They left Elara to stand on her own.
And she did. She succeeded.
Yet, she still craved them.
Their warmth. Their reassurance.
Everyone abandoned her eventually. Freyja’s light. Her mother. Njáll.
“You are alone, little priestess. Let us in, we can warm you.”
Gnawing on her lip, Elara replaced the hollow ache with golden light until none of the darkness remained, taking the draugar with it.
Fingers rested over her heart, sighing at the methodical rhythm, imagining Njáll’s beating alongside hers.
Soon.
Soon he’d return.
And until then, she’d wait patiently, working hard to hone her skills.
While she’d been proud of her accomplishments, Hlif had been quick to snap her back to her harsh reality, reminding Elara it would take her many seasons to master all her gifts.
She could not become complacent.
Complacency bred vulnerability—a luxury Elara couldn’t afford.
Thirty
Elara
Bright blue skies flickered above, birds weaving in and out of the sunlight. Elara ambled through the village, aimlessly stroking the rune around her throat, not ready to return home yet.
After the exhausting session with Hlif, she needed a moment—many moments—to collect herself.
Perhaps she had always been stronger than she realized.
Molten gold eyes flashed in her vision.
Alruna.
Her.
Pebbles kicked under her boots as people dipped their chins at her approach, offering warm smiles.
The colors around her swirled, the earth starting to spin as Elara swayed, clutching a nearby post.
Ash coated her tongue, a stabbing ache radiating in her chest. Elara spread her fingers out over her breastbone, trying to soothe the dull pinch.
The world vanished, the ground falling out from under her. A suffocating cold choked her, squeezing the frigid air from her lungs.
Piercing shrieks threatened to tear her skin from her bones.
A violent shiver rocked her already trembling frame.
She stood on a towering cliff, the air churning with smoky mist.
It smelled of brine and burnt flesh, the acrid scent making Elara gag.
