Night settles over Frostmere Manor, cool and damp as summer yields to autumn. Moonlight transforms the clearing behind the manor into something otherworldly, dew beading on tall grass like scattered diamonds.
The estate sprawls generously: rolling pastures, a gurgling stream, orchards heavy with late apples, a dairy barn, vegetable plots, and the manor itself—a sturdy two-story structure of stone and timber. Gartheride's skill with horses has brought prosperity. The stables exhale the comforting smell of sweet hay and well-tended animals.
Gartheride settles onto a flat boulder, legs crossed. His dark hair, threaded with silver, falls forward as he leans over his hands. Broad-shouldered and thick-armed from years of raising horses, he begins weaving shadow puppets in the firelight. Wolves lope across the granite, chasing stags. Ravens unfold black wings. Each shape flickers and shifts.
Astrid's laughter bursts out—high, pure, unguarded. Seven years old, blonde hair glowing white-gold, she claps and bounces on bare toes. "Do the wolf again, Daddy! Make him bigger!"
Gartheride chuckles, spreading his fingers. The wolf swells on the stone. Astrid squeals, wrapping small arms around his waist.
Then the sky answers.
White lines lance downward—dozens, then hundreds—bright as molten iron, trailing wisps of smoke. The burning needles carve blazing arcs across the night, washing the clearing in pale blue-white.
"Look there!" Gartheride points upward, voice cracking with boyish excitement.
Astrid scrambles onto the boulder beside him. "Daddy! They're falling right at us!" She leans into him harder, chin lifted high.
Stella Frostmere doesn't move from her mossy log. Nineteen, she sits with knees drawn to her chest, long raven hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder. The strands shift, revealing the birthmark on her neck: a perfect tree, roots fanning downward, branches reaching upward. Her icy blue eyes reflect the falling streaks, but her lips press into a thin line. She edges closer to the fire, staring into the blaze as though it holds answers.
Ossi stands beside the iron spit, turning venison with steady rotations. Middle-aged but strong, her reddish dress clings to a frame shaped by bearing children and hard work. Her single blonde braid sways with each turn. The venison sizzles; fat drips onto coals, sending up savory smoke. She smiles at the children, but her gaze lingers longest on Stella, quiet worry threading through her expression.
The meteor shower swells to its peak, then fades. One by one the burning needles wink out.
"That's so pretty, Daddy," Astrid whispers.
"Aye. A stjörnuhrap," Gartheride says. "The old tales say the gods scattered embers from Muspelheimr across the heavens."
He turns to his eldest daughter. "Stella Frostmere?"
She hasn't moved. The fire leaps high, sparks reflecting in her eyes, but her expression remains distant.
Astrid tugs his sleeve. "Will they come back next year?"
"Always do, little star." He ruffles her hair.
Fireflies drift into the clearing. Astrid leaps up, jumping with arms stretched high, chasing the glowing insects. Her laughter returns—bright, breathless. She swipes at empty air, then drops back to the grass, defeated but Gartheride smile fades as he notices Stella still unmoved, gaze locked on the fire.
"Stella Frostmere," he says again, softer. "What do you think of it?"
She blinks slowly. "Yes. It's beautiful." The words fall flat, mechanical.
Ossi steps forward, holding a tankard of mead. "Gartheride," she says quietly, "have a drink. We have much to celebrate after selling those colts to the royal family."
He takes the tankard, tension easing. "Thank you, Ossi."
Stella stands in one fluid motion. She doesn't look at anyone. Her bare feet press into cool grass, then crunch on the stone path leading away from the fire. Footsteps grow softer, swallowed by darkness.
Behind her, the fire crackles on. Astrid sniffles against her mother's skirt. Ossi wraps meat and bread in cloth. "We'll leave this in the kitchen," she says. "She'll be hungry later."
Gartheride nods, lifting Astrid into his arms. They head down the path toward the manor's glowing windows.
Farther along, Stella walks alone.
The stone is cool under her bare feet. Night air slips under her nightshift, raising gooseflesh. She hugs herself tighter, but the cold is deeper than skin. Inside her chest something burns—anger, shame, and a hollow ache.
"Why did I snap at Astrid? The thought circles. *She's only seven. He loves her more. He always has."
The path winds downhill. Frostmere Manor rises ahead: solid stone and timber, lanterns burning warm. The estate breathes around her—prosperous, self-sufficient—and she hates how much it suffocates her.
This is all there is. Marry some lord, bear sons, pretend I'm content. Or stay here forever.* The birthmark on her neck prickles faintly—brief warmth, then it fades.
She pushes through the gate. The night watchman nods respectfully but keeps his distance. Stella crosses to the kitchen door.
Inside, the room is dim. On the table sits a covered plate: venison and bread. *They saved some for me. Even after I yelled.* The thought stings. She doesn't touch the food.
She climbs the narrow stairs, avoiding the creaky third step. Her chamber is dark except for slivers of moonlight. She closes the door softly.
"I don't want to be the villain. But I don't want to be the obedient daughter either. I just want something that's mine." The ache swells—loneliness sharper than any cold wind.
Stella slips beneath the covers without undressing. She curls onto her side, facing the window.
Her eyes stay open. The birthmark prickles faintly. She presses her fingers to it, feeling the raised lines of roots and branches.
She closes her eyes. Visions flicker: roots twisting through black soil, branches reaching upward, a tree at the center of everything. Fire blooms along the branches—embers from Muspelheimr. They warm her, fill her with fierce strength. She sees herself standing beneath the tree, raven hair whipping, icy eyes reflecting flames.
The daydream fractures. She opens her eyes, breath shallow. The birthmark cools.
"What are you? What do you want from me?"
No answer comes.
She curls tighter, trying to chase the vision away. Sleep finally pulls her under, fitful and shallow. Dreams flicker—shadow wolves, falling stars, a tree branching across her skin like veins of fire. In the deepest part she hears a voice whispering her name.
*Stella…*
She wakes once before dawn, heart pounding, the birthmark faintly warm. Outside, the watchman's footsteps fade.
Stella lies still, staring at the ceiling. The crack that opened tonight isn't just between her and her family. It's inside her. Silent. Waiting. Outside, the wind carries the faint scent of smoke from the south—not from the campfire, but from something farther, something coming.