Four years passed before the shadows returned to the Himalayas. Dawn crept over jagged peaks, casting fire across the ice. Winds howled through narrow passes, whispering of ancient avalanches and buried gods.
At the edge of a frozen cliff, a schoolhouse clung to the mountain like a stubborn weed. On a bench outside, a girl sat alone.
She was four years old, but tall for her age—her limbs long and delicate, as if borrowed from an older version of herself. Her hair, white as snow, shimmered in the light, spilling over her shoulders like silk. Her golden eyes, uncertain and tired, stared at the wooden floor. She held her hands tightly in her lap, her fingers pale from the cold.
Inside the office, the Den Den Mushi crackled.
"Mr. Ragnar," said the headmaster, his tone strained and overly formal, "I'm afraid your daughter caused… an incident."
"What kind of incident?" came Ragnar's voice. Steady. Heavy. Like a hammer striking steel.
"She fought three older students," the headmaster replied, each word cautious. "It seems… she hurt them."
Ragnar didn't speak for a moment. Then: "Who started it?"
"They teased her," the man admitted. "About her legs. And the fact that she… doesn't have a mother."
A pause. "Yes," Ragnar said quietly. "I know." Another pause. "She's never struck first. I'm not here to argue. I'll be there in an hour."
The line went dead.
Ragnar stood at the center of his forge, sweat on his brow, a glowing billet of steel in one hand and a hammer in the other. The flames behind him danced like spirits. His hair, wild and red, blazed in the firelight.
He swung.
Steel met steel with a roar that shook the chamber. Sparks burst like stars against the stone walls. Each strike was precise, controlled. He was a man who made weapons not for war, but to remind the world that strength could be beautiful.
He lifted the shaped blade, quenching it in a trough of cold water. Steam hissed. He watched the metal, then set it down. The sword gleamed—a shard of night trapped in steel.
The wind outside the schoolhouse screamed as the door opened.
Ragnar stepped through the snow like it wasn't even there. A white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, clung to his frame. Black trousers. Scuffed boots. He didn't look dressed for the cold, but the cold seemed to fear him. His red hair stood out against the gray walls like fire on ash.
A teacher peeked from a doorway, clutching her shawl. "Mr. Ragnar," she said softly. "She's in the headmaster's office."
He didn't respond. Just walked past her. Every step echoed like a drumbeat in the narrow hall.
When he opened the door, silence fell like snow.
Three bruised boys stood huddled in a corner. The headmaster, thin and twitchy, sat behind a cluttered desk. And in the far corner, on a little chair, was Iris.
She wasn't crying. She sat upright, folding a piece of paper in her lap. Her small hands moved with careful focus, creasing the parchment into a crane. Her white hair framed her face, and her golden eyes lifted the moment the door opened.
She exhaled—a breath of relief so quiet only a father would hear it.
Ragnar walked past everyone without a glance and knelt before her. The floor creaked beneath him. He was a mountain bending low.
"You're folding the wings too fast," he said gently.
Iris frowned. "It keeps ripping."
"Slow down. Let the paper guide you."
She followed his hands, and together, they finished the crane.
Mr. Tenzin, flustered and red-faced, stood. "Mr. Ragnar! This is serious! She assaulted three boys!"
Ragnar didn't stand. He looked at his daughter, who smiled faintly at her paper bird.
Then he looked up.
"Is she hurt?" he asked.
"No," the headmaster admitted, "but—"
"She's four. They're what—eight?"
"Seven," the man said. "Still—"
"She didn't start it. They mocked her. Tried to touch her hair."
"How do you know?"
"Iris," Ragnar said.
She stood, clutching the paper crane. "They said I looked like a spider. Said I had scarecrow legs. Then they grabbed my hair. So I hit them."
There was no shame in her voice. No apology.
Ragnar nodded. "That's enough."
"She outmatched them!" the headmaster said, exasperated. "There must be punishment!"
"There was," Ragnar replied, rising to his full height. He picked Iris up and settled her on his hip. She buried her face in his neck.
"You're just late to the cleanup," he added, then turned and left.
The forge welcomed them home with warmth and flickering fire. Ragnar set Iris down on a stool beside the workbench and peeled off his shirt. Scars lined his back—memories written in flesh. He began to cook.
The knife in his hand moved swiftly, chopping naruto and vegetables for ramen. Soon the room was filled with the smell of boiling broth. He poured two bowls and gently blew on hers before serving it. He added an extra fish cake.
They ate in silence, the warmth wrapping around them like a blanket.
After a while, Iris spoke. "The headmaster's face looked like an old prune."
Ragnar's lip twitched. A smile that never quite made it to his mouth.
"I won," she added, not bragging—just stating a fact.
"They won't touch you again," he said.
She nodded. "Do you think my hair really looks like spiderwebs?"
He leaned forward and brushed a strand behind her ear. "No," he said. "Your hair is like moonlight. And your legs? They'll carry you farther than any of theirs ever will."
Her smile lit up the room. She finished her bowl, then yawned.
He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the small cot near the forge. As he tucked her in, the paper crane slipped from her fingers but stayed close by.
He stood there for a long time, watching her sleep.