---

he has been awake long before the sun, though not from restlessness, only habit. the north had carved that into him—the dynasty, too: rise early, greet the cold first, challenge the day to try and best him.

but this forest no glittering palace nor north, though it tried with its morning chill and thin wash of fog. dew clung to his pelt in uneven beads, caught in the unkempt rough of his coat. he seasalt even here, as though the sea refused to let him go.

sigvard stalked through the bramble heavy-footed and unafraid, for it was fate guided his steps, and therefore nothing could be a misstep. then he caught her—or at least the scent of her; it is herbal and fresh, light on the nose.

his ears tipped forward, eyes narrowing with interest rather than caution. strangers did not bother him; fate delivered them for a reason. he found her just as she lifted her head to the air, and he watched her openly, unashamedly.

that is trend around here, he rumbled, timbre low like gravel being dragged across wood, at least it entertains. he stepped into view at an angle, broad shoulders pushing aside a curtain of fog, tail carried with relaxed arrogance. his nose twitched, tasting the air she disturbed. long way from home?

---

sigvard does not budge when she stepped into his space—if anything, he seemed to claim more of it, squaring his stance in the broad, easy way of men who had never once felt outmatched. pale green eyes dragged over her with frank curiosity, a slow rake that held neither shame nor apology.

mm. fox dens are poor beds, he concurs, amused. the edges of his accent roughen the consonants, clipping the vowels. they are… how you say— he twitched his jaw, searching for the word, stingy. stingy with comfort.

her name earned a brief, low sound in his chest—approval, or something like it, hard to tell. wormwood. fitting for a sharp little thing like her, he thought.

he dipped his head, more to measure her than to greet. sigvard, he answered. his gaze peels away from her briefly, circling their surroundings, and he finds himself just as lost as she is. fate takes strange liberties, ja? his mouth curled, lopsided and feral. it is not a question—he already decided it true. but she does not take without giving. come—let us see where she put us,

---

sigvard fell into step beside her without hesitation, a heavy shadow to her lighter stride. the brush of her tail against his shoulder drew a low huff from him—neither startled nor flustered, but entertained. bold woman. he could not complain.

if fate wished you better, she choose strange escort, he muttered, mouth tugging crooked. the man keeps his head angled just enough to keep her in the corner of his sight. woman smelled like trouble.

her question earned a roll of his shoulders, a prideful grin. ja. sigurðr in native tongue. i am from fjordlands. he nods, you?

---

a snort followed, low in his chest as he stepped forward again, brushing past her shoulder to take the lead along the faint animal trail winding through the brush. she is good friend to have.

sigvard’s stride slowed a fraction when she spoke of the husband. not in full, but the easy rhythm of him shifted, shoulders rolling once as though settling some weight that had crept there. mm. the sound was thoughtful rather than approving. he did not dare think a good marriage quite so glum, that only one party was to be satisfied.

to her request, he acquiesces. a welcome change in pace. cold, he said, stone cliffs, deep water. sea always angry. his nose lifted faintly, as though he could smell it even now—sea-salt and the rot of kelp, the stench of cooked meat mingling with friends. a toothy grin, then. good place to grow stubborn.

when we take mate, trade is equal. the man retorts with a sideways glance to the woman, tone casual but firm. two oars on one boat. else you go in circles. a pointed remark to her future endeavors, if any. to that, there should be no compromise. a pity a woman as fine as herself was not afforded as such initally.