Yilva - Chapter 3

Yilva sees a hravyn projection and sets sail.

Every night since she had started building her boat, Yilva had the same recurring visions of being at the dock, not in her own body, and with heightened senses. One night, the moons lit the iced-over sea so brightly she could see her reflection. But instead of her own face, a wulfr glowing bright indigo stared back at her.

This night, however, a noise woke her before the vision started, something between a croak and a caw. She shuffled to the window, blankets still draped around her shoulders.

Through the falling snow, she saw a hravyn perched on the branch of an oakn tree, its body glowing faintly blue.

Did the Volkvir send this hravyn? Was it someone’s astral projection, similar to the indigo wulfr in her dreams? Were they just dreams, or were they as real as what she was witnessing now?

Yilva stepped out into the cold night. The snow fell gently on her hair and the blankets she used for cover.

The bird cocked its head, watching her. White snowflakes shimmered blue as they fell around it. Then, without a sound, it flew toward the Ees Jor, its glow fading like a falling star.

Shivering, Yilva went back inside, the image of the bird etched in her mind.



Morning brought the earthy scent of arpna tea.

Her mother stood at the counter, chopping vegetables. “I made your favorite,” she said. “Any plans today?”

Yilva stiffened at the question. What was there to do in Estigar? Even before she knew of her Volkvir powers, she felt different from everyone else. She kept to herself mainly and didn’t have many friends. With the ears of Vlurst and his men everywhere, she had to be careful who to confide in. Talk of Volkvir or standing up against the Clan of Mok was dangerous if not deadly.

Her mother was the only one she could speak to about Volkvir ways, and even then, Feryn rarely wanted to. She had learned a few things from Gregor, but now he was dead. Tomod was a good friend, but he could never understand what it was like for her.

The memory of Gregor’s execution, how many of the villagers shouted accusing words at him, only reinforced that she could trust no one.

She debated telling her mother about the boat and her plans to attempt to find the Volkvir. She imagined arriving at their shores with their arms open to her. She could develop her powers and be her true self, whatever that was.

How would her mother react if she told her? Would she demand that she keep her powers secret and forbid her from sailing away? Yilva didn’t know if she could bear the disappointment.

“Not really,” she said.

Feryn set the knife down. “Your aura has changed. It’s turning purple, like mine did when magic first came to me.”

“Are you going to warn me not to use it?”

“You already know the dangers. Keep it hidden from Vlurst and the Clan. Don’t give them any reason to be suspicious.”

Yilva poured herself a cup of tea. “I’ve been having strange dreams,” she admitted. “They started a week ago. Dreams of being a wulfr. And last night I saw a glowing hravyn. I think the Volkvir are calling to me.”

Feryn’s gaze dropped. “And how would you find them?”

“I built a boat. Just finished it last night.”

“Ah.” Feryn tapped her fingers on the table. “Volkvir are difficult to find. They cast storms to hide their villages. What you seek may be impossible.”

“I feel they want me to come. Perhaps the hravyn was a sign.”

Feryn took Yilva’s hand from across the table. “This feels as inevitable as the storms.”

“I’ll be safe. I promise.”

Her mother resumed chopping. “Very well.”

Yilva walked around the table and hugged her tightly.

The knife slipped from Feryn’s hand, nicking her finger.

“I’ll get a bandage,” Yilva said, but when she checked the cut, there was no blood. “That’s strange.”

Feryn withdrew her hand a little too quickly. “It’s nothing. The blade must have barely grazed me.”

Yilva tried reaching for her wrist again, but her mother withheld it.

“I’m done cutting vegetables anyway,” she said, the words sounding rehearsed. “Don’t worry about it. Come, I’ll help you pack.”

Yilva nodded. She told herself the cut meant nothing, but unease clung in her chest like frost.



The sun gave little warmth to the cold air as Yilva and her mother walked toward the forest’s edge where the boat waited. Clouds drifted so slowly across the pale sky that one might not notice them move unless they watched for hours.

Estigar was the only home Yilva had known. Wooden houses lined the shore, their timbers darkened by years of frost. Smoke from the chimneys smeared the pale sky in drifting trails. Only a few homes were older than Yilva herself. Most had been rebuilt after fire and ruin when the Clan of Mok last descended on the quiet seacoast village.

The town’s center stood not far from the shore, clustered with shops whose mingled scents carried across the village: the sweetness of fresh-baked bread, the tang of iron from the smiths, together with the always sharp, salty ice blowing in from the frozen sea.

Already the fishermen were at work, crouched by drilled holes in the ice, thick furs wrapped close against the bitter wind. The scrape of augers and the low murmur of their voices carried faintly, part of the morning’s rhythm.

A large, tall building belonging to Vlurst stood at the shore, looming over town and sea as if to remind all those that lived there of his power and authority. Ever present. Ever watchful.

Yilva caught Aerif in the corner of her eye, opening the tavern, and knew Tomod would be inside setting up tables and chairs. She had already said goodbye to him last night. Sort of.

They walked past. There was nothing more to say to him anyway. She didn’t want it to get awkward and definitely didn’t want to give her mother any more ideas about them.

Feryn hummed an old lullaby Yilva remembered from childhood. She never grew tired of the melody, even as an adult, and knew the words by heart.



The night is dark and cold,

The storm is long and hard to bear,

But hush, my child, and feel my gentle arms,

Be strong and know I’m here.



The song had been a comfort during long storms or times when she lay sick in bed. It often accompanied her mother’s gentle care.

“Thank you for coming,” Yilva said. “It’s been forever since you left the house.”

“I wanted to see you off,” her mother replied softly. “I needed to.”

Yilva packed her supplies: food, water, a change of clothes, and just enough blankets to ward off the cold without crowding the small vessel. She stowed everything quickly, then helped her mother push the boat to the frozen shore.

“The village you seek is called Seidra,” Feryn said, pointing southwest. “I haven’t been there in decades. It’s a three-day journey, two if the winds are with you.”

“What will you tell Father?”

“That you’ve gone before the storms. If you return before Luthos nears Armos, you might beat him back, and I won’t have to say anything. But more importantly, you’ll arrive before the treacherous weather.”

“That doesn’t give me much time there,” Yilva said, remembering the distance between the moons, “but I’ll try.”

They embraced. Feryn’s voice was warm against her ear. “You are your father’s daughter. I’ve always seen a great seafarer in you. Be safe, and know that I love you.”

“I love you too,” Yilva whispered.

She climbed into the boat. The wooden hull, smooth and curved, rested on three metal skates. She closed her eyes, spread her fingers to feel the direction of the wind, and offered a prayer into the breeze:

“Luthos, guide my journey. Grant me constant winds and stay the storms.”

The sails swelled as the winds changed direction, pulling her southwest. If Luthos truly caused the winds, he certainly smiled on her now. Her mother, the forest, and the dock grew smaller until they faded away into endless white.

Ice extended in all directions, no landmarks but the ones marked miles away on her maps. By nightfall, she anchored herself in a safe stretch of ice, lowering metal barbs to slow the boat. Wrapped in blankets, she slept.



Yilva opened her eyes to a brilliant night sky. Luthos chased the larger moon, Armos—two giants forever sailing across a sea of stars.

The stillness of the plains pressed around her; no village noise, no worrying what Vlurst or his men were up to, only the quiet rush of wind on canvas. The moons seemed to keep watch over her as they lit her way with a silver glow. The silence calmed her mind.

She looked over maps, read, and ate as time passed. Tomod was right. It didn’t take long for her to wonder how everyone was doing at home, especially her mother. The feeling that she wasn’t truthful about the cut on her finger gnawed at her. It seemed Feryn grew more tired each day, as if carrying a weight Yilva couldn’t name.

Then, midafternoon, a flicker of blue in the distance. The same glowing hravyn from before. It circled her once, then veered right.

“Hello, my friend,” she muttered as she turned her sails to follow.

The bird led her westward the rest of the day and into the night. Off in the distance, straight ahead, dark clouds rose. Lightning forked across the horizon. She turned her ship away from the danger, but the hravyn returned, urging her onward into the storm.

Her chest tightened. Seamen often told tales of boats destroyed by hurricane winds, and of voyagers stranded on the ice for days before someone would rescue them, or worse, find them dead, frozen stiff. The risk was too great.

Could she trust this hravyn would keep her safe? Was she brave enough? If she went back home, how long would it be before she’d return to try again?

Thunder rumbled long and loud like a warning. The bitter freezing wind pressed against her face. Everything she’d ever been taught warned that death lay ahead in the menacing shroud of darkness.

Shaking her head at her own madness, she turned the tiller toward the storm and pressed forward.