Chapter 5
Freya
Iwake to cold and heat simultaneously—cold along my back where it presses against something solid, heat everywhere else beneath the furs. And something heavy across my waist that definitely wasn't there when I fell asleep.
An arm. Vidar's arm.
My eyes fly open, body tensing. Somehow during the night, the careful boundary of furs between us has disappeared.
We're pressed together, his chest against my back, his arm draped over me in a possessive curve.
The contradiction of his icy presence and the cocoon of warmth from the furs is bizarrely pleasant.
But that's not what makes my breath catch.
What makes me freeze is what I can see in the dim morning light filtering through frosted windows.
His hand, extended past my waist, rests on the furs in front of me.
Except it's not entirely a hand anymore.
The fingers have elongated, tipped with what look like translucent claws that catch the light like crystal.
Frost patterns spiral up his forearm, not like frost on skin but like frost within it, as if his veins carry winter instead of blood.
I should be terrified. I should be planning my escape from this cabin, from whatever he is. Instead, I find myself studying the patterns with a photographer's eye. The fractals are perfect, mathematical, beautiful in their precision. I've never seen anything like them—not in nature, not in art.
Slowly, I turn my head, needing to see more despite the danger.
His face is inches from mine, but it's not the face I saw yesterday.
The skull-like mask I glimpsed in the storm is halfway formed, melded with his human features in a way that should be horrifying but is instead mesmerizing.
The high cheekbones have sharpened, jaw elongated.
His closed eyes sit deeper in his face, frost dusting his lashes.
The antlers have expanded, no longer the delicate crown but branching crystalline structures that glow faintly in the dim light.
He's beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.
As if sensing my scrutiny, his eyes snap open. No longer ice-blue but luminous, pupils vertical like a deer's. For a heartbeat, we stare at each other, both frozen in shock.
Then chaos.
He jerks away with inhuman speed, nearly toppling from the bed. The air temperature plummets as he scrambles back, antlers scraping the ceiling. Frost explodes across every surface—windows, walls, my exhaled breath suspended in crystallized clouds.
"Don't look!" His voice is wrong—deeper, layered with harmonics that make the cabin vibrate. One hand covers his face while the other gestures frantically for me to turn away.
I don't.
"Vidar," I say, his name a tether in this impossible moment. "It's okay."
"It's not okay." The words emerge through gritted teeth—teeth sharper than they should be. "Give me a moment."
I watch, transfixed, as he struggles to regain control. The skull mask recedes slowly, painfully, flesh flowing like wax to reshape his features. The antlers shrink, the claws retract. With each change, his body shudders as if fighting itself.
When he finally looks up, his face is mostly human again, though his eyes still glow faintly.
"I apologize," he says stiffly. "That was... unintentional."
A hysterical laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me. "No kidding."
His brow furrows, clearly not expecting humor. "You're not afraid."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I'm terrified. But also... fascinated."
"You should run."
"Into a blizzard? Not a great survival strategy." I sit up slowly, keeping the furs around me. "Besides, if you wanted to hurt me, you've had plenty of chances."
He stares at me like I'm the impossible thing in the room. Maybe I am. Maybe normal people would be catatonic with fear right now.
"What are you?" I ask, finally voicing the question that's been building since I first saw him in the storm.
He looks away, frost forming on the window nearest him in delicate, agitated patterns. "Something old. Something that doesn't belong in your world anymore."
"You're not human," I say, making it a statement this time.
"No."
The simple admission hangs in the air between us, changing everything and nothing. I already knew. I just needed to hear him say it.
"The storm—you really do control it, don't you?"
He nods once, still not meeting my eyes.
"And the cold... it's part of you."
"Yes."
I should be having a breakdown. I should be questioning my sanity. Instead, a strange calm settles over me, the same detached focus I find when framing the perfect shot. As if by putting this impossibility through my mental viewfinder, I can make it comprehensible.
"May I..." I hesitate, then push forward. "May I see again? The real you?"
Now he does look at me, shock evident in his too-bright eyes. "Why would you want that?"
"Because it's beautiful," I say simply.
He stands abruptly, moving to the window. Outside, the storm still rages, though the sky has lightened to the flat white of morning.
"Beauty is a strange word for a monster."
"I've photographed storms that kill, avalanches that destroy entire villages, volcanic eruptions that remake landscapes," I say, finding my voice growing stronger with each word. "Beauty and danger often come packaged together."
The comparison seems to reach him. His shoulders relax slightly, though frost still forms where his fingers touch the windowsill.
"You truly are not like other humans who have wandered into my domain," he says quietly.
"How many others have there been?" I ask, curious despite myself.
"Many. Over centuries." He turns back to me, his face carefully composed. "None stayed long."
The implication hangs heavy. Did they leave? Or did they never leave at all?
As if reading my thoughts, he adds, "Most found their way back to trails. Some..." He hesitates. "Some didn't survive the cold."
"But you saved me. Why?"
The question clearly unsettles him. Frost spirals up the wall beside him. "I don't know."
The raw honesty in those three words affects me more than any elaborate explanation could have. Whatever Vidar is, whatever he's done, in this moment he's as confused by his actions as I am.
I climb out of bed, wrapping a fur around myself like a blanket cape. My clothes still aren't fully dry, but my thermal underwear has been laid out nearer the fire overnight. They'll have to do for now.
"I need to..." I gesture toward the bathroom, suddenly aware of very human morning needs.
He nods, turning away to give me privacy as I gather my undergarments. The domesticity of the moment is almost absurd given what just happened, yet somehow it grounds me. Supernatural being or not, we're still two people navigating an awkward morning after.
Except we didn't even do anything to make it awkward. Yet.
The thought ambushes me, bringing heat to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the cabin's temperature. I hurry to the bathroom before he can notice my embarrassment.
Inside, I splash cold water on my face and try to collect my thoughts.
The rational part of my brain is screaming that none of this is possible, that I'm hallucinating from hypothermia or having an elaborate dream.
But the water on my face is real. The soreness in my muscles from yesterday's ordeal is real.
And Vidar—whatever he is—feels more real than anything I've experienced before.
When I emerge, he's stoked the fire higher than it was yesterday. The gesture isn't lost on me—he's making the cabin warmer for my comfort, despite his obvious discomfort with heat.
"Thank you," I say, gesturing toward the fire.
He inclines his head slightly, a formal acknowledgment. "Are you hungry?"
"Starving, actually."
He moves to the kitchen area, retrieving more of the dried meat and root vegetables. I notice he keeps his distance from me, careful not to come too close after the intimacy of our waking position.
"I can help," I offer, approaching the small counter where he works.
"If you wish."
We prepare breakfast together in silence. I'm hyperaware of every movement, every near-touch as we navigate the small space. The tension between us has shifted from fear to something equally dangerous but far more enticing.
"The radio," I say suddenly, remembering. "Can we try it again? See if there's news?"
He nods toward where my emergency radio sits on the shelf. "You may try."
I cross to it, turning dials with hope I don't entirely feel. Static hisses, then a voice breaks through—the same weather report, the same mention of search parties unable to operate in severe conditions.
"They won't be able to look until the storm breaks," I say, disappointment settling in my stomach.
"No."
"And you control the storm."
"Yes."
I look up at him, a new understanding forming. "You're keeping them away."
He doesn't deny it. "Yes."
"Why?"
He places a bowl of food on the table, his movements precise, controlled. "I value my solitude."
"You could have left me to die if you wanted to be alone."
"As I said before—I don't know why I saved you." His eyes meet mine, that unnatural blue momentarily brightening. "I'm... still trying to understand that myself."
The honesty disarms me again. There's no threat in his words, only genuine confusion. Whatever is happening between us, it's as unexpected for him as it is for me.
We eat in silence for a while, the only sounds the howling wind outside and the occasional crackle from the fire. I watch him over my bowl—the careful way he holds his spoon, the way his eyes occasionally drift to the windows and the storm beyond, as if checking on it like a pet.
"What is it like?" I ask suddenly. "Controlling the weather?"
He considers the question longer than I expect. "It's... like breathing. Natural. The storm is an extension of myself."
"Can you control other things? Besides storms?"
"Cold. Ice. Winter itself, to some extent."