Chapter 2 — Power Outage and Candlelight

Eirik

Warmth enveloped Eirik as he stepped into Helga’s inn, the biting cold of the storm still clinging to his skin. He shook snow from his boots and let his gaze trace the snug common room. Wooden beams arched overhead, their dark grain catching the flicker of the firelight, while Icelandic tapestries embroidered in vivid reds and blues wove tales of ancient sagas across the walls. The air was a blend of lamb stew, wood smoke, and a faint tang of seawater—a grounding mix of comfort and tradition.

Behind him, Freya lingered near the threshold, her arms crossed tightly, bracing against more than the weather. Snow clung stubbornly to her auburn waves, and her sharp green eyes darted over the room. They lingered on the fire for a beat, then shifted to the staircase, as though scanning for an escape route. The way her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag betrayed a tension she likely thought well hidden.

Eirik suppressed the faintest smile.

“Welcome,” Helga greeted from behind the polished reception desk, her voice lilting and serene as if it carried the cadence of the sea. Her silver-streaked hair was swept into a loose bun, and her warm, piercing gaze settled on the two of them with quiet precision.

“Thank you,” Eirik replied, his Icelandic accent blending effortlessly with hers.

Freya offered a curt nod, her posture stiffening under Helga’s scrutiny.

“The fire is warm, and the stew is fresh,” Helga said, her tone both an invitation and a command. “You must be cold from the journey.”

Freya hesitated, her fingers tightening on the strap of her bag. Finally, she muttered, “Thanks,” loosening her scarf as she stepped further inside.

Helga handed them each a key, her touch deliberate when she pressed Freya’s into her palm. “Your rooms are ready, but the storm will keep you in for the evening. Better to wait it out by the fire than alone upstairs. Storms like these,” she added, her dark eyes glinting with something unspoken, “are best endured together.”

Freya’s lips tightened, but she said nothing, gripping the key tightly as she headed for the staircase without so much as a glance back.

“She’s a lively one,” Helga murmured once Freya was out of earshot, her voice carrying a note of wry amusement.

Eirik chuckled softly. “Lively, yes. And perhaps a bit... cautious.”

Helga’s gaze followed Freya’s retreating figure. “The storm brings many kinds of travelers. Some are escaping. Others are searching. And some,” she added, her eyes flicking toward Eirik, “are both. The fire has a way of showing them what they need. Not always what they expect, but always what they’re ready for.”

Eirik let the weight of her words settle over him like the snow outside, quiet and insistent. He nodded, murmured his thanks, and climbed the stairs to his room.

The room was modest but inviting, its wooden furniture worn but polished. A handmade quilt draped the bed, and a narrow window framed the snow-covered mountains, their jagged edges softened by the storm’s relentless flurry. Eirik set down his bag, splashed cold water on his face, and ran a hand through his hair. The wind howled faintly outside, a reminder of the storm’s strength, but within these sturdy walls, it felt distant, almost muted. His thoughts lingered briefly on Helga’s words before the faint hum of voices from below drew him back.

The common room was alive with quiet energy. A family huddled near the hearth, their children giggling as they warmed their hands. Two solo travelers exchanged stories over steaming mugs, and Helga moved between them with the effortless grace of someone who held the room together.

To his surprise, Freya was there too, tucked into an armchair in the far corner. The Aurora Journal rested on her lap, its leather cover catching the dim light, but the pen in her hand hovered, idle. Her gaze was distant, fixed somewhere beyond the empty page, her freckled face etched with an unreadable expression.

Eirik crossed the room and settled into the chair opposite hers, nodding in silent acknowledgment. She glanced at him briefly, her eyes narrowing slightly before she returned her focus to the journal, as though willing herself to fade into the shadows.

“Still snowing,” he remarked, nodding toward the window where the storm continued its relentless dance.

“Yes,” she said dryly, not looking up. “I noticed.”

Before he could respond, the lights overhead flickered once, twice, and then went out completely. A collective murmur rippled through the room as darkness descended, broken only by the flickering glow of the fire.

Freya stiffened visibly, her fingers clutching the journal. For a moment, she seemed unsure whether to stay seated or retreat upstairs.

“Well,” Helga’s calm voice cut through the murmurs, “it seems the storm has taken the power with it. No need for worry—this is a familiar dance. We’ll make do.”

She moved with practiced ease, lighting candles that cast warm, uneven pools of light across the room. Their soft glow softened the sharp edges of the space, creating a strange intimacy. Shadows played on the walls, flickering and fading like unspoken thoughts. The absence of electric hum made every sound sharper: the creak of a chair, the crackle of the fire, the faint rustle of fabric.

Helga clapped her hands lightly, drawing the room’s attention. “While we wait for the power to return, perhaps a story to pass the time?”

The family by the hearth cheered softly, the children clapping in delight. Freya shifted in her seat, her journal now closed, the pen resting idle. Her green eyes flicked toward Helga, skepticism battling with a flicker of curiosity.

“This is a tale of hidden folk,” Helga began, her voice low and melodic. “They say these unseen guardians protect the land and its secrets, guiding lost travelers back to safety—if they are deemed worthy. But beware,” she added, her gaze sweeping the room, “those who take from the land without respect may find themselves wandering forever.”

The room grew still, the steady crackle of the fire and the faint wail of the wind outside the only sounds. Eirik let the rhythm of Helga’s voice wash over him. He’d heard such tales before, but her delivery was less performance and more invocation, as though she were speaking to the storm itself.

Freya’s posture had relaxed, though only slightly. Her fingers traced the embossed pattern of the journal absentmindedly, her gaze fixed on Helga with an intensity that suggested the story had stirred something within her.

When Helga finished, the children burst into applause, their giggles filling the room. Helga smiled and launched into a tale of a mischievous troll hiding treasures beneath glaciers. Eirik stole a glance at Freya and caught the faintest curve of her lips before she quickly looked away, her mask slipping back into place.

“You look like you might have enjoyed that,” he said softly as the second story concluded.

Freya arched a brow. “Don’t get used to it.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. But it’s nice to see you smile.”

Her expression faltered, his words landing somewhere deeper than she wanted to acknowledge. “Well,” she said finally, her tone guarded once more, “everyone enjoys a good story now and then.”

“Even writers?” he teased gently, nodding toward the journal.

Freya stiffened slightly, her fingers brushing its worn cover. “Why do you assume I’m a writer?”

“The ink-stained fingers,” he replied with a shrug. “And the journal. It wasn’t much of a leap.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her fingers stilled, and she seemed to weigh her words carefully before murmuring, almost too softly to be heard, “Stories are safer on paper.”

“Perhaps,” Eirik replied, matching her tone. “But some stories are meant to be shared.”

Freya’s lips tightened, her eyes darting away to the fire. Yet something contemplative lingered in her gaze.

The night wore on, the room alive with candlelight and quiet conversation. Eirik felt an unfamiliar ease settle over him, as though the storm had created a space where time didn’t matter.

When Freya rose to excuse herself, she hesitated by his chair. “Goodnight,” she said, her tone softer than he expected.

“Goodnight,” he replied, watching her retreat upstairs.

Helga appeared moments later, her kind eyes glinting with quiet understanding. “She’s a tough one,” she said.

Eirik smiled faintly. “Yes. But storms have a way of softening even the hardest edges.”

Helga rested a hand briefly on his shoulder, her voice warm and steady. “And revealing what lies beneath.”

As the storm raged outside, Eirik found himself wondering what else the snow might uncover before it finally passed.