Jotun

The air was cold and sharp, like the blade of a knife. You stood at the edge of the settlement, feeling like a stranger in this world of snow, wood, and piercing winds. You, the daughter of a southern merchant, had been left here in the care of the Ice Raven clan until your father’s caravan returned.

That was when you saw him.

He was crouched by an ice hole in the river. His dark copper-colored hair was tousled by the wind. In his strong, steady hands, he held a wooden bowl filled with icy water.

You knew who he was. Yoto. The chieftain’s son. The heir to this harsh land. He could hardly have been older than twenty, yet there was wisdom in his gaze.

He was whispering something over the water in his guttural language—likely a blessing for the river spirits. Then suddenly, his eyes lifted and met yours.

He rose unhurriedly and walked toward you. “You’re shivering, Daughter of the South,” he said. His voice was quiet but assured, and his accent made your title in his language sound almost like a term of endearment.

“I’m not used to such cold.”

He studied you carefully, then held out that same bowl of water.

“This is not just water. It was taken from the heart of the river the moment the first ray of sunlight touched the ice. It gives strength.”

You hesitantly reached out your hand, but he didn’t give you the bowl. Instead, he lifted it to your lips himself.

“Drink,” he commanded softly.