I am lost in a dark place. The silence is the worst part. I see flashes of the slaughter of my people and the capturing of Sýr, but it’s like watching everything unfold from far away and through water. I see Einar, and he looks as if he’s trying to tell me something. But I don’t want to hear it. I struggle to retreat, move away from him, or fight, but I cannot.

Sýr’s face hovers over mine. Stay with me. She is gone again too soon, replaced by Katla’s laughing face. No. I have to find my way back to myself. Wake up, Runa. Wake up.

A bright flash of lightning jolts me awake and freezes the night sky in jagged relief. A drenching rain pours over everything. The sea below rages with waves that will destroy the small skiffs left untended on the beach. My lines and traps and nets will all be lost at this rate, but none of that matters. The sky booms and rumbles, as if Thor himself is angry with us.

I search the heavens for a sign of Núna, but she is nowhere. I pray the Jötnar didn’t kill her with their yellow dust. I want to call out to her, but my voice won’t come. When I open my mouth, sadness sucks my air from me.

And Amma? What of my amma? I did not see her in the turmoil, and I pray to Freyja that she was hiding when that strange cloud blew over our village. If she doesn’t know, how will I tell her that Sýr is gone? Frigg is dead, and so many of our clan too. I fear that I have lost all of them. Please, not Amma. What will become of us? Of me? And Father? Even if he finds his way back to us, there will be nothing left. We are in ruins.

I sit up, groaning at the pain in my chest. My mind flashes back to the dripping dagger Katla hurled into me. Was it real? Magic? There is a faint mark on my chest. It could be the shape of a crescent moon, or perhaps a fang. I touch it with trembling fingertips, the light graze shooting a deep ache all the way through to my back. I gag and then vomit a thin, yellow fluid.

The dagger must be embedded within me, but how can that be? With my thumb I squeeze a few drops of blood out of the cut and use it to make the sickness rune of Hagall on top of the mark on my chest, shuddering at the sensation. Whatever Katla impaled me with, I must fight against it, for I can feel a cold ache spreading throughout my body now. It could be from the rain that has been soaking me while I lay here unconscious for hours or from the wind that rattles me now, but I know within myself that the ache is from the witch’s dagger. The physical pain mixes with my deep fear that everyone I know and love is gone.

I cannot give into the sadness spreading through me like poison. I must get up. I must find Amma. Get up, Runa. Get up.

My village is blanketed in the black robes of night as I struggle to my feet. The usual torches and tallow candles are unlit. There is no one left to light them.

I stumble over the rocks surrounding my lookout and make my way back to the little dwelling Sýr and I share. Pushing open the door, I see there are still some coals glowing in the hearth, and I stagger toward them to try to warm myself. A stub of tallow candle sits on the stones next to the fire, and I ignite it on the coals and place it in its holder. Shivering, I carry it through my empty home to light the way, stopping to share the flame with other stubs, until I have enough light to see that I am alone in a way I have never been in my life before. When there’s no one else around, the world seems an unkind place. Even the beloved objects around me, the tools and trinkets of daily life, take on an air of indifference that is almost sinister. How can an empty bowl feel like a punch to the guts? I don’t know, but it can.

I’m so cold, but I have no time to change. I grab the patched sheepskin hanging across the entrance to my room and throw it over my shoulders, its heavy weight and musty smell a welcome reminder of Frigg’s wares, and her generosity with them. She always made sure Sýr and I had warm hides if we needed them. I will miss her kindness, her bravery.

I fight back the tears. There is no time to cry. I have to go down to the village, and I have to be strong, for I need to find Amma and check for survivors. I believe the Jötnar have left, but they could have sent assassins to finish off anyone who escaped the first wave of the raid.

We have no real weapons here save for basic hunting and fishing tools, but I remember that Sýr and I once found a long fishing spear on one of our shoreline explorations. I search through our collection of walking sticks and sheep staffs in the back corner until I find it, recognizing its unusual feel in my hand.

The material is unlike any other I’ve seen. It’s pale and shimmering, not at all like wood, and the spear is too long to be made of bone. I’ve also never seen bone with an iridescent sheen like this. Swirling designs much like waves are carved into its length. On the shaft end there is a fitted stone cap made of a brown translucent rock that suffered a crack at some point. The other end is sharpened into a fine-tipped spear with a curved hook. It’s a long spear, much taller than I am, and it looks like something from a distant land. When we found it I begged Sýr to let me keep it, and she relented, even though she was sure we could have gotten a good trade for it in the market. There was something about it that I loved.

It’s lightweight but also strong. It’s pale and fragile-looking but also deadly. These are the qualities I hoped I’d develop one day, and I dreamed I’d get there with Sýr’s guidance. I know now that the future I imagined is gone, and I will be lucky to survive the night. The Jötnar will murder me when I descend to the village, or the magical dagger Katla stabbed me with will freeze my heart, or the deep loneliness I feel now will end me. As I stand in my empty little home without my sister, my truest friend, I feel this with a stark clarity.

A sob builds in my throat, and I clamp my free hand over my mouth. Be brave, Runa. Amma needs you. Sýr’s voice in my mind, as always, though I must be imagining it now. Sýr is gone and I’m on my own, but of course this is what she would say.

I cannot descend to the village along the cliff path without a light. I would fall to my death, despite my knowledge of the terrain, but I cannot walk out of here with a lit torch in case the killers are waiting. They would never encounter an easier target.

I need to light my way. A rune spell? Yes, of course. I open my pouch of practice runes and pour them out on the table.

With shaking hands, I touch them all, trying to be tender and unhurried so as not to offend or rush them.

“Now,” I whisper, “please help me. I need to light my way. I ask you to be a guiding light for me.”

I arrange my runes in the shape of Sól, the rune for the sun, and close my eyes to try to imagine the warmth of the summer sun, the heat of a bonfire, the flicker of a candle.

To cast a rune, I must trust my feelings, and I must live in the present moment. A runecaster who wants to cast a vengeance spell must feel the rage within and harness it to achieve their goal. A runecaster who wants to make a marriage spell to join two people together must understand romantic love. The most difficult runes to cast are ones that combine complex emotions and elements from the physical world. Heat and fire and love and passion. Cold and ice and contempt and war. The runes of time and of invisibility and mastery over death have eluded runecasters throughout our history, for these are difficult to experience.

After a few minutes my hands begin to tingle. I open my eyes, and the runes are glowing. I can’t believe it worked. “Thank you,” I whisper. The last time I tried this spell, I started a fire by accident and destroyed a large pile of moss Sýr had been saving for soup.

I gather the runes and place them back in the pouch hanging around my neck. It glows enough to help me see a few inches in front of me. If I hold the pouch out from my body and walk along in a crouch, this should work, and the light is not so bright that it can be seen from afar. It will have to do.

I creep out the door, holding my spear in front of me to steady me on the path, and I half-crouch, half-walk down the rocky cliff side toward my village, the runes glowing enough to show me where the edge of the path falls into darkness. I can’t see the black, raging sea below, but I feel it. The sea goddess Rán beckons, and I wonder if the ocean hungers the way people do. I say the rune of the sea, Lögr, Please don’t kill me this night.

Going along my path a few feet at a time has a calming effect on me. Any other time, I’d be panicking about what was about to happen next or what I’d find at the village, but being forced to focus on the space in front of me is soothing somehow, and I’m grateful.

The rocky path gives way to wet sand, and the spray from the violent waves hits me in the face. Sneaking up the banks to the village enclave, I listen for any sounds of life, for murderous Jötnar, for the injured, for anything. All I can hear is the wail of the wind over the pounding of my own heart.

Any fires set by the Jötnar have long since burned out or been extinguished by the heavy rains, and I find myself standing in the village center with the dead bodies of my clan piled around me, all life suspended at once, all work and survival and busyness halted.

Each one of my clanspeople awakened this morning with the day stretching out in front of them. They were certain of the time they had, focused on the fish they needed to catch, the goats they needed to slaughter, the people they needed to love. Now that is over, and I am here. Alone. The wind wails. The sea churns. And death doesn’t care.

Despair pours over me and chills me more than the rain. I cry out as thunder slams the sky. It is followed by a strike of lightning, too close, and I jump when I see a standing figure briefly illuminated by the light of Thor’s bolt. I crouch with my spear raised. If I’m going to die, it will be fighting.

“Say your name,” I command over the wind. My voice comes out much stronger than I expected.

The figure does not answer. Thor’s great show of rage and power continues to drum and flash overhead, lighting up the shape of the motionless body over and over. It makes no sound, no advance. It is as still as a dead man.

I step toward it, moving closer to where it waits, solid and unyielding as stone, between the remains of the stalls and dwellings of my people.

Closer I edge, and I hold up my glowing runes to give me light between the flashes. Still the dark figure looms unmoving.

I am a spear’s length from it now.

“What say you?” I ask. “I demand to know.”

It does not answer.

“By the goddess Freyja and her armies, I command you to speak,” I say, giving the figure a poke. The sharp tip of my spear squelches into its shoulder. A dagger of lightning, bigger than the rest, sizzles above me, striking the half-burned roof of a nearby dwelling, and the figure’s face reveals itself in the firelight.

It’s one of the village woodsmiths, Sveinn Sigurdson. My father sought him out whenever he needed quality axe handles. Now here Sveinn stands, still as a tree himself, transfixed by a power I don’t understand, and I realize with horror that the tip of my spear is still poking into him. I withdraw it in haste.

“I’m sorry,” I say, the wind howling around us, but Sveinn does not react. His eyes are glazed over, and I wonder if the strange dust Einar blew over the clan is to blame. Indeed, I spot smudges of yellow around Sveinn’s nostrils.

I place a hand on the man’s shoulder, and even though he is one of my own, his countenance is terrifying. I give him a little shake, hoping to wake him, but if a spear to the shoulder did not jostle him, what will a gentle nudge do? I must push a little too hard, because he falls backward, thudding to the wet ground like a tree falling.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, crouching next to him. I realize now that the woodsmith is not alone in his strange state. All around me, lit by the flashing night sky, are people I know, stiff and unmoving, as if they have been robbed of their souls. Some are standing, some are lying on the ground. Some are sitting, some still holding their arms and hands out in the pose they were in when the dust hit them.

I rush to each of them in turn, waving my hand in their faces, jostling them, calling their names. I check each one, but none of them respond to me. I am invisible to them.

As far as I can tell, they are alive. I’ve seen my share of dead people. These villagers aren’t bloated or mottled or stinking or stiff, as at least some of them would be by now if they were dead. It doesn’t take long for the bugs and the worms to find the dead, but there are none on these bodies. They’re as they were in life, but frozen.

Frigg! She was felled by the dust too, and I must find her. I am frantic as I search for her body. So many of my village landmarks have been destroyed, and the flashing sky makes it even harder for me to see than usual. My eyes have never been reliable at night, and now I feel near-blind.

At last I find her, and my heart surges with hope that I can wake her. She is curled on her side in the mud, and she looks much smaller this way. I brush her hair back from her face and see that the rain is falling into her open eyes. Gently I try to close them, but no part of her will move. I try to pull her over to a half-burned shed, but she is too heavy, and I curse my own weakness.

I will not leave her exposed, so I gather as much unburned wood and scraps of fabric as I can find and create a makeshift shelter for her. It’s not much, but it keeps the rain from her face.

I kneel next to her under the hastily made canopy and make promises as the storm rages around us. “I will go and find Sýr, and she will help you, Frigg. I swear this to you. I won’t let you stay like this forever.”

I hold my runes and whisper to them as I weep, begging them to undo the curse, but it doesn’t work. I use more of my own blood to make protection marks on Frigg’s forehead in hopes that it will keep her safe. After covering her in hides and blankets, I make my way through the village and cast safety spells on all my frozen people.

“Girl.” A weak voice in the darkness startles me. I spin around, holding out my glowing runes and my spear.

There, slumped by a swordsmith’s hut, is my grandmother.

“Amma,” I cry, rushing to her.

Amma is not frozen in time. She is not stiff and cold and petrified in position. Amma is dying the ordinary way, having been run through by a sword. I know this because the large, rough-hewn metal is sticking out of her belly. Dark blood seeps from the wound, and I dare not try to remove the sword.

“Amma, no,” I whimper.

She reaches to stroke my cheek. “Don’t cry, love. Don’t despair. I die as I lived.”

“Please,” I say. “We can get help.” Even as I say the words, I know they are not true. There would be no saving Amma from this wound even if the entire village weren’t under a spell.

Amma chuckles. “I tried to get to the swords. To fight them. The bastards were faster than me. But I got in a few chops, my girl. Don’t worry.”

I can’t help but smile. My tough old Amma.

“You’ll go to Valhalla,” I say. “And live with the gods.”

“Pish,” Amma scoffs. “Give me a little hut on the hill. Maybe some hákarl,” she adds, coughing out the words.

Hákarl. I remember the treat Sýr left for me, and I pull the piece I saved out of my pocket. How long ago this morning seems now. “Here,” I say, unwrapping the hákarl from the moss and offering it to her.

Amma sniffs it. “Ah, you are a good girl. The best girl. I always knew that.”

I am crying again as Amma takes a tiny nibble of the flesh I put to her lips. She is so fragile it makes my heart hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Don’t,” Amma chokes out. “I am dying now, and I cannot leave this realm unless I know you will be all right.”

I nod. “I am fine,” I lie. “I’m not hurt.” I don’t tell her about the magical dagger Katla stabbed me with.

“Runa. My Runa.”

“Yes, Amma. I am here.”

“Please, send me to sea when I am dead. I want to travel to my son, wherever he is. Perhaps I will find him again in the great fog.”

I nod, incapable of speaking.

Amma whispers, and I strain to hear. “A true descendant of the gods may wield the moonstone.”

“Amma, I don’t know what you mean. What do you mean?” I ask.

Her eyes roll back into her head, and she shivers so hard her teeth chatter.

“Amma, don’t leave me too.”

“You must fight, my girl,” she says. “You must travel to moonwater. You must follow the red moon and the stars until you see the great green lights to the north.”

I shake my head. “I can’t, Amma. I’m all alone. I don’t know how.”

“Find a way, or the clan is doomed,” she says. “We are all doomed.”

I look around at the cursed figures of my village. My love for them breeds the tiniest of hopes that maybe, if I can find Katla and if the gods are on my side, I can undo this dark magic.

“Runa,” says Amma, “I loved you before you were here.”

I hold tightly to her, willing her to die soon and without pain, but that is not what happens.

It takes all night for Amma to leave the realm of the living. It is not quick. It is not painless. She sees things, visions, that make no sense. She wails and cries and calls for her own mother. I have never felt such love and such hatred all at one time.

By morning the storm has subsided and the dark sky gives way to a golden dawn that bathes the horror of my home in a light so beautiful it doesn’t seem fair. I carry the wasted body of my grandmother to the shore and rest her on a broken fishing raft I find there.

After giving her a kiss, I use her own blood to write the vegvisir on her chest, and then I set her adrift in the cold waters.

“Farewell, Amma,” I whisper. “I love you.”

I watch her little raft until it disappears on the horizon. In the bright morning light I think I see something dark fall through the air in the distance. But I tell myself I must be seeing things. My eyes hurt. I’m tired and cold, and I feel like walking into the ocean after my grandmother. Maybe now is the best time to die.

I hear a piercing cry and look up to see Núna flying toward me. She alights on my shoulder, and I sob, sinking down onto the black sand. I stay like that for a long time, my raven a quiet comfort.

I don’t know if I pass out from exhaustion or if I have my sickness again, but I enter a dark dream. In it I see Katla, her eyes dead and black. She transforms into a giant serpent that swallows Sýr and Amma and everyone I know. Then the serpent comes for me. Grabak. I hear the name in my mind, and at first I am terrified, but then I become angry. I feel myself growing larger, until I am bigger than the serpent. I open my mouth, unhinging my jaw, and swallow the Katla serpent whole. It bites the inside of my throat, and I can feel it wriggling in my chest. I drink buckets of seawater to wash it down, but it hangs on, and I wonder how long it will take to die now that it is in my stomach. I feel it squirm, biting my insides until I can taste the blood in the back of my mouth. All I can do is keep swallowing and hope that it doesn’t climb back up.

When I awake, Núna is sitting on my chest, her claws digging into me, and I am flat on my back on the black sand, the cold water lapping at my legs. I am so cold that I can’t move well, and if I don’t get warm soon, I will die. I pull myself up with great effort, the pain shooting through my chest, and I gather my shining spear, my runes, and my sheepskin.

“Thank you, Núna,” I say, the words strangling in my throat. “You brought me back. Now we have work to do.”

Núna squawks and flies off ahead of me toward my hut. I head up the cliff path, avoiding the scene of my destroyed village and my cursed clan, and as I walk I grow a little warmer. I feel my anger growing too. Each step I take drives it down into the center of me. I know some things now for certain.

I will honor my amma, and fulfill my promises to my clan, by finding a cure. I will travel to moonwater and bring my sister home. Together we will set things right, and Katla and the Jötnar will regret ever setting foot on our shores. And if I find Einar, mixer of dust, I will make him eat his own poison.