When the storm finally broke and Vetrúlfr emerged from the chasm, he found his mother and the Skrælingr girl waiting for him there, as if they had watched his struggle from afar, unmoved, untouched, testing the thread of his fate.
Whether it was the cloak of the arctic wolf he had once earned in years past, or the freshly tanned hide of the bear now draped over his shoulders, the man who stepped from that darkness had passed through fire and frost alike. He had danced with death, and returned stronger.
Brynhildr gazed upon her son and the fresh scars that marred his pale chest and biceps with a nod of approval.
"A price was paid, to be sure," she said, "but nothing in this world is earned without blood. Give me the bear's skin. I must tame its hamr. You will need its spirit and its protection for what comes next."
