Yilva - the Wulfr and the Frozen Sea

Yilva lives in a seaside village oppressed by a ruthless clan. She tries to heal a wulfr.

CHAPTER 1:



A flurry of snow skittered across the dock, stinging Yilva’s face. The Ees Jor stretched to the horizon, a great sea sealed in thick ice, where sailors like her father traveled not through water, but atop the frozen surface. The ice groaned faintly in the distance, contracting with the colder air, as if restless in its sleep.

A memory clung to her like the snow that rested on her shoulders, vague and faint, threatening to be swept away with the next gust of wind—maybe from a dream, or something she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to remember.

She was there, on the dock, but without the weight of her own body—her senses heightened, as if she could see the smallest movement, or hear the softest whisper. Her breath felt deeper than it should have.

Yilva tried to shake the memory from her mind as she shivered. The images faded, but didn’t disappear completely. Part of her wanted to embrace whatever stirred inside.

Behind her, the forest loomed: home to the behrgs and wulfrs her father had always warned her about. What drew her there when every bone in her body chilled at the thought of the darkness beneath its branches?

A low growl rippled through the trees. From the shadows, two wulfrs stepped into the moonlight, their yellow eyes glinting. Moonlight blanketed their thick fur in a silver glow. She backed away but found no place for cover or way to escape.

Their paws made no sound on the snow. Breath steamed from their jaws in slow mists, the air around them still. Yilva’s heart thudded.

But instead of attacking, the animals turned their heads toward the deeper woods. There was something familiar about them, a connection she couldn’t explain. They wanted her to follow.

Her mother, Feryn, came from a mysterious race, the Volkvir, who could wield magic and astral-project into spirit animals. Only half-Volkvir herself, Yilva had always been told she lacked the gift. Yet lately, she wasn’t so sure.

Should she trust the blood she inherited or retreat? Even if the wulfrs didn’t harm her, what about other dangers?

Her father’s warning crept back to her mind, sending quivers down her arms, into her hands: “Never wander too far into the trees. The behrgs leave nothing behind.”

And yet, her father often sailed into uncharted ice. If he could do that, she could find the courage to follow.

She stepped forward, slowly, cautiously. Nothing between her and their sharp teeth. One wulfr was gray, the other gray-brown.

The moonlight dimmed and shadows thickened as she followed them beneath the trees. Pine needles and wet bark filled her nose. Cold air raced through her lungs as she leapt over fallen logs, eyes locked on their shapes, running to keep up.

They stopped at a third wulfr lying on the ground, breathing shallowly. The other two nuzzled its neck. The gray one pointed its nose toward a gaping wound and gave a sharp snort.

“You… want me to heal him?” Yilva whispered. “I don’t know how.”

The gray wulfr growled low.

Yilva knelt beside the wounded creature, powerful and broken, something wild forced into stillness. Fear pressed on her chest—what if she failed? But the pain in its eyes struck deeper. She couldn’t walk away. Couldn’t let it die.

Somewhere deep inside, warmth stirred in her palms, waiting to emerge.

The wulfr’s ragged breathing slowed. Yilva stroked its thick fur until her hand brushed the gash along its side. She hovered both palms over the wound and shut her eyes.

Her mother had once told her that words carried power. Fear kept her from saying more. Fear of being discovered. But Yilva remembered the word for healing in the old tongue.

“Helbrede,” she said, though uncertainty filled her.

The wound remained. The wulfr’s chest rose one last time before going still. Its glowing eyes dulled to gray. The warmth beneath its fur slowly slipped away. Her heart dropped like a stone. She had to keep trying.

Again, she hovered her trembling hands. “Helbrede. Helbrede. Heal!”

Still no movement. No life.

She felt useless. Weak. Untrained. What else could she do?

Yilva inhaled slowly and composed herself. She would awaken the wulfr from its endless sleep—just as a magic had awakened within herself. A word came to her like a fragment of a dream:

“Oppsta.”

The word felt wrong the moment she spoke it—thin, sharp, like stepping onto ice she knew might crack. Not the word for healing. Perhaps not even for the living. It rose from desperation, from the need to do something, no matter the cost.

Her gloves glowed faintly purple at the palms. Not bright. Not strong. Just enough to see. A chill crept up her arms while heat pooled in her chest, an uneasy clash that made her teeth ache. The sensation spread, not like a wave, but like pressure—subtle, insistent, impossible to ignore.

The forest fell silent. Even the wind held its breath as seconds passed by.

The wulfr twitched—ears, then paws. It rose stiffly. The gash remained, the blood frozen in the cold night air.

Its eyes held no light. Its face was oddly blank. No cold mist escaped its mouth. No breath at all.

Yilva swayed, her chest tight, lungs struggling to draw air as if the word had stolen something from her. She pressed her hand to the ground to steady herself, the cold earth leeching away the last of the glow from her fingers.

She hadn’t healed it. She had brought it back.

Her breath grew shallow. Warm fur brushed her arms—the brown and gray wulfrs. Only then did the black-furred one, the revived one, step forward. It stared at her, silent, unreadable.

She brushed the dirt and snow from her knees and followed the brown and gray wulfrs back toward the edge of the forest, the black one trailing behind.

At the edge, the brown and gray wulfrs returned to the shadows, but the black one lingered.

“Go on,” she whispered, waving it away.

It hesitated, then vanished into the woods. The wulfrs had brought her back to the dock.

Had her parents lied to her deliberately about her powers, or did they truly not know?

Confident now that something of her Volkvir heritage stirred within her, she placed her hand against a tree. She would build a boat that could take her where the Volkvir lived and risk the perils of the sea to face whatever destiny awaited her.

In the fading daylight, her thoughts lingered on the black wulfr. Excitement filled her, knowing her abilities were real, yet the results of raising something from death itself filled her with unease. How long would the wulfr roam the forest as a corpse? What would happen if someone from the village saw it, or worse, someone from the Clan of Mok?



The village had gone quiet by the time she got back. Frost collected on rooftops and window ledges, and her footprints cracked softly in the snow as she walked the path toward home. Only one house showed light. As she passed, the door opened, spilling fire-glow into the dark.

“Yilva,” Gregor said, silhouette framed by the hearth behind him. He was the only Volkvir in Estigar besides her mother that Yilva knew of. The only one still willing to remain. “Come.”

She hesitated. “I should be getting home.”

“Come,” he repeated, sharper than she’d ever heard him. The firmness in his voice pulled her inside. He quickly shut the door and peered out the window before closing the curtains.

Yilva went straight to the fire, rubbing her frozen hands.

Gregor watched her for a long moment. “The wind carries whispers. Something happened today in the forest. Your magic stirred.”

Her breath caught. “I… used a spell. On a wulfr.”

He sank into his chair as if the news weighed him down. “You shouldn’t have gone into the woods. Wulfrs kill even seasoned hunters.”

“They didn’t hurt me.” She swallowed. “I felt like they wouldn’t. I think the wulfr might be my spirit animal.”

Gregor exhaled, long and troubled. “Another danger. The clan has grown restless. They watch for anything out of place. If anyone asks about tonight—or about the wulfr—say nothing. Keep your secrets close.”

Yilva turned toward him. “If it’s so dangerous, why stay? My mother has Father. But you have no one. Why not seek refuge with the others?”

“My reasons are my own,” Gregor said. “And not why I asked you here.” His eyes softened. “I see a struggle in you.”

“I feel it too.” Her voice dropped. “Like there’s two sides of myself. My father’s a great seafarer. I want to sail like he does. But my magic comes from my mother. It makes me Volkvir.”

“You carry two heritages,” Gregor said. “They may conflict, but both make you stronger. Yet the struggle I mean goes deeper—light and dark.”

He leaned forward. “Your mother has kept much from you for your safety. But you must understand: Volkvir magic exists to bind us to one another, to the living, to the land. Dark magic does the opposite. It hollows. It pulls you from the people you love. It can sever bonds meant to last a lifetime.”

Yilva’s stomach dropped. He knew she had raised the wulfr from the dead.

Loud, rapid pounding shook the door.

Gregor rose abruptly. “Hide.” He shoved her into a narrow closet and shut the door.

Boots stomped inside. Voices barked orders. The Clan of Mok, she realized. They had found out about him.

“Gregor!” one of the men bellowed. “Strange lights. Bewitched villagers. Tracks leading from the forest to your door. Volkvir magic is forbidden.”

The man stepped forward, voice hard. “Punishable by death.”

Yilva pushed at the door, ready to fight, but it held fast. A sheet of ice sealed it shut. Through a thin crack of lamplight, she caught one last glimpse of Gregor: frost melting from his palm as he lowered his hand, surrendering without a word.

They dragged him away.