My home seems smaller in this new light, as does everything I look upon. It’s as if the world has shrunk since the Jötnar attacked. I wonder if it is my perception or if it’s a result of the strange dust Katla’s errand boy made. It has given everything a sickly yellow sheen.

I don’t understand why Einar created that dust, for all the talk of him has been about his physical beauty and his smarts and his desirability as heir to a great clan—not tales of violence or betrayal. Despite the Jötnar clan’s history as warring giants, they’ve always been a just people. Ymir the Devourer was feared by many, but not for being a tyrant. Now he is a shadow of himself, made into a slack-faced slave by Katla. How many others is she controlling? In a moment of horror, I imagine the whole island, all the clans and magic folk alike, under her command. What if I’m the only one left unharmed?

I push away the thoughts that threaten to spiral me into a panic. I hurry to light and stoke a fire, my frozen hands struggling to strike the rocks. Finally I am able to make a spark against the dried moss we have stashed in a basket. Once the moss ignites, I feed smaller driftwood into it until the flames lick, and then I place larger birch on top. We don’t like to have long-burning fires in our village. We warm our homes as much as is needed to make them comfortable and then conserve the wood, as our forests are dwindling and wood is not plentiful. But I want this fire to be a blaze as big as possible, for the chill inside me is growing.

I strip off my soaked garments and shudder naked next to the flames. My chest is the coldest part of my body. I fear Katla has pierced my heart with a shard of ice. That’s what it feels like. I use a piece of scratchy wool cloth to rub my hair as dry as I can while I sit beside the fire. Violent shivers rack my body, as much from fear as the cold.

Once I am pink-skinned again, and I can feel the tingling pains in my fingers and toes that tell me I won’t be losing them altogether, I focus on warming my insides. Sýr always says seaweed and island moss are the best healing ingredients, so I place bunches of both in our large pot and add leftover dried fish and water until the mixture is bubbling. I drink down the hot soup until it threatens to come back up.

It feels wrong to eat and to enjoy this warmth while much of my clan lies dead and the rest are frozen outside. Even if I can find Sýr and she can cure them, I don’t know if they will die anyway from cold or starvation or who knows what else. And if they perish, what will happen to their souls? Will they be frozen too? Or will their spirits ascend to Valhalla or Freyja’s Field?

“I vow that I will return, and if we can’t save you, I will give every one of you a proper funeral,” I say to the empty room. My heart’s pain flows out of me, and I imagine it covering my entire village with a glowing light.

It will take a long time, if I am alone, to build rafts for each person and set them all ablaze on the ocean, but even if it takes months, I will accomplish it. I still have hope that Father will return, but he has been gone for long periods before. Once he left when I was three and didn’t return until after my twelfth birthday. I remember how he looked at me when he saw me again. I am sure I was not at all what he’d expected, for he’d left a happy sprite and returned to a gangling freak who caused nothing but problems. It’s no wonder he likes to stay away for so long.

The red light of the sky changes its patterns on my floor. The day is getting longer, and if I am going to try to find moonwater and embark on the most dangerous journey of my short life, I must set out soon. I know it is practical to travel during the day, so as to cover as much ground as possible in the light, and leaving at dawn would be best. But I also know that I cannot stand one more night alone here with my near-dead clan.

The wincing pain in my chest has given way to a dull ache. I try to set it aside as I get ready.

I take Sýr’s pot of cure-all salve from the shelf and rub some on the crescent mark on my chest before placing the pot in a large pack our family used in the past to transport goods on horseback. We’ve long since grown too poor to own horses, and the Jötnar made sure to kill all the remaining animals in our village during the raid, so it will be up to me to carry the bag. I will have to be careful when I choose what to bring. First I need to find clothes.

Both of my regular dresses are soaked through, so I put on two pairs of my own woolen leggings and socks and then scour Sýr’s sleeping area for a spare. I find an old brown knit dress that is too short but could work as a tunic. I decide to wear that and then find a heavier gray dress I can bring with me. A black lambs-wool cap and rabbit-skin gloves will keep me warm, and I also grab Sýr’s spare boots, which are still a couple of sizes too big for me. Another pair of socks will help fill in the space. In a back corner I find a heavy old cloak that is much too large and must have belonged to my father. It smells awful, but it is warm, and placing it over me gives me a small sense of protection.

On to supplies. I pack some small, sharp knives and snares for finding and cleaning game, along with some fishing lines and hooks. Though I will be venturing far from the coastline, I will still have opportunity to fish in the streams I find along the way. I will be sure to bring my special spear stick. Maybe I will use it to impale Katla.

I will bring a small axe for chopping wood—it’s too tiny to be a killing instrument—and a fire-rock with a sack of dry moss and fine wood shavings. Some tallow to use as a candle to light the darkness, some rope, and a small cooking pot. I will have no shelter and will need to find or make it each night, but I am hoping the journey will not be too long. As no one knows exactly where moonwater will be, and I don’t know which path Katla has taken with Sýr, it could be many days. All I know is that I must follow the red moon to the green lights in the north, and I must be there before the red moon eclipses, for that is when the competition will start.

I make sure to place my runes around my neck, as they will be my most valuable companions. We don’t trust each other yet, me and these runes, because I make so many mistakes, and they don’t always seem to listen to me, but they’re the best chance I’ve got.

I will also need food, so I gather grains for porridge, dried fish, moss, seaweed, dried goat, a jug of whey, a jug of mead, some roots and a prized hunk of whale blubber we’ve been keeping for a long time. Our clan rarely takes in a whale, but when we do, it feeds us for years. This blubber will give me food or fire when I need it.

Next I gather potions. Sýr has so many tiny pots with bits of herbs and powders that I can’t take them all, and I don’t know enough about her oils or tinctures yet to know which ones would be most useful on my journey. But I do know I should take the angelica in case of illness, and I also take her healing salves.

I open the large wooden trunk in Sýr’s room and am surprised to find it empty except for a bit of cloth.

How can this be? I have seen Sýr putting things in here all the time. I know the Jötnar didn’t take anything because no one has disturbed our dwelling. Looking closer, I see that the bit of cloth on the bottom of the trunk is a runecloth used for casting.

Maybe Sýr used an obscurity spell? I take out my runes with shaking hands and try to quiet my mind, but it’s so hard. I want Sýr. I cast my runes onto the cloth.

“Appear,” I command and then wait. Nothing.

Perhaps an unlocking spell?

I try again. “Open to me,” I say.

This time there is a glimmer on the cloth. Runes appear, and I read them. “Say the name my heart cherishes, and I will open to you.”

The name her heart cherishes? It must be Frigg. I say, “Frigg,” but nothing happens.

“Amma,” I try. Nothing.

I take a deep breath and then whisper my own name. “Runa.”

The cloth bursts into a flash of blue flame, revealing a secret latch near the bottom of the trunk. I pull it open and find Sýr’s hidden possessions. Pressed flowers, gifts from Frigg, a vial of shiny powder, a feather, and a ring that I slip onto my first finger. And there is a last item that makes me sit back and cry.

It is a black cloak, magnificent in its craftsmanship, with a bright blue lining that looks like it was hewn from the sky. I know this blue cloth had to have been dyed with pigments from a rare mineral found in the lava fields. Sýr would have had to trade for this mineral, and it explains why she was spending so much time giving readings at the markets. She was saving to get this for me. Sýr must have worked on this in secret, at night as I slept, and it must have taken her a long time to finish it. It is my runecaster cloak, meant for when I successfully ascend from apprentice to accomplished caster. Sýr never got to give it to me.

I long to put it on, to feel its glorious weight and relish in its color, but I cannot bring myself to do it. I have not earned this cloak. As I rub my hand along its soft length, I see a glimmer appear. A bindrune has been sewn into the inside of the hood and on each shoulder. One rune says future, one says past, and one says present. Sýr must have created these special runes for me to calm my nerves during my sickness. When I pass my hand down the edges of the garment, more symbols appear. Each rune we cast is accounted for.

I feel a moment of panic when I realize Sýr will not be with me every night to put me to sleep with her soft spells. What will happen to me without her? I clutch the cloak, breathing in the faint herbal scent that always reminds me of my sister, and then place it in my pack with the rest of my belongings.

I try to hoist the heavy bag onto my back, but I can barely lift it. This will be impossible to carry any great distance. I must put a spell on it to lighten the load. I take out my runes and cast them onto the table, whispering to them about my problem. I ask them to lighten my load, but instead of easing its weight, the runes make my pack glow.

“No,” I whisper. “That is not what I need. I need it to be lighter, not so heavy. Like this,” I say, pulling out Sýr’s feather. “As light as this, please,” I tell my runes.

My pack stops glowing, and I test its weight. It feels almost empty. I position it onto my back, take a few steps and then fall when the pack grows heavy again. The heaviness lasts for a brief moment before lightening up again.

“We need to work on consistency,” I say to the runes, and I feel another pang for Sýr.

I must track Sýr and liberate her from Katla and the Jötnar, but I don’t know what I will do once I find them. I know Sýr can’t fight them alone with the stone waning as it is, and I know Katla will be headed to moonwater for the gathering of the clans. All of this is about the moonstone. I know that now. Katla will try to compel Sýr to give her the stone, but it isn’t so simple. The moonstone will need to be charged in the sacred waters, and Katla must know that when that has been accomplished, the moonstone will be more powerful than she can imagine. We don’t even know whether Sýr can wield a fully charged moonstone, and surely Katla will not be able to hold it herself. Will she? I hope not, for once the moonstone is charged, there will be no more use for Sýr.

I must get to my sister before that happens. I must find a way. I will have to sneak Sýr away or find a warrior loyal to my family line and promise them payment for help. Perhaps the members of the ancient council of runecasters will help me if they know my story. To find out, I have to get to moonwater. The best plan is to find my sister as soon as possible and break her free so that Sýr can fix everything.

I’m going to need help finding her, and to do that I will need a vegvisir. A regular runic compass like the cloak clasp Amma gave me won’t work. It has to be a different kind. The living kind.

With my pack on my back, I step through the doorway of my home into the clear midday air. If I didn’t know about the horrors down in the village, this would seem like any other day. I never thought pleasant weather and the shining sun could seem cruel, but it’s almost too much to bear.

I walk uphill along the cliff side to my lookout so I can see all the way to where the ocean meets the sky. I focus on the horizon, where the gods rest in eternity, and pull out one of my sharp knives.

“Please, goddess Freyja, guide me, protect me through the fog of the future, and lead me to Sýr,” I say as I press the tip of the knife into the back of my left hand.

The blade stings as it pierces the skin, and I will myself to draw a design into my flesh. Then I mark the points of the compass, all the intricate lines and curves and dots that will tell me which way to go. As my blood bubbles around the wound and the pain burns my arm, I think of Sýr. As I do, my vision clouds, and right as I am about to panic and fight against the oncoming sickness, I see Sýr’s face. She’s laughing, smiling, looking into Frigg’s eyes, down at the stand in the village. Then a flash and I see Sýr again, walking with me through the crunching snow after a training session. Then another flash, and another, and another. Always Sýr’s face, always a memory of the past, until I can see all of her faces in a row, stretching back through time, growing younger with each iteration.

A sound like a door slamming shut echoes in my mind, and I come back to myself. My blood drips off the cliff and into the sea as the red moon dips lower in the sky. I look at my hand and make to cover it with salve, but as I do the vegvisir appears to swivel, pointing me in the other direction. It works. Can I trust my spell to lead me the right way?

“Thank you,” I whisper to the compass. “Thank you!” I shout out to the heavens.

Before I move on, I mix the remaining blood from my vegvisir with a lock of my hair that I hacked off with the sharp knife. I rub the two together in my palms and smudge the mixture onto a massive rock that looks over our village and informs travelers which lands they are visiting. This is where our ancestors wrote their runes, and now those marks are almost invisible. I whisper to the runes and ask them to protect my people.

“Sleep well, people of Myrkur Strönd,” I say. “I will find Sýr, and she will cure you.”

I summon Núna, calling her with a mournful cry that soars over the sleeping village. She appears on the wind and alights on my shoulder, and I take a moment to give her a final meal of dried worms.

“Núna,” I say, “I must go, and you cannot follow.”

Núna squawks and ruffles her wings. I can tell she is not pleased.

“I need your help, Núna. You must fly. You must go out over the great ocean and find Father. Please, Núna. Fly to Father and bring him back.” I take the ring from my finger and slip it onto Núna’s foot.

She caws and lifts off, flapping in front of me for a moment before climbing higher into the red sky.

“I love you,” I whisper.

She flies off and disappears into the horizon, and I feel the ache in my chest grow deeper as I watch the last of my loved ones disappear.

With every bit of power I have, I turn my back on my home, on the people I’ve known and loved and disliked and survived with for my entire life. They’ve tolerated me and cared for me, and now I face the open landscape of this mysterious island alone. It’s a world I’ve never been allowed to discover.

I turn my back on the open sea, on the adventures in far-off lands that I’ve dreamed of so often and on the father I fear has been lost. I hope Núna finds him, and soon.

I don’t know what lies beyond the hills of my home, what lurks in the forests or hides in the great cracks of the glacier beyond, but I must meet it head-on. I cannot return without Sýr, without a cure, without hope.

I am walking in my sister’s shoes, and I do not fill them. I wish someone else had survived this attack. Someone stronger, someone better. All my people have now is me. Runa Unnursdóttir, near-child, unprepared apprentice, village freak.

I take a last breath of the fresh sea air and set out on the path north. Fear follows me with every step, my constant companion. I wish we didn’t know each other so well.