The snow was falling heavily the night Jonas arrived in Håvardby. Flakes as large as feathers drifted from the black sky, piling on rooftops and softening the lines of the narrow streets. The villagers had already shut themselves indoors, their windows glowing faintly with firelight, their chimneys breathing pale smoke into the storm. Only the old church bell and the frozen fjord bore witness as a lone traveler trudged into the square.
He carried a lantern in one hand, its glow flickering across his face. His hood was pulled low, but when he stopped at the edge of the square and pushed it back, the lamplight revealed him clearly: a man perhaps in his late twenties, travel-worn but upright, with dark hair damp from the snow and eyes that gleamed with both exhaustion and curiosity.
Sarah watched him from the shadows of the churchyard gate. She told herself she had only paused on her walk home, but she lingered, her gaze fixed on the stranger as he surveyed the cluster of houses. Something about him pulled at her immediately. Not his appearance, though he was striking in a quiet way, but the warmth that radiated from within him curiosity, determination, a yearning for connection. His emotions shone like firelight through frosted glass, and Sarah's hunger caught at once.
Their eyes met across the square. He gave a small, courteous nod, the gesture of a man relieved to see another soul after long solitude. Sarah's breath caught. She inclined her head quickly in return, then slipped away into the deeper shadows before her hunger could root her feet to the snow.
By morning the village was buzzing. Outsiders were rare in winter, rarer still those who arrived alone, on foot, carrying nothing more than a satchel and lantern. Word spread through Håvardby like wildfire: a scholar had come, a southerner, a student from Bergen. His name was Jonas Dahl, and he was here to collect stories the old folktales and customs that still lingered in villages forgotten by the modern world.
The innkeeper, a stout man named Hallvard, cleared a place for him at the hearth. That evening the villagers trickled in, drawn as much by curiosity as by the promise of warmth and ale. Jonas thanked them with quiet politeness, his southern Norwegian accent softening his words, and explained his purpose. He wished to learn their stories, their songs, their beliefs about the long winters and the sea that shaped their lives.
Sarah came late, slipping into the corner of the room. She told herself it was simple caution, to observe what he was and what he wanted. But the truth thrummed beneath her ribs: she had not been able to stop thinking of him since the night before.
She watched as he spread his papers across the table sheets filled with neat handwriting, sketches of runes, scraps of half-remembered verses. The firelight danced on his features, throwing gold across his cheekbones. The villagers spoke hesitantly at first, but Jonas listened with such earnest attention that they softened. His eyes lit with gratitude at every answer, and Sarah felt her hunger stir at the glow of his admiration.
She forced herself to keep her distance. To feed too deeply would be reckless. But every word he spoke, every flicker of emotion across his face, was a temptation she had never known before.
Later that night, she found herself at a table near his. Jonas glanced up, and recognition sparked.
"You're Sarah, aren't you?" His voice carried warmth, an ease that unsettled her.
She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes.
"I've already heard of you," he said with a smile that reached his eyes. "The villagers speak of you often. They say you care for the old ones, the widows. That you carry wood to those who cannot, and bring broth when the storms are harsh."
Her chest tightened. "I do what anyone would."
"They admire you," he said simply, and the sincerity in his tone washed over her like heat. Sarah caught herself breathing it in, tasting that flicker of admiration on her tongue before she could stop. She took only the smallest sip, but even that left her trembling with both guilt and longing.
Jonas leaned forward slightly. "I came here because I believe villages like this hold the oldest tales. In the cities, people forget. But here… here the old things still live." His eyes shone. "Would you tell me any of them?"
Sarah lowered her gaze, her fingers knotting in the fringe of her shawl. The old tales. If he knew the truths behind them, he would not sit so easily by the fire. Still, she heard herself whisper, "The fjord has stories. They say it whispers at night."
Jonas tilted his head. "And do you believe it does?"
Her eyes lifted to his, and in that moment, she could not lie. "Yes."
The fire popped loudly, breaking the silence, but neither of them looked away.
When Sarah left the inn, the night pressed cold around her. Snow had drifted against the doors, the roofs gleamed white in the starlight, and the fjord stretched dark and frozen at the village's edge. She paused there, staring out over its vast silence. The ice groaned, low and mournful, carrying across the windless air.
The villagers said the fjord was alive. That it whispered to the lonely.
Sarah drew her shawl tighter. It was not the fjord that hungered.
It was her
And now, with Jonas Dahl in the village, her hunger had found something it had never tasted before.
The nest gathered two nights later, in the damp cellar beneath the inn. Candles guttered in the draft, their flames leaning like listeners. Ingrid's sharp eyes caught Sarah as soon as she entered.
"The outsider," Ingrid said. "You've spoken to him."
Sarah kept her tone even. "Only briefly. He asked about stories."
"And did you tell him any?"
"No.
"Good." Erik's deep voice rumbled from the shadows. "Curiosity is dangerous. Outsiders bring questions."
Sarah inclined her head, but she felt Ingrid's gaze pierce deeper.
"You like him," Ingrid said at last. The words hung heavy in the cellar.
Sarah's throat tightened. "I don't."
But her silence afterward betrayed her. The truth glowed in her, undeniable.
That night Sarah dreamed of Jonas's voice, of his emotions flaring like a hearth fire against the cold. She woke before dawn, trembling, her hunger gnawing at her hollow and full all at once.
For the first time, she feared it.