Sigurd and the others had gone hunting early in the morning, to Eivor's great envy. She'd asked and asked to accompany them over the last few days. Her brother had laughed and said, "Perhaps once you've seen more than ten winters!" To those words, she had stomped her feet, retorting, "I'm eleven!" That had made him laugh even harder. He had ruffled up her messy hair then, before finally leaving with the cocky youths he called friends.

Since then, Eivor had been in a rather poor mood. Throughout the day, the villagers gave her a wide berth, evading her rather intense stare. It was better that way, she kept telling herself. Beside Sigurd, she had only one friend, Valka, the völva's daughter, who did not often come down to Fornburg with her mother. The other children remained wary of Eivor; her temper was as unpredictable as Thor's rages. Eivor knew many parents often came to Styrbjorn to complain about her behaviour. A wild wolf of a girl, they said of her, with the manners of a beast. She needs discipline—a harsh hand to chastise her when she strays away.

Eivor took their words as a challenge; she was a beast, wasn't she, untamed and undisciplined? Well, she would sooner befriend the critters of the woods than any of those hypocrites who kept sniffing after her father's arse for any hope of gaining his good favour.

So far, her attempts had been… not as successful as she had hoped. Foxes refused to approach her even when she baited them with food. Rabbits and squirrels remained deathly afraid of her, scampering whenever she tried to approach them. And she did not even entertain the thought of coming any nearer to a wolf; she often awoke drenched in sweat at night, the memories of their howls echoing in her brain.

The only animal she had befriended (so to speak) was a young raven. The bird and his (her?) siblings were nesting in an old oak near the longhouse. Eivor had often spied them playing and squabbling over discarded pieces of food. This one was particularly smart, often stealing bits of fish from furious villagers who would shake their fist in the air while the feathered felon flew away.

With some dried herring, Eivor had coaxed the young raven into approaching her. The bird proved curious, and once it had come near enough that Eivor had reached to touch those glossy black feathers. At the gesture, however, the raven had croaked in alarm before taking off in a frightened flurry of feathers. That had been two days ago, and Eivor's stomach had been in knots since then. Perhaps the raven would never come back. It shouldn't have affected her so much—it was just a stupid bird, after all—and yet… as of late, Eivor had been blessed with wonderful dreams of flying through the sky, dreams where she was free to do as she pleased, dreams where the village was but a few specks of brown and grey in a majestic expense of white. Eivor did not want to go back to the nightmares—to hearing those howls tearing through the night while she remained frozen and helpless on that ice.

She was scanning the skies, looking for her feathered friend, when she heard a commotion. Some of the clan's warriors were gathering in front of the longhouse, shouting in panic. Eivor approached them, taking great care to remain hidden behind some barrels; adults did not like it when she eavesdropped on them.

"—party is not back yet," one of the drengir was telling another. "Geirr passed out from the blood loss before he could tell us where they were. Should we tell—"

"—the king will want to know," a third warrior cut him off. "The heir is part of the missing hunters. We must mount a searching—"

Eivor had heard enough. She scrambled away from her hiding spot, heart hammering in her chest. Geirr was one of Sigurd's friends who had left with her brother this morning. And now Sigurd and the others were missing. Sigurd. Eivor's blood thumped in her ears. Her big brother, the only person worth knowing in this wretched place, the only one who had opened his heart to her and welcomed her as part of his family. She could not lose Sigurd, not when she'd already—

Eivor let out a shuddering breath, rushing toward—where, exactly? Styrbjorn would never allow her to go with the searching party. Gods, but there was nothing she could do, couldn't she? They would tell her the same thing that Sigurd had said to her this morning: that she was a child, that she couldn't help in any way, that she would only get in the way.

Then she saw a small shadow above her head, starkly black against the greyness of the clouds.

The raven perched itself in a tree, cawing. Eivor stopped and met its gaze. The bird opened its—his? her?—wings, letting out another croak. Then it took to the skies again.

Eivor stood unmoving, even when more warriors ran past her, shouting all the while. She felt… compelled to follow the raven. Svala, the clan's völva, had so often told her to follow her intuition. "It is the voice of your inner self," she had said, "untethered by the trappings of so-called civilized thinking. You have genuine wisdom in you, child. Use it well."

Eivor's feet moved out of their own accord. The raven led her out of the village. She soon noted a trail of blood in the snow—surely the one left by Geirr when he had made his harsh journey back to town. Yet, after a while, the raven turned away from the expected path, guiding Eivor deeper into the forest. Here, the snow was thick and fresh, making her advance even harder than before. Still, Eivor trudged on, relieved that she had been smart enough to put on her warmest boots before going outside this morning.

Eventually, the bird started to circle a spot, cawing all the while. Eivor had never gone this deep in the forest before, and the sun was starting to disappear over the horizon. She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, shivering from the cold, but also from fear. Perhaps this had not been such a good idea. There were wolves in these woods after all.

She looked up, seeing that the bird was still hovering above her. Where did it want her to go? Had she been led on a wild-goose chase after all? Of course she had, she thought angrily; this was what she gained from following a stupid bird like she—

Faintly, she heard something, like a pained gasp. Eivor's heartbeat sped up again, and she called, "Is anyone here? Olaug? Dag? Sig… Sigurd?"

There was a slight silence, then: "O… over here! Quickly!"

The sound came from her right. With great difficulty, Eivor made her way toward the one who had spoken. She found two figures, one unmoving and sprawled in the snow, the other sitting and holding his head. Blood was pouring from a gash on Dag's brow, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. Olaug… Eivor's throat tightened, and she looked away. There were deep gashes over Olaug's chest, and his eyes were open, yet empty. Unseeing.

"E-Eivor?" Dag breathed. "Of all the—why are you here?"

"Geirr managed to get back to town," Eivor said. "Where's Sigurd?"

Dag shook his head. "A bear… it got Geirr, and… and…" He looked at Olaug, then made another pained grunt. "It chased… Sigurd… I don't know…"

That was all Eivor needed to hear. She whipped her head, looking for a sign, any sign—blood, a broken branch, a footprint—anything that would lead her to Sigurd before he—

There! It was obvious, really, now that she smothered her panic to focus on her surroundings. The fresh snow had been disturbed, and some of it was splattered with red—clear signs of a scuffle. Eivor followed the trail, noting that her feathered friend was flying overhead as well. Finally, she came upon her quarry: a great big beast of a bear, dead in the snow. And there, sitting propped up a tree, a bloody spear in hand, was…

"Sigurd!" Eivor cried out; she was ashamed to feel tears burning her eyes. She could not run, not with all of that snow, but she rushed all the same, desperate to be close to him. "Brother, are you alright?"

Sigurd's head snapped up. "Eivor? What… why are you here?"

In response, Eivor let out an angry sound, punching his shoulder. Sigurd winced and managed a laugh, before making another pained grimace.

"I was looking for you, stupid!" she growled. "They said—Geirr came back to the village nearly dead, and everyone was worried, and—you can't die, Sigurd, I won't let you!"

Sigurd chuckled again. "As if I would let myself die in battle against a stupid beast of all things…"

"It's certainly big," Eivor commented, glancing at the creature in question.

"Well, it did make for a glorious kill!" Sigurd answered, before coughing. "Oh, but everything hurts… how did you… how did you find me, sister?"

There came an insistent caw. The raven had landed in a nearby tree, and it—she, Eivor was sure it was a she, even though she did not know why—was looking at them with some curiosity, black head cocked to the side.

For the first time in hours, Eivor felt a warmth dispersing in her chest. She managed a smile as she answered, "I had the help of a friend."