Chapter Six: The Fire Within the Hearth

He woke as though surfacing from a deep sea, his body pulled toward consciousness by something warmer than terror. His chest rose sharply, expecting the familiar choke of smoke, the stench of burning wood, the piercing screams of a village under siege. But the air was different.

It was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, yes, but not acrid and choking—sweet, mellow, layered with the resin of pine and the faint tang of herbs hung to dry. He opened his eyes and found himself not in ashes, but in the glow of a hearth.

The fire had long since collapsed into a bed of embers, their faint pulse trembling across the rough-hewn beams above. A log shifted, releasing a final shower of sparks that lit the chamber in one last, orange sigh. In the ensuing silence, the only warmth left from the fire was the ghost of heat on his skin, and the heavy quiet of the night.

The walls around him were timber, carved with simple lines and knots, worn smooth by years of touch. A fur pelt hung near the entrance, blocking drafts of winter air, but he could faintly hear the groan of the wind outside, and the deep rhythm of the sea below it—a low, constant wash of water against the coast. Above, the snow-laden rafters creaked softly. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and was silent again.

Beneath him was not a mattress, not cotton or linen sheets, but layers of wool blankets and reindeer hides, heavy and warm. The smell of them was animal and earth, tinged with the faint, cold scent of brine. This mingling with the smoky air made it seem he was wrapped in the very skin of the land itself.

A narrow window cut high into the wall let a shaft of moonlight in. The beam caught on the frost that had formed at its edges, scattering tiny sparks of silver across the floorboards. That pale light blended with the red glow of the embers, painting the chamber in colors of fire and ice.

He drew in a breath. For once, there was no ash clawing at his throat. No sound of death. Only the quiet of winter.

He shifted slightly, and that was when he felt the warmth at his side.

She was there.

The woman.

Her body pressed lightly against him, the covers drawn to her bare shoulders. Her skin gleamed softly in the firelight, all bronze and shadow, her long hair spilled across the furs in a dark river. Strands caught the emberlight like threads of copper. Her face was turned toward him, eyes half-lidded, her mouth curved with the faintest trace of knowing.

He was trapped in a bubble of silence, every second an eternity. He could only stare, caught between disbelief and a tenderness so sharp it ached. She was close enough that he could feel the rhythm of her breathing, the warmth of her thigh against his. Close enough that if he reached, his fingers would brush the hollow of her collarbone.

She opened her eyes fully then, blue as the winter sky at dawn.

“You dreamed again,” she said softly. Her voice carried a lilt of the north, roughened by smoke and honey. She reached to touch his chest, her fingers warm against his skin. “Tell me, Rurik. Was it the same?”

Rurik. The name settled into him like it had always been his. He did not flinch at it. He knew, in this dream, it was who he was.

“Yes,” he whispered. His throat was dry, but the word carried.

She studied him a moment, her gaze searching. “The same nightmare?”

Rurik turned his eyes to the rafters, where smoke curled faintly upward. “Yes.”

“Then tell me,” she said.

For a heartbeat he wanted to refuse. To keep it inside, locked away where it could not wound her. But the way she looked at him—the patience in her face, the quiet strength—undid him.

He turned back toward her, his eyes tracing the softness of her cheek, the lines of her lips. He could not help it; his hand rose to cup her face, thumb brushing her temple.

“It was battle again,” he murmured. “The clash of steel, the cries of men. My brothers were all around me, fighting shoulder to shoulder. But the enemy came in waves—too many, far more than we could ever withstand. One by one they fell, their blood soaking the earth, and I could do nothing to stop it. I fought until my arms ached, but still they fell. I see their faces as they die. I hear their voices. And when I wake, it is as if I lost them all over again.”

Her eyes did not flinch, though her hand tightened against his chest. She exhaled slowly, as though carrying the weight of his words.

“Listen to me,” she said gently. “My grandfather told me once of such things. Stories passed down from his own grandfather, and from his before. He said there are some—rare ones—who carry their lives with them even after death. Who are reborn, and reborn again.”

Rurik frowned. “Reborn?”

“Yes,” she said. Her eyes glowed faintly in the hearthlight. “They are burdened with dreams of what came before. Hauntings of faces lost, of battles fought. My grandfather said such people are chosen. Chosen to protect. To bear the weight that others cannot. This is a blessing given by gods.”

She shifted closer to him, her forehead brushing his. “He said they are the shield between the weak and the dark.”

Rurik’s breath caught. He wanted to protest, but her voice held him still.

“They formed an order, long ago,” she continued. “Men and women who remembered. Who carried wisdom from one life into another. They called themselves the Forgotten Order, for the world never knew their names, never carved their deeds into stone. Yet they protected, always.”

Her eyes shone with memory, with belief. “My grandfather saw what they built, once. A shrine of stone, raised by their hands. Stǫnr Hǫll, he called it—the Stone Hall. He swore he saw it with his own eyes, in the lands of the west, during his wars. He said it was a place where the chosen could awaken what was buried inside them. A place to remember.”

The word lingered, heavy in the room: remember.

Rurik’s chest rose with a heavy breath. The words chosen, protector, shrine felt like chains more than gifts. He turned his gaze away, staring at the flickering embers in the hearth. Their glow pulsed like watchful eyes, red and accusing.

“It feels less like a blessing,” he said at last, his voice low, “and more like a curse.”

The woman beside him tilted her head, studying him. “A curse?”

Rurik swallowed hard. “What kind of life is this, to never find rest? To wander again and again, losing everything each time? To carry only grief from one life to the next?” His voice cracked, the words trembling at the edges. “If that is what it means to be chosen, I want no part of it.”

The woman’s fingers slid to his jaw, firm but tender, guiding his face back toward hers. Her eyes were steady, deep as frozen lakes beneath moonlight.

“Being chosen is never easy,” she said softly. “To protect means to sacrifice. That is the truth of it. But sacrifice does not erase who you are. It proves it.”

He closed his eyes at her touch, wishing only to hold onto this moment, this warmth, this stillness. The world outside could roar with wind and snow, but here—here was peace.

When he opened his eyes again, there was a different ache in his chest, one deeper than the talk of shrines and forgotten orders.

“I do not want to be reborn,” he whispered. “When I die, I want to feast in Valhalla. To sit at Odin’s table, to drink his mead… but most of all, to sit beside you. That is all I ask.”

The woman’s lips parted, and for the first time her voice trembled. “Rurik…”

He pressed on, his hand sliding into her hair. “If there is a life after this one, let it be there. With you. Not another battlefield. Not another curse.”

Tears glistened in her eyes, but she smiled through them, brushing her thumb across his cheek. “You are a good man, Rurik. Better than most I have known. The world needs more men like you. And though we can't give it children—because of me—I am glad you will return, reborn, to guard it.”

His brow furrowed, but he shook his head, pulling her closer. “I never wanted children. Not with you. Not with anyone. You are all I need. All I will ever need.”

She drew in a shaky breath, her face burying briefly against his chest. “You say that, but you mean it too. That is why I love you.”

Silence folded over them, broken only by the shifting embers and the moan of winter wind outside the walls.

Then, after a pause, Rurik chuckled softly. “Tell me—” His tone turned teasing, his lips quirking into a smile. “Doesn’t it make you jealous, all these women from my other lives? How can you stand it, knowing I’ve loved before?”

Her head lifted, her brows arching. She smacked his chest with a playful thud, shaking her head. “Idiot.” He laughed outright, catching her hand before she could withdraw it, pulling her into him. She resisted for a heartbeat, then melted into his arms, her smile pressed against his skin.

“You are mine in this life,” she whispered, her voice fierce in its softness. “And that is what matters.”

She slipped one hand free and reached toward the small wooden chest beside the bed. From it she took a heavy ring of worked silver, plain at first glance but etched with faint knotwork that shimmered in the firelight.

She pressed it into his palm.

“This was my mother’s,” she whispered. “Her father gave it to her, saying it was older than kings or kingdoms. I want you to keep it.”

Rurik frowned, curling his fingers around the cool metal. “I can't take this from you.”

“You can,” she said firmly, closing his hand with hers. “And you must. It is a reminder. When you wake from dreams of battle and loss, remember this: you are not cursed. You are chosen. And chosen men must carry more than their own hearts.”

He looked at her, at the fierce love in her eyes, and nodded. “Then I will wear it until the gods themselves strike it from me.”

She smiled, her eyes glistening. “Good. And when you see it again, in another life, you will remember me.”

Rurik tightened his hold on her, his lips brushing her hair. “Then hear me, Sigrid,” he said, tasting her name like it was carved from his own soul. “I will always love you. In this life, in any life, even beyond the gates of Hel itself.”

Her breath caught, and when she lifted her face, her smile was quiet but luminous, eyes shining like the moonlight through frost. “I know. And I will always love you too.”

They held each other in the glow of fire and ice, two souls carved against the cold. For the moment, there was no battle waiting, no doom at the door—only warmth, only love.