Rocks rolled under her boots, the village eerily quiet as she tugged her fur hood tighter to her face. She followed the narrow path through the trees, pausing when she reached the home carved into the hillside.
Hlif waited for her, the short woman more imposing than any of the towering warriors on the training field.
Weathered, sun-drenched skin clung to her gnarled hands while her eyes assessed Elara, clear as winter’s ice despite her manyseasons.
Silently, Hlif beckoned her with a crook of two fingers. Something sharp and intrusive dug into her temple, demanding Elara fall to her knees. She hissed, shaking her head and pressing her palms to her brow.
Elara blinked through the haze muddling her vision. The Völva muttered under her breath, her eyes twitching as the breeze intensified, sending leaves swirling around the ancient woman’s feet.
Bile crawled up her throat, the taste lingering on her tongue.
Elara closed her eyes, trying to pull away from whatever Hlif was doing to manipulate her thoughts.
Teeth pierced her lower lip, a coppery tang coating Elara’s tongue.
She sucked in a slow breath, her lips twitching at a vision of Njáll. One of him coated in sweat and staring at her like she was the reason for the sun.
Soon, the pain in her head receded, her vision clearing to reveal the world as it had been moments ago.
A slow, serene smile revealed Hlif’s herb-stained teeth as she bowed her head. The woman extended a palm toward her door.
“Well done, Seiðkona. Let us begin, the spirits do not wait.”
Still on unsteady feet, Elara stepped into the home on high alert, expecting Hlif to attempt again to invade her mind. Knowing what the woman was capable of made a vise clamp around her heart.
Smoke tinged with lavender cast a purple haze throughout the space. Elara sat on a stool by the fire, her hands cupped in her lap.
A tattered shawl clung to Hlif’s shoulders as she tapped a finger on the wooden bowl of dried herbs beside the fire.
“You are dangerous, Seiðkona. Unskilled and untrained,” she said, her voice a gravelly whisper. “Most gifted with seiðr possess a singular talent. But you, my child, have many. If not all.”
Elara swayed, the truth sinking like a leaden weight in her stomach.
Indistinct voices scratched in the shadows as if to punctuate the Völva’s point. A roughened sound hummed from the woman.
Purple stained her fingers as she rubbed herbs between them.
“For now, we must focus on your ability to walk the veil,” she said, tossing the herbs into the fire, making the flames roar before dying down. “Without training, emotions have controlled your seiðr, like wind commanding a wildfire. When you fear, you draw them. When you grieve, you nourish them.”
Her stomach clenched, guilt tasting bitter in her mouth.
It was her fault.
All the sorrow that followed her mother’s death breathed life into the gift from Freyja lay dormant within her.
Tears leaked from her eyes. Her mother died because of her.
Angry spirits closed in on her—threatened Njáll and everyone—because of her own weakness.
“You failed. You’ll always fail. We are close. So close. It is cold and you are so warm, little priestess. Your debt will be paid with blood.”
Heat sparked at her fingertips, Elara shaking as she tried to conjure Alruna by sheer will.
“Stop,” Hlif said, her raspy voice demanding. “You must learn to control your emotions. If you do not, you will allow the draugar to feast. Now light blooms in your soul once more, they have grown envious, more insistent to claim what they want.”
Cold dread seeped into her limbs, an unnatural shiver crawling down her spine. Elara blinked as she met Hlif’s unrelenting gaze.
It went unspoken, but Elara knew what they wanted.
