“For some people, revenge is fire—hot and fast. It flares and burns away as quickly as a match. But for me, it’s always been cold. The slow spread of rime, unyielding, a glacial, tireless urge.”

The man across from her in the helicopter nodded slowly. Clad in a flight suit, helmet, mask, and harness, he was ready for the drop into the Arctic Circle—a zone so dangerous that its hostile weather was only one of many threats. Unlike her, he needed the heavy gear for warmth. She didn’t feel the cold in the same way. She was the cold.

“I appreciate you, you know,” she said, her slight smile holding as much warmth as the Rime Maiden could muster. “You’re a good listener to put up with me and my ramblings.”

It wasn’t that she lacked emotion or compassion. Einar Thorsson knew all too well how much heart Annika Müller hid beneath all that ice. It wasn’t just her powers; she had been raised to be cold—stoic and stern. But to him, she was more than that. She was his best friend, the woman he trusted with his life.

Einar nodded again, his eyes crinkling with a hint of a smile beneath his helmet. “I’ve had plenty of practice,” he replied, his voice slightly muffled by the mask. “Besides, I’d rather hear your ‘ramblings’ than the sound of this rotor.”

The helicopter’s blades whirred loudly above them, slicing through the Arctic wind like a knife. The interior of the helicopter was cold, the metal surfaces covered with a thin layer of frost that seemed to follow her wherever she went. Even in the confined space, the chill that emanated from her was palpable—a reminder of her nature, her power.

Annika was German, and Einar was from Iceland. Both were part of the team the UN had dubbed the Hoarfrost Unit. Their powers couldn’t have been more different. He was, by all accounts, a wizard steeped in Nordic magic, hence his codename: Runic. She was an Extra, though she never liked talking about where her family’s ice powers came from. But everyone knew. Her powers were a point of quiet shame—a reminder of darker times, when her family had done things that haunted them. Einar presumed that was why she seemed so cold, so inclined to bury things beneath her stern, frosty exterior.

“I presume you know what he did to my brother two years ago,” she said, smoothing out her uniform—a generous term for the superheroine outfit that clung to her pale skin. There was a small bit of flair in the outfit that she secretly enjoyed; the revealing costumes that superheroines could get away with had always delighted a part of her that her family had long suppressed.

“I know, Annika. I read the reports. You have every right to hate him,” Einar replied, his tone firm yet calm. “But remember, the rescue comes first. We need to reach that airplane he brought down before he or the weather costs those people their lives.”

Annika shifted her gaze from Einar to the narrow window, her pale blue eyes tracing the endless expanse of white below. “I know the mission comes first,” she said, her voice measured, but there was a dangerous edge to it. “But he’s mine once we’re done. I don’t want you or anyone else getting in my way.”

Einar glanced at her, a frown creasing his brow beneath the helmet. “We’re a team, Annika. I’m not here to clean up the mess afterward.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” she replied sharply. Then, softening just a little, she added, “I know what I’m doing, Einar. I need you to trust me.”

He sighed, rubbing his gloved hands together to keep them warm. “It’s not about trust. It’s about what happens if we don’t make it in time. We’re not just dealing with a storm; we’re dealing with him.”

Annika’s expression hardened again, but she nodded. “Understood,” she muttered. Yet beneath her calm demeanor, the ice within her churned, driven by that cold, unyielding need. Her mind drifted back two years, to the last time she had seen her brother alive, his face contorted in a rictus of agony.

He had been broken by a madman drunk on his own power. The supervillain known as Newton had unleashed chaos upon Stockholm, a gravity-wielding force of destruction who reveled in the screams of the helpless. Buildings had buckled under his influence, cars lifted like toys, and people—her brother among them—had been crushed beneath the weight of Newton’s insanity.

Her brother had been one of the first responders, a hero in his own right, determined to stop the rampage before it spread further. He had barely lasted a minute. Annika could still see it clearly: the moment the ground beneath him gave way, pulled up into a twisting vortex. The air itself seemed to distort, bending and tearing as Newton manipulated the laws of nature like a child playing with clay. She remembered screaming his name, her voice lost in the din, as he was lifted into the air, his body contorting unnaturally, bones snapping like twigs under the sudden force.

He was one of the first casualties. One of many.

She blinked, pulling herself back to the present, where the cold metal of the helicopter was a comforting constant against the raging storm of her memories. She glanced at Einar, whose eyes were still on her, watchful, concerned.

“I’ll get him,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I swear on the ice that flows in my veins, I’ll get him.”

Einar nodded slowly, understanding her pain but also fearing the path she was on. “Just remember, Annika, revenge is a road that can turn dark quickly. Don’t let him drag you into the abyss with him.”

For a moment, there was silence between them, save for the relentless whirr of the helicopter blades. Then the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Approaching the drop zone. Brace yourselves.”

Annika took a deep breath, feeling the familiar chill rise within her, a cold determination that steadied her hands and sharpened her focus. She glanced at Einar once more and gave a small nod. “Let’s go.”

The side door of the helicopter slid open, letting in a gust of freezing air that would have made most shiver. But not her. Not the Rime Maiden. She stared down at the icy expanse below, her breath visible in the cold air. She felt the familiar pull of gravity, the one thing Newton could control… and the one thing she intended to defy.

With a last glance at Einar, she leaped from the helicopter, diving headfirst into the blizzard below, her icy powers flaring to life around her like a corona of frost.

Newton would pay.

He would pay for every life he took, starting with her brother’s.

***

Newton, born in England, had once been a petty crook with big ambitions but no means to achieve them—until fate, or perhaps blind luck, changed his life. Breaking into a top-secret research facility for a quick score, he had stumbled upon an experiment in progress. The lab’s machines were buzzing with energy, and before Newton could react, he was caught in a blast of particles that bombarded his body, bonding with his DNA. These particles granted him an extraordinary and terrifying gift: the power to manipulate gravity in localized areas.

What began as petty thefts and simple acts of terror quickly escalated into something far more menacing. Newton became a name that struck fear across Europe, his reign of chaos marked by a defiance of the laws of physics. Now, they were sending two of their best to save a downed passenger plane and, if necessary, put Newton on ice for good.

Annika gripped the edge of the helicopter’s doorway, her eyes scanning the frozen expanse below. Einar positioned himself beside her, securing his parachute harness tightly around his body. He glanced at her with a mixture of determination and concern. “Ready?”

Annika offered a thin smile. “Always.”

The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom again, “We’re over the drop zone. You’re clear to go.”

Einar gave her a quick nod and turned, stepping out into the void. The howl of the wind swallowed his shout as he plummeted downward, his parachute deploying moments later with a sharp snap, billowing open above him like a great canvas of white against the darkening sky. He descended in a controlled spiral, his body swaying slightly as he maneuvered through the gusts of frigid air, his breath visible in the icy atmosphere.

Annika watched him go for a moment before stepping to the edge herself. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the cold deep within her core, the icy tendrils of her power coiling and stretching like a living thing. When she opened her eyes again, they were sharp and clear, like two pieces of frostbitten glass.

She focused, extending her hands downward toward the earth far below. A mist formed in the air around her, thickening and crystallizing almost instantly. With a soft hiss, a long, slick slide of ice began to form, extending from her feet, snaking its way down through the open air toward the frozen ground below. It glittered in the waning Arctic light, an ethereal, translucent path that seemed to defy gravity itself.

Annika stepped onto the slide, feeling the ice respond to her presence, solidifying beneath her weight. She pushed off, and the ice caught her, holding her steady as she began to descend. She leaned forward slightly, and the ice shifted with her, angling downward in a graceful arc. The rush of wind against her face was exhilarating, the cold air sharp and biting. The world around her blurred as she accelerated, the slide twisting and turning with her will, her body fluid and graceful as she navigated the frosty path.

Einar, still drifting down beneath his parachute, glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of her. Even after all their missions together, the sight was still mesmerizing—a woman riding a self-created ice slide, cutting through the Arctic air like a streak of silver-blue lightning. He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Show-off," he muttered to himself, though there was admiration in his voice.

Annika picked up speed, her slide spiraling around Einar's descending form as if playfully circling him. She gave him a quick wave before accelerating further, her ice path stretching out ahead like a shining ribbon against the snow-covered ground. Her descent was swift and smooth, the ice catching the dim light and refracting it into a dazzling array of colors.

As she neared the ground, she focused again, extending her arms to either side. The slide began to curve upward, slowing her descent with a gentle arc until she reached a point where she could safely leap off. She landed lightly, her feet barely making a sound against the snow-covered earth.

Einar touched down moments later, his boots crunching in the snow as he quickly unhooked his parachute. He jogged over to where Annika stood, the ice slide behind her melting back into the air as if it had never existed.

“Impressive, as always,” he said, breathless but grinning.

Annika gave a small shrug, her eyes still scanning the horizon. “Let's hope I can impress Newton just as much,” she replied. "Now, let's find that plane. The clock is ticking."

They set off together, moving swiftly across the snow, each step bringing them closer to their target—and to the man who had turned Annika’s heart to ice.

***

The wrecked passenger plane lay sprawled across the ice like the broken toy of some angry giant, its fuselage twisted and torn, one wing bent at a jagged angle where it had sheared off on impact. The small aircraft, designed to ferry scientists and researchers to remote corners of the world, now looked like a victim of some cruel hand that had reached down from the sky and pulled it to earth with terrifying force. Snow swirled around the wreck, sticking to the metal skin of the plane, which was pocked with dents and scorched in places where friction had burned against the ice.

The tail section was partially buried in a snowdrift, its white and blue paint scratched and peeling, and the cockpit was crumpled, the windows shattered like spiderwebs of fractured glass. The landing gear was gone, ripped away during the crash, leaving the plane resting awkwardly on its belly, half-submerged in the snow and ice. One of the engines had broken free, leaving a trail of debris that led back to the impact point, where a deep gouge in the ice marked the violent end of its descent.

Annika and Einar stood on the edge of the crash site, taking in the scene with grim focus. The plane looked almost peaceful now, resting in a valley of snow and ice, but the twisted wreckage told a story of terror and desperation. Annika’s eyes scanned the cabin through the shattered windows, and she spotted movement—a flicker of life among the stillness. There were survivors.

“Looks like a few made it,” Einar muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind. Without waiting for a reply, he started forward, trudging through the thick snow, each step a struggle against the biting cold and the deep drifts.

But Annika was already ahead of him, moving with the fluid grace of someone untouched by the elements. She glided over the ice with a speed and ease that left Einar behind, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground. Her breath did not mist in the air; her movements were efficient and purposeful, each glide cutting across the snow like a knife.

Though some accused her of having a cold heart, it wasn’t true. Cool and aloof, perhaps—but she was fiercely compassionate, especially when lives were at stake. She reached the wreckage swiftly, kneeling beside a cracked section of the fuselage where she could see the faces of those trapped inside—eyes wide with fear and pain.

“Stay calm,” she called out, her voice steady but reassuring. “We’re here to help. Don’t move too much; we’ll get you out safely.”

A woman, a researcher judging by the insignia on her jacket, looked up at her with a mix of relief and disbelief. "Are… are we going to be okay?"

Annika nodded, already assessing the injuries. “Yes, but you need to stay still. We’ll take care of you.”

She extended a hand toward the survivors, her touch surprisingly gentle as she began to check their conditions. Cuts, bruises, and a few broken bones—nothing immediately life-threatening, but they were weak and cold. She used her powers to create a barrier around them, shielding them from the icy wind that cut through the shattered windows, a thin film of frost forming a protective layer. She felt the warmth of her own breath inside the cocoon of cold she had created, a paradox she’d long grown used to.

Einar arrived moments later, panting, and glanced at the survivors. "How are they?"

“Cold and a little banged up, but they'll live,” Annika replied, her focus on bandaging a gash on a man's forehead with strips of cloth from her uniform. “But we need to get them out of here. Fast.”

Einar nodded, but his gaze shifted around them, scanning the snow-covered landscape. “We can’t lift them out until we secure the zone. Newton could be anywhere… waiting for his next move.”

Annika’s eyes narrowed, her senses alert to every sound, every shift in the air. The wind howled around them, but beneath it, there was something else—a subtle distortion, a tension that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Newton was here. Somewhere.

“I’ll keep the survivors safe,” she said quietly. “You find him.”

Einar’s face tightened. He wanted to argue, but he knew better. They worked well together because they trusted each other’s instincts. He gave a sharp nod, then turned and moved away from the wreckage, eyes scanning the endless white, every nerve taut and ready.

Annika stayed where she was, her focus on the survivors but her mind divided, ready for anything. She could feel the ice in her veins, the cold focus that would carry her through whatever came next. Newton had pulled this plane down from the sky, but he wouldn’t take any more lives today—not if she could help it.

Einar calmly unholstered his weapon, a heavy, high-caliber revolver that gleamed dully in the Arctic light. He preferred large-caliber weapons and shotguns—not for the reasons most assumed. For him, it wasn’t about brute force or a love of destruction. The larger rounds provided more surface area, more space to etch his runes and imbue them with his particular brand of magic. The stopping power was a nice side effect, but he knew that his enchanted rounds could be just as deadly even if fired from a smaller caliber.

The wind howled, biting and fierce, as if the very elements themselves were conspiring to conceal their enemy. Einar tightened his grip on the revolver, feeling the familiar etchings of the runes under his fingertips. The weapon thrummed faintly with the magic he’d imbued into it, a reminder of the spells that waited, eager to be unleashed. He knew Newton was close—he could feel it, a prickle at the base of his neck, a sense of wrongness that clung to the air.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow shift—a form slowly rising from the snow-covered ground like a ghost ascending from its grave.

Newton.

He was a haggard figure, barely recognizable as the feared supervillain he had once been. His clothing, layers of winter gear that had clearly seen better days, was torn and stained, patches of fabric hanging loose in the wind. A thick, scraggly beard covered his face, and his eyes—those eyes were wild, desperate, and hungry. His cheeks were hollow, his lips cracked and pale, evidence of the harsh conditions he’d endured out here in the endless cold. There was a look of feral intensity in his gaze, the gleam of a man pushed far beyond the edge of reason.

Newton’s hands trembled, but not from the cold. He was clutching at the air, his fingers twitching with anticipation as he focused on the ground beneath his feet. Slowly, he began to rise, his feet lifting off the ice, carried upward by an invisible force. Snow swirled in lazy spirals around him as he ascended, like some phantom figure pulled up by the strings of an unseen puppeteer.

Einar’s eyes narrowed, and he raised his revolver, tracking Newton’s movement. He felt the tingle of magic under his skin, the familiar warmth of runes coming to life in response to his intent. He knew Newton’s plan before the man even acted. Newton wanted their helicopter, wanted to kill them both, radio in, and hijack his way out of this frozen hell.

Annika had seen Newton too, her hands still on the wounded, but her eyes sharp and focused. “Einar!” she called, a warning in her tone, but he was already prepared.

Newton’s lips curled into a snarl, revealing yellowed teeth as he caught sight of the two heroes. His hands flexed, and suddenly, the air seemed to distort around him, the snow beneath his feet flattening, compacting as though pressed by an unseen weight. A slow grin spread across his face, one that spoke of desperation masked as confidence. He was a cornered animal, ready to lash out.

“Heroes,” he spat, his voice raw and raspy. “You think you’re my salvation? Think again.”

He thrust his hands forward, and the air around him rippled like a heat haze. The snow underfoot began to rise, lifting in strange clumps, floating upward as if freed from gravity itself. Ice shards followed, pulled free from the ground, spinning dangerously around him like a cyclone of jagged debris.

Einar fired, the enchanted round glowing with a faint blue light as it left the barrel. It sliced through the cold air, the magic flaring like a comet, aimed directly at Newton. But Newton was quick; he twisted his hand, and the bullet slowed, caught in the grip of his power, spinning in place just inches from his chest.

Annika, already on the move, called out to Einar, “Keep his attention!” She glided forward on a slick path of ice, her form a blur of white and blue as she moved to flank him. Her eyes never left Newton, watching for the moment to strike.

Newton’s face contorted with effort, his control wavering for just a moment, the bullet dropping to the ground as he concentrated his power on Annika, trying to pull her from the ice, to break her momentum. His eyes were wide with rage and fear, knowing this might be his last chance.

Einar fired again, this time aiming for the snow at Newton’s feet, detonating a rune-etched round that exploded into a burst of light and sound, throwing snow and ice into the air. Newton staggered, momentarily blinded, and Annika seized her chance.

Annika skated forward, a figure of frost and fury, closing the gap between them. Newton tried to pull back, but hunger and desperation had slowed him, dulled his reflexes. He flung out a hand, sending a wave of distorted gravity toward her, but she leaped, twisting in midair as a path of ice formed beneath her, launching her forward like a projectile.

She landed in front of him, her eyes cold as the Arctic around them. “You wanted a way out, Newton?” she said, her voice steady, as she brought her hand up, ice forming in a spiked gauntlet around her fist. “Here it is.”

Newton stumbled back, his hands trembling as he tried to summon more strength, more power to wield against the relentless force that was Annika. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one visible in the frigid air, a reminder of the cold that had already sunk its claws into him. His clothes, ragged and thin in places, offered little protection from the biting wind. Fatigue, starvation, and the creeping fingers of hypothermia had already taken their toll. He was a gaunt, shivering shadow of the villain he once had been, his face drawn and desperate.

Annika, the Rime Maiden, moved toward him like a force of nature. Her expression was hard and unyielding, her eyes fixed on him with a cold intensity. Each step she took seemed to draw more strength from the icy landscape around her, the frost beneath her feet crackling and spreading in response to her presence. She was in her element, and the cold that would have paralyzed others only fueled her further, her powers drawing on it like a never-ending well.

Newton flung out a hand, trying to muster another burst of gravity to repel her, to buy himself a moment to think, to breathe. The air shimmered around them, and a surge of force pushed outward, causing the snow to swirl and lift in a chaotic dance. But Annika kept moving, pushing against the wave of gravity, her ice-coated boots digging into the snow, her body moving with grim determination. She felt the pressure, the weight trying to crush her, but she did not falter. The cold air seemed to wrap around her like armor, fortifying her against Newton's power.

She closed the distance, her fists encased in jagged ice gauntlets that glinted with a deadly, crystalline beauty. Newton raised his arms to defend himself, his powers causing the ground to tremble, chunks of ice and snow lifting around them. He swung wildly, a clumsy punch driven more by panic than precision, and she caught his wrist, twisting it aside with brutal efficiency.

Newton cried out in pain, trying to wrench his hand free, but she followed up with a sharp elbow to his ribs, feeling the crunch of bone beneath the blow. He staggered, his breath hissing through his teeth, and swung again, but she was already moving, ducking under his strike and driving her knee into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping, and she brought her ice-covered fist up, catching him under the chin with an uppercut that sent him sprawling back into the snow.

Einar watched, his revolver in hand, the cold metal barrel gleaming. He could see the rage in Annika’s eyes, the way she moved with a ferocity he had rarely seen. This was not the cool, calculated hero he knew; this was someone driven by something deeper, something raw. Newton scrambled back, his hands clutching at the snow as he tried to rise, but Annika was already on him, her boot crashing down on his chest, pinning him to the ground.

Newton’s eyes were wide, frantic, searching for a way out. “Please… wait…” he gasped, his voice thin and broken.

But Annika didn't wait. She grabbed him by the collar, hoisting him up with surprising strength, her breath frosty in the air. “Wait?” she hissed, her voice low and cold. “Like you made them wait? Like you made my brother wait?”

She slammed him back down into the snow, his head bouncing off the ice with a sickening thud. He tried to raise a hand, a feeble attempt to push her away, but she swatted it aside effortlessly and brought her fist down again, striking his cheek with a crack that echoed in the cold air. Blood spattered across the snow, a stark contrast against the white, and Newton’s head lolled to the side.

Einar’s hands were steady as he loaded another bullet into the chamber of his gun. His eyes never left the scene in front of him. He knew Newton was weakened, close to breaking. And he could see Annika’s rage building, her movements growing more forceful, more brutal with each strike. She was drawing strength from the cold, from her own fury, and he knew she was close to losing herself in it.

He couldn’t let her kill him. Not like this. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. He could feel the magic in the runes etched onto the bullet, pulsing with energy, waiting for his command. He aimed the gun, not at Newton, but at the ground beside them.

Annika’s fist came down again, another savage blow that sent a fresh spray of blood across the snow. Newton groaned, his body twitching, his eyes fluttering as he tried to remain conscious.

“Annika!” Einar called out, his voice firm, but she didn’t stop. She raised her fist again, ice crackling along her knuckles, ready for another strike.

“Annika!” Einar shouted again, louder this time, the urgency clear in his voice.

But she was too far gone, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her face twisted in a mask of cold fury. Einar took the shot, the enchanted bullet slamming into the snow just inches from her feet, exploding with a burst of light and sound, sending a spray of ice and snow into the air.

Annika stopped, her head snapping around to look at Einar, eyes blazing with anger and confusion.

“That’s enough!” he yelled, his voice cutting through the wind. “Don’t let him turn you into what he is. Don’t take a life, not like this.”

For a moment, Annika stood frozen, her chest heaving, her fist still clenched, trembling in the air. She looked down at Newton, a pitiful sight now, barely conscious, his face swollen and bloodied, eyes flickering with fear.

Slowly, the rage in her eyes began to fade, replaced by something softer, more human. She lowered her fist, her breath steadying. “You don’t deserve this mercy,” she muttered to Newton, her voice barely audible.

Einar approached cautiously, his gun still raised, but his eyes were on Annika. "Radio the helicopter, tell them the area is clear. Take care of the passengers," he instructed, his voice steady.

Annika hesitated for a moment, her gaze lingering on Newton’s crumpled form. Reluctantly, she pulled away, her icy armor dissolving back into mist as she turned toward the survivors who needed her. It was who she was at her core—someone who saved lives, who cared for the innocent. Einar knew that better than anyone.

But Einar also knew who he was deep down.

As he walked toward Newton, he felt the familiar weight of his decision settle over him like the cold Arctic wind. He took off his mask, his cold blue eyes locked onto the wounded supervillain before him. Newton looked up, his face swollen and bloodied, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"He was my friend, too," Einar said, his voice edged with an ice-cold fury that cut deeper than the wind that whipped around them.

Newton's eyes flickered with recognition, his lips curling into a mocking smile despite the pain. "She isn't a killer," Einar continued, his voice firm. "And I won't see blood stain her hands—not even yours."

"Arrest me already," Newton spat, a twisted grin spreading across his battered face. "Send me to prison so I can just break out again!" He laughed, a harsh, grating sound that sent a fresh trickle of blood from his mouth.

Einar shook his head slowly, his gaze never wavering. "No," he replied, his voice low and calm. Unlike Annika, who let the world believe she had a heart of ice, he truly did. He had embraced the old ways long ago. His magic was fueled by the warrior spirit of his ancestors, the cold pragmatism of the Norsemen who had raided, explored, and carved their legends into the bones of Europe.

He raised his gun, his fingers steady on the trigger. "Tiwaz, Jera, Raidho," he chanted, invoking the names of the runes, a prayer to Tyr, the even-handed god, calling him as the judge for this primal act of justice.

Newton scoffed, his confidence unshaken. Deflecting bullets had become second nature to him, as easy as breathing. But what Newton couldn’t understand was that physics was not a law to magic—it was more of a guideline. And when Einar enchanted a bullet to strike true, nothing in this world could stop it.

Annika’s head snapped up as the sound of the gunshot rang out over the howling wind, a single, sharp crack that echoed through the frozen air. Her heart quickened, and she turned, fearing the worst—had Newton managed to get a second wind? But as she looked, she saw Einar walking back toward her, calmly reloading his revolver, his mask hanging from his belt.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice tense. “Are you alright?”

"He tried to resist arrest and attacked me," Einar said, his tone cold, practical, and matter-of-fact. "I had to react. Tell HQ he has been neutralized. And we will need a body bag."

Annika stared at him for a moment, then slowly nodded. A certain sense of relief washed over her—relief that the man who had killed her brother and taken so many innocent lives was no more. She turned away, heading back to the survivors, her shoulders relaxing just a little, the weight she’d carried for so long finally beginning to lift.

Einar felt no guilt for what he had done. Perhaps there was even a measure of satisfaction, the kind that comes from justice being served in a visceral, ancient way. But more importantly, he knew that his hands, already stained by blood, would not be changed by adding more. Better that hers remained as white as the snow and her heart remained unhardened.

He holstered his gun, feeling the cold steel settle against his side, and glanced up at the bleak, gray sky. The wind howled around him, carrying with it the whispers of the old gods, the spirits of warriors who understood that justice, like the cold, could be harsh and unforgiving.

He turned to follow Annika, his steps crunching in the snow, and silently thanked whatever fate had brought them together. In this world of ice and shadows, they balanced each other—his heart of ice, her compassionate soul.