My heart clenches hard in my chest before thumping out of control. I take a deep breath and hold it, forcing the air down and bearing into it. Sometimes this helps make the erratic hammering slow back down to a steady rhythm. If I don’t get my heart to calm itself, I will pass out. And I cannot lose consciousness. Not while there is such terror unfolding down in my village. I can’t have my sickness. Not now. Please, not now.

From the window of the hut I cannot really see what is happening. I need to get to my lookout—a place farther up the path that I’ve built up out of rocks and odd stones and shells. I like to hide out there when I want to do nothing but stare at the sea and escape village life. From there, I will have a better view of the settlement below.

Scrambling through my room and out the door, I fall over the threshold and crack my knee. I rub it as I hobble as fast as I can through the chill of the evening to my lookout.

The air is acrid, filled with the scent of burning. Don’t look back, I tell myself, hurrying to reach the safety of my rocky barricade. I give a final push of energy as I run up the steep path and throw myself, heaving and shaking, over the low rock wall. I lie there on my belly a moment, ignoring the pain of sharp rocks digging into my ribs, and then raise up on my knees to peek over the other side.

From here I can see everything. The open sea, the hills to the north, the rocky cliff path, and my village, now a scene of mayhem and fire. Jötnar warriors have come, and they are making their way through the village with ruthless speed. Sheep and horses run amok in a confused frenzy, having been released from their pens when the huge warriors invaded the stalls to kill the keepers. The Jötnar stab at animals and people alike with long spears or hack at them with axes as they run past. Sheep run headlong into burning piles, too stupid and scared to understand the danger. Those who escape the flames run instinctively for the high ground. Some scatter up and over the hillsides on the other side of the village, and others careen up the path toward me, only to fall over the perilous cliff edge to their deaths. Their bleating, sickening screams are matched only by the terrified sounds coming from my people.

Sýr. Where is Sýr? Panic flushes through me. I need her. I know I have to fight, but I have no weapons, and my runes and my skills are not strong enough to cast a spell of consequence.

Scanning the chaos, I try to find her among the men, women, and young ones fleeing their burning homes, but the smoke is too thick. And now there’s something else obscuring my vision.

A yellow dust floats out over the village, swirling in menacing plumes, and I know right away that it is not a thing of nature. It is not of this realm. As the people of my clan hurl themselves into the throng to fight the invaders and try to protect one another, many of them drop to the ground as soon as they encounter the strange cloud.

I trace the path of the plume to a higher point on the hills and see two men standing together. The larger of the two, a massive Jötnar warrior, is blowing the yellow dust from a long horn. I can’t see well through the haze, but then the wind shifts, and for a moment I see the other figure. I can tell by the tall, lean frame that it’s Einar Ymirsson, the Jötnar heir, the one the girls were giggling about. He’s mixing something in a pot on the ground. As I watch, he scoops a yellow mixture into the horn for the enforcer to blow over my village. It is his doing! His poison that is felling my people! Einar’s expression is unreadable, and the warrior continues to blow.

“Damn you!” I cry, directing all my fury at them. I clutch my runes. I have no confidence that a spell will work, but I will try.

“Einar Ymirsson of the Jötnar,” I say, standing to get a better look at him, “I will cast you into the realm of Hel, and even the dead will shun you there.”

Einar stops mixing and looks up. I drop back down, my heart once again skipping and the terror clenching my chest. I may die from fear. I have no way of knowing if he saw me, but it feels like he did. Though his eyes are not visible from this distance, something inside of me felt seen. Don’t panic. I try to calm my heart again, but I feel my grasp on this realm slipping.

No. I have to stay here for Sýr. I cannot fall into my sickness. Not now. The air around me swirls, flashing lights in a sea of white, and I drift into the forgetting dream again.

I wander in a fog-filled graveyard. All around me are the markers of the burial places of my people. I pause in front of a large stone marked with a blue circle. I know Sýr is buried here. I don’t know how or why I know, but the knowledge is in my bones. I drop to my knees and place my hands on the smooth rock. I will resurrect her. I will find a way.

Stay with me.

Sýr’s voice. She’s leading me through the fog. I follow her voice as it beckons. The haze clears a little, and I can see her waiting for me.

Sýr, I call out, but she doesn’t answer. She stares at me with a sad look and then opens her cloak to reveal a deep wound in her belly.

I hurry toward her, but as soon as I reach her, she disappears. I jerk back to reality again, my ears filled afresh with the screams of my people.

There aren’t as many crying out now. This time, when I peek over the rock wall of my lookout, there are just a few people left standing.

I see Haraldr the Elder being dragged from his dwelling by Ymir, the Jötnar chief. Ymir had earned the name Ymir the Devourer, for both his ferocity in battle and his insatiable appetite. He once consumed an entire sheep in one sitting, including the offal and the marrow. That Ymir was a hulking, powerful man, but this Ymir is smaller and wasted down, as though starving.

I watch in horror as he stomps on Haraldr the Elder until the man is dead, the blows coming with sickening force. The old man cannot defend himself. I struggle to make sense of what I’m seeing. Ymir is known to be a warring man, but not a cruel one. I have not heard tales of him being such a coward as to kill an elder. So why this? Why now?

I get my answer when another figure emerges from the dwelling behind Ymir. It’s a woman clad in a golden robe, with yellow hair that flows in serpentine locks around her face. Her demeanor is relaxed, as though this is any other day and the carnage taking place around her is a common thing. But in the next moment, power glows from her, crackling with energy, and I understand that this is all because of her. I blink, trying to get a better look at the woman, but my eyes keep jumping around, making it hard to focus. It’s not just my eyes though. There’s something about her. Her image keeps bouncing, and I can’t fix my gaze on her. It’s as if she has shrouded herself with an obscuring spell.

This must be Katla, the mysterious sorceress said to have infiltrated the Jötnar clan. No one knows where she came from, and many think she is hungry for power and intent on taking over the Jötnar. To what end, I cannot imagine.

She is magnificent to look at—and terrifying. She changes even as I am looking at her. At times she resembles a beautiful young woman, and at others her face looks withered and scaly. Her black eyes are unblinking, like a serpent’s, and she seems to grow and shrink in size. I must be seeing things.

When she moves, she appears to glide over the ground. I cannot look away, even though it hurts my eyes to look at her, the way staring at the sun makes them burn and water.

Helpless, I watch as Katla directs the Jötnar to kill the last of the fleeing villagers. I see movement on the hillside, as Einar the dust-maker runs toward the violence with the long horn in his hands. He probably wants to murder more of my people. He’s making his way to his father and to Katla, arriving as they close in on the last two figures remaining.

Sýr. And Frigg.

My sister and her lover stand together, stoic, clasping one another, their backs against the wall of a dwelling as its roof smolders.

I can see that Frigg is holding Trollbonker out in warning.

Katla and Ymir advance toward them.

There is no time. I must cast a protection spell. I pull my Ýr rune from my pouch. “Give me the power of the yew,” I say, unwrapping the bandage on my thumb. I squeeze blood out onto my runestone and then use it to form the Ægishjálmr, the Helm of Awe, on the dirt in front of me. This is the bindrune we use to overcome enemies.

“Please,” I whisper to the rune, begging as my blood drips over the soil of my homeland. “Protect Sýr. Please.”

But I know it won’t work, for I am too scared, and casting this rune requires confidence.

As I watch, Frigg charges at Katla, but one of the Jötnar guards strides forward, his sword aimed straight at Frigg’s heart. Before the blade can pierce her body, Einar blows a plume of dust at Frigg. She freezes and collapses to the ground, a look of surprise and pain on her face.

My sister screams, and the sound is an assault on my heart. Even the stones of my lookout seem to rattle from the force of her anguish. I have never seen Sýr so full of rage. My gentle sister is now aglow with hatred, but for some reason she doesn’t act. She doesn’t run or fight.

Katla, holding a dagger now, advances on Sýr. The weapon is sharp and menacing, but as Katla draws closer, Einar steps forward and hands her the horn. He says something to her, but from up here I cannot decipher his words.

Sýr chooses this moment to wield the flickering moonstone, holding it high above her head so that its light flashes over her in a frantic rhythm, like a heartbeat close to stopping. I pray to Freyja that Sýr’s own heart doesn’t fail her. Though the stone seems to be failing, my sister mouths a spell I cannot hear but that I imagine must be one of protection.

In response Katla blows the dust at Sýr.

It has little effect on Sýr, for her spell acts as a shield, and the cloud dissipates as soon as it reaches her.

Now the two witches are locked in a silent battle, hands outstretched, each of them directing all her power at the other. Sýr’s blue light extends outward, pulsing at Katla, and Katla responds with her own yellow glow. I don’t see a stone or amulet or wand in Katla’s possession. The energy with which she’s fighting Sýr seems to be coming from her own hands. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Though Katla and Sýr are standing still, glaring at one another, I know each of them is using everything she has to gain control of the other.

“Sýr,” I say. “I believe in you.” I rub the protection rune once more, saying its name, and use all of my love to direct its power toward my sister.

It’s almost as if my little spell causes a hiccup in the action, because as I intone the words, both Sýr and Katla turn toward me, looking up from the village below to where I am standing, now in full view, on the clifftop.

Sýr smiles at me and says something, but as Katla looks at me, she somehow has two faces. One is staring at me in fury, the other at Sýr with vicious glee.

Sýr holds up the moonstone. For a moment I think she is going to throw it or crack it on the rocks at her feet. Does she mean to destroy the coveted stone? Could she?

Instead Sýr tosses it up into the air. It does not come back down again. In a flash of blue light, the stone disappears.

Katla screams a wail of despair so high-pitched it rings in my ears until it feels like my head will split open. Sýr and Einar clutch their heads in pain too, and I watch as my sister falls to her knees. Ymir appears unaffected, standing still and expressionless until Katla gives him an order. A witch commanding a chief? He steps forward and searches Sýr for the stone, ripping at her garments. Sýr continues to kneel on the ground and doesn’t fight. She ignores Ymir and keeps her gaze, tender and sad, on Frigg’s lifeless body.

Sýr glances up at me for one brief moment. As she does, I hear her voice, distinct in my mind. It will always be the two of us, Runa. Until the end of time.

Ymir, having no luck finding the moonstone, lifts his sword to strike Sýr, but a small movement from Katla stops him.

Two large Jötnar warriors step forward and grab Sýr. They drag her toward Katla and pull her to standing as the witch takes out a long rope from inside her robe. I can see that it’s made of the same kind of silky fabric as her cloak, complete with a yellow-and-white diamond pattern. She uses it to bind Sýr’s hands and then confiscates the sack of runes hanging from Sýr’s neck. I realize in horror that they intend to take my sister with them as their captive. The only reason they have spared her is because they desire the moonstone.

I long to call out, to chase after them, but I know I am powerless. At least Sýr is not dead. Not yet. But I know they will kill her as soon as Katla can decipher whatever spell Sýr used to make the moonstone disappear.

I am so busy watching my sister being dragged away that at first I don’t notice Katla looking up at me from amid the devastation. As bodies burn and my village lies in ruins, the witch smiles a sick smile, her mouth wide and filled with sharp-looking teeth, her eyes flat and unfeeling.

Our eyes meet, and her image finally stops bouncing around and comes into clear focus. For a moment she is locked in my gaze. My hearts feels as though it will stop in my chest, and I gasp for breath.

No. Not now. The edges of my vision blur as Katla reaches into her cloak and pulls out a thin dagger that drips with a glowing substance. Poison? I try to move, to scream, but I cannot.

With a silent spell spitting out between her teeth, Katla hurls the dagger at me, and I watch, paralyzed with fear, as it flies through the air and strikes me in the chest with a thud. It feels like a shard of ice has pierced me through, so cold it feels hot. Once it is embedded in my chest, it seems to disappear. There is no blood, only agony.

I fall backward onto the rocks of my lookout, splayed like a sacrifice to the gods, my eyes open to the darkening red sky. A plaintive cry floats out over the village. Turning my head, I see Sýr. She has seen me take this hit and calls out to me before falling limp in the grasp of the Jötnar guards, her strength sapped.

They drag Sýr along as Katla cackles, Ymir following her. His mindless obedience and stiff way of walking reminds me of a draugr, the undead creatures powered by witchcraft that Amma has told me about. Only Einar seems free from the control spell afflicting the other Jötnar, and he stands staring at me from afar. He stays that way for a long while, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s planning on coming back to finish me off. Finally, Katla calls him away. He turns but casts a backward glance at me.

I reach out my hand, trying to will a spell to leave my fingertips and travel on the wind to punish him and make him suffer, but my arm falls limp. The pain in my chest is too great, and the sight of my sister, unconscious and enslaved, has broken my heart.

I struggle to stay in this realm. Perhaps I am trapped in a terrible dream. None of it can be real. I’m not here, this isn’t now, and when I wake up, Sýr will be here. The whole world is covered in the blood of my people, and darkness comes to consume me.