cottage, the midnight sun's golden light diffused into a hazy glow that did little to warm the chill seeping into my bones. My shoulder throbbed where the shadow had grazed me, and the amulet's dark pulse lingered in my mind, a rhythm that synced with the whispers still murmuring at the edges of my consciousness. *He's part of it, Eira. Trust him.* The words gnawed at me, a command I couldn't shake, though every instinct screamed to keep Torin Varg at arm's length. The lighthouse had changed something—tied us together in ways I didn't understand—and the weight of that bond pressed on me like the fjord's unyielding stone.
I pushed open the cottage door, the creak of the hinges a familiar comfort, and dropped my cloak on the chair. The fire had died down, leaving the room dim, and I moved to stoke it, my hands trembling slightly as I added logs. The silver beads in my braid clinked softly, a sound that usually calmed me, but today it felt like a reminder of the runes I'd carved—wards that had failed to keep the shadows at bay. Sigrid would know what to do, I told myself, but the thought of facing her sharp tongue and cryptic warnings made me hesitate. Instead, I sat at the table, pulling out a piece of parchment and my carving knife, needing the rhythm of etching to clear my head.
The rune I traced was one for clarity, its lines flowing from memory, but my mind kept drifting to Torin—his steady gaze, the way his hand had steadied me in the lighthouse, the guilt that shadowed his features when he spoke of the curse. He was a mystery, a seeker with a past he guarded as fiercely as I guarded my gift. The amulet's guardian voice echoed in my thoughts—*Take it, and the shadows become flesh. Leave it, and I remain bound*—and I wondered what he carried, what drove him to risk everything for a relic that might destroy us both.
A knock at the door jolted me from my reverie, and I tensed, the knife slipping in my grip. The whispers surged—*he's here, he's here*—and I knew before I opened it that it was Torin. He stood on the threshold, his coat dusted with mist, his expression weary but determined. In his hand, he held a small leather pouch, its contents clinking faintly.
"We need to talk," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. I bristled but didn't stop him, closing the door against the damp air.
"About what?" I asked, crossing my arms. "The fact that you nearly got us killed, or the part where you dragged me into your cursed quest?"
He ignored the bite in my tone, setting the pouch on the table. "I went back to the market after we parted. Found this from a trader in Tromsø." He untied the pouch, spilling out a handful of rune stones, their surfaces etched with symbols I recognized—protection, binding, warding. "They're old. Older than Sigrid's carvings. I think they're connected to the amulet."
I picked up one stone, its weight cool against my palm, and felt a faint hum of magic. The whispers stirred, a soft *yes* that made my scar tingle. "Where did he get them?" I asked, my voice cautious.
"Claimed he found them in a wreck off the coast," Torin said, his eyes narrowing. "But he wouldn't say more. Just that they'd been cursed since the ship went down."
I set the stone down, my mind racing. A wreck off the coast could mean anything—pirates, traders, or something tied to Torin's ancestors. The amulet's guardian had spoken of a curse, and these stones felt like pieces of the same puzzle. "You think they'll help us get the amulet without waking the shadows?"
"Maybe," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "Or they might tell us why it's guarded. I need you to read them, Eira. Your gift—it's stronger than mine."
I laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the small room. "My gift's a liability, not a tool. The spirits lie as much as they help, and I'm not risking another fight because you think I can wave a hand and fix this."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he pulled a chair and sat, his gaze steady. "I'm not asking you to fix it. I'm asking you to try. The shadows won't stop, not until the amulet's claimed or destroyed. And if they come for you because of me, I won't leave you to face them alone."
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard, and for a moment, I saw not the seeker but the man beneath—the one haunted by guilt, driven by duty. The whispers murmured *trust him*, and I hated how much I wanted to. I sighed, picking up the stone again. "Fine. But if this goes wrong, it's on you."
He nodded, and I closed my eyes, letting the whispers guide me. The stone's magic pulsed, and images flashed through my mind—a storm-tossed ship, its hull splintering against the rocks, a figure clutching the amulet as shadows rose from the waves. The scene shifted to a village burning, runes glowing futilely against the dark, and a woman's voice crying out—*protect it, hide it, save us*. The vision faded, leaving me breathless, the stone warm in my hand.
"There was a shipwreck," I said, my voice shaky. "Your ancestors, maybe. They tried to use the amulet to fight the shadows, but it backfired. The woman—she hid it in the lighthouse, warded it with her life. The guardian… it's her spirit."
Torin's face paled, his fingers tracing the tattoo on his arm. "My grandmother's line spoke of a ship lost to the curse. They said the amulet was taken by the sea, but if she hid it…"
"She's bound to it," I finished. "The shadows are her creation, or part of the curse. Taking the amulet might free her, but it'll unleash them fully."
He leaned back, his expression grim. "Then we need a way to break the binding without claiming it. Can your runes do that?"
I hesitated. Runes could bind or break, but this magic was ancient, tied to blood and sacrifice. "Maybe. But I'd need Sigrid's help, and she'll want answers I don't have. Plus, the spirits might fight us."
"Then we get her," he said, standing. "Tonight. Before the shadows track these stones."
I wanted to argue, to tell him I needed time, but the whispers urged me on, and the mist outside seemed to thicken, as if the shadows were listening. We gathered the stones and headed to Sigrid's hut, the village silent around us. The old woman was waiting, her staff in hand, her eyes narrowing as we entered.
"Trouble follows you like a storm," she said, her voice rasping. "Show me."
I handed her the stones, and she traced their runes, her lips moving silently. After a long moment, she looked up. "These are Varg clan marks. The amulet's curse is tied to their blood. To break it, you'll need a ritual—blood, runes, and the aurora's peak. But the guardian won't yield easily."
Torin's fist clenched. "What's the cost?"
"Risk," Sigrid said. "The shadows will come. And one of you might not walk away."
The words hung heavy, and I felt the weight of the choice ahead. The whispers grew louder—*trust him, save him*—and I met Torin's gaze, seeing the same resolve mirrored there. The mist outside pulsed, and a shadow flickered at the window. The fight was coming, and the amulet's thread bound us tighter than ever.