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... h leaves in gold and umber before the snows would claim them.

Smoke curled gently from longhouse chimneys, carrying the scent of pine resin, roasting meats, and the sharp tang of sea salt.

Within Vetrúlfr’s hall, life moved with an almost reverent quiet. Brynhildr, who seemed to age backward with each passing season, sat by the hearth spinning fine red wool.

Her pale blonde hair fell unbound down her back, unmarked by even a single thread of silver.

When the firel ...

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