Page 12 of Into the Isle

We froze and looked back expectantly.

Hallan nodded to the stew splattered on the ground next to where I sat—splattered because he’d slapped me. “You’ll clean that before going anywhere, young lady.”

Chapter 4

Ravinica

PRACTICALLY THE ENTIRE village waited on the shores of the village, staring out at the black waves of the Atlantic. Dense, gritty sand sifted between our toes, everyone waiting on bated breath for the mists to part.

It was a momentous occasion, one that happened once a year, if that. We’d not had a parting in Selby in two years, when the great Gray Wraith burst from the fog before leaving with my elder brother Eirik in tow, back into the magical mist. I had lost a brother, yet the academy had gained a champion.

The ceremonial longship was a vessel belonging to Vikingrune Academy. There were other Wraith ships that set out to other corners of the world to recruit other proven initiates. People like me spent years training around the clock for this moment, to finally be recognized by the academy. We partook in rigorous trials and tribulations which were accounted for by the academy, to keep tallies on us.

The fight last night with Damon was such a trial. My victory, twice over, practically assured my acceptance into the school. No one else in the village had the credentials I did. I had won every physical contest over the past year. The duel with my half-brother was simply an inevitability. A formality.

Some people never got chosen. They never made the cut. Others were taken younger than eighteen, if they showed great promise. At twenty-two, I would be a “late bloomer.”

Besides my physical trials, I’d read all the books I could get my hands on in my small fishing village. I knew everything I could about Vikingrune without actually attending or seeing it.

Vikingrune Academy was the last bastion of hope for mankind on Midgard—what my people called Earth. The academy acted as a barrier against invading races from other extraplanar realms. It honed recruits’ magical and physical abilities into sharpened blades, turning them into defensive champions to fend off our world’s enemies.

Apparently, those enemies were legion.

I’d been lectured on the purpose and importance of Vikingrune my entire life. I had a different understanding about the academy than most because of my particular bog-blood background.

My heart rampaged in my chest as I stared out at the empty sea. The sky was cloudless, the gray of the afternoon vanishing to make for a perfect mist-parting.

Ma threaded her fingers through mine at my side. When I looked out the corner of my eye, hers were sparkling, a wistful smile splitting her face.

As exciting as the academy sounded, I knew they only let the best, brightest, and strongest of Midgard pass through their misty gates. Those with the most potential to do great things for our world.

The idea, my mother had told me during a study session one night, was that a weak shield wall would crumble against our enemies. We were only as strong as our most vulnerable shield. In turn, Vikingrune only took the best of us, to try to shore up any frailties in the collective shield wall, or prevent weaknesses altogether.

The mysterious Gray Wraith longship would arrive to pluck an honoree of a village from a pool of that year’s potential neophytes. To keep recruitment levels consistent yet sturdy, it was capped at one initiate per village per year.

Which was where I came in, as this year’s chosen honoree from Selby Village.

Even though I had solidified my position at the top, I wasn’t a youngling in the same way many starry-eyed recruits were. I supposed I’d always be a cub in the eyes of men and women three times my age.

As much as I didn’t consider myself a starry-eyed youth, I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t pitter-patter riotously when I spotted the narrow fjord in front of us fill with ashen fog.

Gasps came from the hundreds of villagers on the banks of the ocean. Murmurs filled the night, children squealed with excitement—perhaps only excited they were able to stay up past their bedtime for this moment.

Past our jutting peninsula, deeper into the calm waves, a river-tunnel formed by a cut glacier. Through that fjord, the air itself darkened. The bruised sky filled with the mist, becoming thicker by the second, until it blotted the purple with something that looked like a giant cloud of cookfire smoke.

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