Page 60 of Whisper of Nightmares

His eyes must squeeze shut, for the twin flames vanish inside his skull. “I mean what creature are you?” He removes the blade from her throat and prods her chest and stomach. “You do not look like a spirit.”

“Stop that!”

She tries waving the blade away, but he only uses it to catch her arm while it’s lifted. The rust chafes against her wrist.

He leans close, and sniffs. “You do not smell like the draugr either.”

With her teeth gritted, Euphemia jerks her arm away. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“What are you then?” he asks again, the confusion more prevalent in his voice now.

She rubs her wrist, soothing the ache. “I am not a what. I am a who.”

He steps back but only far enough to scrutinize her more intensely.

Euphemia joins him in both his scrutiny and confusion. Is this not the same man who’s been stalking her then? He acts as though he’s never laid eyes upon her before, though she supposes he could simply be pretending. But what purpose would that serve?

He huffs, smoke billowing from his skull. “Then who are you?”

Under normal circumstances, Euphemia might think twice before revealing her name to a creature made of bone and ash. But since this is only a dream, she’s not the least bit conflicted as she replies, “I am Euphemia.” She juts her nose in the air. “And what might your name be?”

The sword falters between them.

“My…name?”

Again, his words come out slow and halting, as if he’s forgotten how to form them.

He lowers his blade completely, and Euphemia can’t help but bask in the small victory. With an air of righteousness, she says again, “Yes, your name. I wish to know it.”

But he just shakes his head, slowly, his shoulders slumping forward. “If I have a name, I no longer know it.”

Something ominous lingers in the way he says it, sending a shudder up her spine.

But Euphemia shrugs it off, pretending not to notice how somber he sounds. “You expect me to believe that you do not know your name, but you know this place?”

He nods, gaze drifting across the land. “I have been here a long time.”

Euphemia watches him more intently, searching for anything dubious. It almost makes her laugh. How much more dubious could a man with a skull for a face be? But nothing about him—nothing else, that is—suggests he means her harm. His stance is not aggressive. The fire in his skull has dimmed into something closer to simmering coals. Even the grip on his sword has loosened.

It might be foolish, but she decides to accept the lowering of his sword as a sign of surrender.

“Very well,” she says. “And what of the nightmare over there?”

If he has eyebrows behind that skull, they furrow now. “The nightmare?”

She points emphatically to the creature still drinking at the stream. “That.”

His voice warms with amusement. “You mean the helhest?”

“The what now?”

Now it’s him who pauses to look at her with disbelief and uncertainty. As if she’s the one distrusting. As if she’s the one who could maul him in his sleep. With what? Her dainty, hops-infused fingers? The man stands a good head taller than her, at least. His shoulders are broad enough that he likely has to turn his body just to fit through a door.

Not to mention, he is the one with a weapon. Not her.

Perhaps arriving at the same conclusion, he takes a wide step around her and gestures to the horse with a wave of his sword. “The helhest is a steed of Helheim. Her job is to guide the dead. I have not seen her often. Only when⁠—”

Before he can finish that thought, a light glows from below the amethyst river.