The Wolf and the Snow

ᚠ Prologue

ᚠ- The Brisingamen

The north wind continued on its course, carrying with it the echo of ancient prophecies whispered in a language that only the gods and the oldest creatures could understand. In the distance, clouds swirled on the horizon, as though the world itself were waiting in silence for what was about to happen.

Freya paused for a moment before descending into the recesses of the earth. Her eyes, infinite and radiant, watched the mist drifting like a veil over Midgard. There was something about that night, something that made the very air feel laden with unspoken promises. The glow on the horizon had drawn her in, like a beacon wrought from ancient magic, a magic that called to her with an urgency she could not ignore.

With every step, the goddess drew closer to the depths, where the roots of the world intertwined, dark and deep, with secrets buried since the creation of Yggdrasil. She knew that something extraordinary awaited her there. Something that resonated with the very rhythm of her divine blood. The world of mortals, so full of imperfections, seemed to fade around her. There was only one path, a single direction: towards the radiance that beckoned her.

The workshop of the Brisings appeared before her eyes like a cathedral of shadows and fire. It was a place where light could scarcely penetrate, where the walls of the cavern seemed to be fashioned from the very darkness that had shaped the cosmos before creation. Sparks from the forges filled the air, fleetingly illuminating the figures of the four dwarves as they worked with supernatural concentration, as though each blow of their hammers might shape not only metal, but the very essence of time and fate.

Freya advanced with the grace of one who knew that even the oldest forces in the universe respected her. But it was the gleam of Brisingamen that captured her gaze. The necklace rested upon a table of black stone, radiating a hypnotic light that seemed to contain within it the secrets of dead stars and galaxies yet to be born. Its brilliance was not merely one of superficial beauty; it was a beauty that spoke of power, of mastery over the untameable, of a magic so ancient that not even the gods could wholly claim it.

Freya stepped closer, feeling the necklace speak to her. Not in words, but in a silent melody that vibrated through her bones, a song composed of the currents of life and death, of creation and destruction.

The dwarves stopped their work when they sensed her presence. Four pairs of eyes looked upon her with a mixture of astonishment and distrust.

Freya looked at them one by one. Her eyes shone with a light that seemed to come from the oldest stars. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft as silk, yet it echoed through the walls of the cavern with the weight of a divine promise, unbreakable and irresistible.

"And here I stand, before the four wisest and most skilful dwarves ever to have walked the nine worlds. Every blow of your hammers resounds not only through the stones of Midgard, but through the very threads of fate. Your renown is no empty thing, for even the roots of Yggdrasil whisper your names, and the gods, from Asgard to the most distant realms, have heard of your marvels."

She paused, and her smile widened, warm and deadly, like the first ray of sunlight over a battlefield. In her boundless knowledge, she knew that the necklace was the dwarves' most precious possession and that they would not sell it for gold or silver.

"And I, Freya, the mightiest goddess of the realms, do not come before you as a beggar, but as an equal. I come because I know that only you could have forged something to rival the very brilliance of the stars themselves. This necklace, this Brisingamen, is a work worthy of gods, and I have come to pay for it with gold and jewels."

Her eyes captivated them, filled with secrets that no dwarf could ever fully comprehend. Then, in a whisper that seemed to fill the air with the weight of the eternities yet to come, she added:

"So here we are, in this singular moment. You, with the power of creation in your hands. I, with the power over hearts and souls in mine. How far are you willing to go to obtain that which neither gold, nor fame, nor steel has ever brought you? Tell me how much gold, silver, and how many jewels would suffice to purchase it."

Dagrim, the eldest among them, his braided beard reaching down to his waist, was the first to break the silence. His voice sounded deep and heavy, as though every word had been forged from the very metal they handled with such mastery.

"This necklace," he said, "was not made for the hands of just any god. It has no price in gold or jewels that you could offer, Freya."

His words hung in the air, but Freya did not flinch. She smiled, and her smile was like the first ray of sunlight piercing the darkness of winter, like the warmth of a flame on the coldest of nights. A smile that could promise many things, but never simple surrender.

"I know you would not exchange it for anything you already possess. But I also know that the desire for things you have not yet had can be a fire that not even the greatest smiths can extinguish. And what is it that you desire in return?" she asked. Her voice was gentle yet commanding, as though she were inviting them into a negotiation she already knew she would win.

The dwarves glanced at one another. Their eyes were full of cunning. They knew that the goddess could offer them nothing they had not already imagined, nothing that their minds, as sharp as their tools, had not already calculated. It was then that Sindrek, the most cunning of the four, spoke. His voice was lower, almost like a whisper echoing through the walls of the cavern.

"We desire something that no gold, no silver, and no power can buy," he said. "We wish to spend a night with you, Freya. Each one of us."

The dwarves, creatures of the deep, knew well the value of gold, jewels, and precious metals. For aeons, they had forged the most powerful weapons and artefacts ever borne by the gods in battle. Yet, despite all their skill, there was something they had never been able to obtain: the very essence of life and divine beauty.

Freya was not merely a goddess; she embodied love, desire, and fertility in their purest form. For the dwarves, who spent their lives in the shadows of their forges, confined within a world of stone and metal, Freya's presence represented everything that lay beyond their reach: the warmth of life, the radiance of love, and the mystery of desire. What they longed for was not simply Freya's physical beauty, but access to an experience they could never attain on their own: to be close to that vital force, to feel it, to live it, if only for a single night.

For the dwarves, that night with Freya was more than a transaction born of desire. It was a way of touching the divine, of experiencing what cold stone and metal could never give them: the warmth of life and the eternity she embodied. They knew that, although they possessed the skill to forge the most beautiful and powerful jewels, they could never create what Freya carried within her by nature: the power of creation and love in its purest form.

Silence fell over the workshop like a cloak. The other three dwarves, Dagrim, Valthor and Gunnlod, waited with their eyes fixed on the goddess. They knew the proposal was risky, but they also knew that nothing else in the Nine Worlds could equal Brisingamen in value. They believed their demand was fair and that the goddess would have no choice but to accept it.

But Freya, who had learned to deal with the wills of gods, mortals and the creatures that wandered between the realms, did not react as they had expected. Instead of fury or rejection, her smile widened, more dangerous than before.

“Very well,” she said. Her voice was as seductive as it was implacable. “But on two conditions: you will open the necklace so that I may place my magic within it and, once it is mine, increase my powers. In addition, if you wish to spend a night with me, you must first overcome a trial.”

“You are the wisest of goddesses, Freya,” said Valthor. “It would not be fair for the outcome of our bargain to depend on a single trial.”

“That is true,” the goddess replied with a smile. “I shall offer you four trials, and each of you may choose the one that suits him best. That way, if one of you fails, he will not drag the others down with him. Whoever fails will go without his reward, and whoever succeeds will spend a night with me.”

The dwarves exchanged wary glances. They were proud of their strength and intelligence, but Freya was no lesser deity: she was the most powerful and intelligent goddess in the pantheon.

Dagrim did not hesitate; his gaze, as hard as the metal he had forged so many times, met Freya’s.

“Tell me what the trials will be, so that we may decide,” he said firmly, as though discussing an ordinary day’s work at the forge. “But do not make them excessively difficult. If even one of us disagrees, there will be no bargain.”

Freya, still in control, inclined her head slightly, an enigmatic, sensual smile forming on her lips. She seemed to relish the challenge, as though the dwarves were children playing at being gods and she the eternal mistress of some cosmic game. Her voice, soft and seductive, filled the space between them like a spell.

“The trials will not be impossible, Dagrim,” she replied. Her tone was delicate and suggestive, yet every word carried an ancient authority. “Only a wise and skilful dwarf could overcome them, but none lies beyond your reach.”

She paused. Her gaze passed over the four dwarves, lingering briefly on each of them, measuring their resolve.

“The first challenge you may choose is to withstand the power of Brisingamen. One of you must wear the necklace throughout the night without succumbing to its energy.” Her smile deepened, as though concealing a secret known only to her. “Considering that it is an instrument of your own making, it should not be so difficult... should it?”

A faint murmur ran through the cavern. The dwarves exchanged glances. None wished to show fear, yet all knew the power the jewel possessed, even for them, and none had any clear idea what magic Freya intended to place within it.

“The second trial,” Freya continued, “will be to spend the night by my side without yielding to my charms or allowing desire to consume you.” Her tone was sweet, but something in her words made the air feel heavier, more dangerous. Every breath seemed to carry the challenge with it.

The dwarves shifted uneasily. The goddess of love and beauty was not a force easily resisted, and they knew it.

“The third option,” she went on, “will be to confront time itself. You will remain awake until dawn, but it will not be an ordinary night.”

Her words made the fire in the forge flicker, as though time itself had shuddered at their mention.

“And the fourth and final trial,” she said, as though offering one jewel in exchange for another, “will be the one closest to your hearts: to forge something more beautiful and powerful than Brisingamen in a single night. The art of the hands and of creation—what could be more natural to you?” She paused, then added, almost as a caress, “Only dwarves as wise and skilful as yourselves could even attempt it.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The dwarves, still confident in their own power, felt the weight of the choices before them. Freya’s words were not simply challenges; they were doors into the unknown, each more dangerous than the last. They knew that none of the trials would be simple, not with a goddess like Freya. Yet the temptation to possess her, to claim something even the gods coveted, was too great to ignore.

Freya was a reflection of life itself, the spark of creation the dwarves sought with every blow of their hammers. Her presence radiated more than physical allure; it stirred desires long buried, drawing them towards the eternal and the unattainable. In her were bound together ancient mystery and the deepest longing any being could know: the need to touch the divine, to merge with the source of creation itself.

The goddess remained motionless, a faint smile on her lips as she awaited their answer. She knew they were already caught in her web. All that remained was to see how each would choose to face his fate.

The dwarves looked at one another, weighing the offer. They trusted in their abilities, in the strength of their bodies and the cunning of their minds. No trial, they thought, could be beyond them. They were certain that, together, they could overcome any challenge Freya set before them. And so they nodded, one by one, sealing the pact in silence.

“If we overcome your trials, you will not only have to share a night with each of us,” said Dagrim. His gaze was hard, yet filled with the confidence the other dwarves shared. “At dawn, you must also allow us to keep Brisingamen. It will be the ultimate proof that we have not only forged the most powerful jewel, but brought the most formidable goddess in the Nine Worlds to heel.”

In their pride, the dwarves believed that if they could overcome Freya’s trials, master her power, resist her charms, defy time and create something as beautiful and powerful as Brisingamen, then they would deserve to possess both the goddess and the jewel. To overcome those challenges would mean more than victory; it would mean they had transcended their own limits, reaching a point where they could impose their will even upon the gods. Moreover, Brisingamen would emerge from the trials imbued with the goddess’s magic, making it far more valuable.

What they did not understand—or underestimated—was that Freya, with her immense wisdom and command over the forces of the universe, would never enter a game unless she knew she could win. Blinded by desire and ambition, the dwarves failed to see that the trials would test not only their strength and skill, but the very limits of their understanding.

Freya approached the necklace and gently caressed it, feeling the pulse of its power. She knew the dwarves underestimated the true extent of her command over magic, over life itself. Each believed he could defeat her at her own game, but she was mistress of games far older and more dangerous than any dwarf could imagine.

“Very well,” she said, her voice resounding through the cavern. “Each of you will face one trial. And if any of you succeeds, the necklace will be yours... and I shall be your reward. Otherwise, the necklace will be mine.”

Sindrek, the proudest of the four, could not suppress a confident smile as he accepted the challenge. He knew that no mere object, however divine, could bring a dwarf of his lineage to heel, a master smith whose fingers had shaped the destinies of kings and gods alike. The power of the necklace, legendary though it was, could be nothing more than another challenge to overcome, one more trophy to add to his long list of victories.

“I shall wear Brisingamen for one night,” he said.

Freya showed no emotion. Her face remained impassive; only a glimmer of curiosity stirred in her eyes as she took up the necklace, the pulsing jewel beating like the heart of a forgotten star. She raised it between her fingers with a grace born of centuries of wisdom and mystery, and as the necklace cast its energy across the cavern, the other dwarves could not help noticing how its light seemed to distort the air, as though time and space themselves bent beneath its power. Then the goddess whispered something to the necklace, and her magic flowed into it.

“You will withstand the power of Brisingamen for one night,” she said, her voice both echo and whisper. With almost ceremonial slowness, she placed the necklace around Sindrek’s neck.

At first, everything was calm. The necklace vibrated so faintly that it was barely perceptible, like the murmur of a distant stream. Confident, the dwarf looked at Freya defiantly, knowing that she expected to see him break. But he was no ordinary dwarf; he was the cunning one, the invincible one, the dwarf who had faced dragons and forged Thor’s own hammer.

For the first few moments, he even allowed himself to relax, believing that the energy emitted by the necklace he himself had helped create was no more than a faint hum, a spark of power that barely touched the strength of his mind. But with each beat of the necklace, with each soft vibration that passed over his skin, he felt something deeper begin to stir. It was not merely the jewel’s power that unsettled him, but something within himself, something he had never faced before.

As the hours passed, Brisingamen ceased to be merely an object around his neck. It seemed to have grown, its invisible roots spreading into his mind, into his most private thoughts. The pressure, so subtle at first, began to intensify, not violently, but with a terrifying persistence. His breathing grew heavy; his heart beat to a rhythm he could not control. Visions, vague at first, began to form before his eyes.

First, he saw his workshop. A familiar place, his refuge, his domain. But something was wrong. The cavern walls were cracking, the heat of the forge was fading, and the tools that had once been extensions of his own body shattered and rusted before his helpless gaze. His fellow dwarves, Valthor, Dagrim and Gunnlod, faded away, becoming shapeless shadows, their voices dimming as time itself seemed to disintegrate.

He tried to move his hands, but they felt clumsy and heavy, as though the metal he had once shaped with ease had become alien to him. Then came the worst of his fears: he looked down and saw his own hands, useless and misshapen, incapable of creation. Brisingamen, with its hypnotic radiance, had torn him away from his essence, from the very thing that defined him.

“No...” he murmured, gritting his teeth as he struggled to hold on to himself. “This is only a trick... I can endure it!”

But the visions were no simple tricks; they were mirrors reflecting his deepest frailties, fears he had never allowed to surface, not even in the darkest corner of his mind. The necklace did not simply reveal those fears; it magnified them, turning them into realities Sindrek could not control.

Time, which only moments before had seemed to pass so quickly, now crawled like a wounded beast. Seconds became eternities, and the pressure in his mind continued to grow, crushing his will, slowly breaking his resistance. The pride that had led him to accept the trial crumbled with every beat of the necklace, with every image that devoured him from within.

Finally, when the first rays of dawn began to tint the mountains a faint reddish hue, Sindrek could bear no more. The air, laden with Freya’s magic and the power of Brisingamen, was like lead in his lungs. His knees, which had never before touched the ground in surrender, gave way beneath him. He fell, exhausted, his trembling hands unable to grasp anything solid.

“You have failed,” she murmured. Each word enveloped him like an echo reverberating through his weary mind. “You will not spend this night with me.”

Her smile was barely visible, delicate, almost compassionate, but behind that softness lay an unshakable certainty and the calculated skill with which she kept the dwarves bound to their bargain.

“It is a pity,” she added, dangerous sweetness in her voice. “Because, I must admit, you are a very handsome dwarf.”

And with that, she turned away. Her attention had already left him, as though the game were over and nothing remained but to wait for night to fall once more... and for the next challenge to begin.

For the first time in his life, the dwarf felt defeat as something tangible, something heavier than any anvil. As the goddess removed the necklace from his neck, he understood that it had not merely tested his endurance, but his soul. The power of Brisingamen, now altered by her magic, could not be measured by physical or mental strength alone, but by one’s ability to confront the truths one feared most. And Sindrek the Proud had fallen beneath the weight of his own.

“I shall return tomorrow. I shall come back at night to continue the trials,” Freya said with a smile as she walked away from the cave.

ᚢ-Bergen

Bergen’s old harbour always smelled the same: salt, wet wood and something rancid that no one knew how to name. To adults, it was a place of work. To Max, Axel and Ragnhild, it was a land of adventure.

The harbour was a maze of quays, shipyards and warehouses beside Bryggen, the old Hanseatic trading district, with its storehouses, narrow passageways and wooden docks. Fish, timber and countless other goods were loaded, unloaded and traded there every day.

There were corners even the adults did not know properly. Among weather-beaten crates and warehouses that smelled of history, Max, Axel and Ragnhild searched for something valuable, perhaps something they could sell or keep, though none of them truly expected to find much.

Bergen was Norway’s second most important port after Oslo, a vital centre of maritime trade where fishing boats, cargo ships and passenger vessels arrived and departed every day.

Its position among mountains and fjords made it an important link with the outside world—and an ideal place for smuggling, particularly in hard times.

Many dockworkers had lost their jobs or were being exploited. Some had found other ways to make money, including smuggling or dealings with local criminal gangs. Even the rubbish scattered around the harbour could yield forgotten or discarded objects worth cleaning up and selling.

Max did not answer at once. He leapt between the puddles as though dodging mines. Each jump was precise, almost military. In his pockets he carried old nails, a compass that only sometimes pointed north and a mother-of-pearl button that would be difficult to sell. The haul was miserable. As always.

“Does this count as treasure or rubbish?” Axel grumbled, raising the broken fishing rod as though it were the rifle of an unlucky veteran.

Today’s haul would not fetch much, although perhaps the compass could be repaired and sold.

“If it does not shine or make a sound when you hit it against something, it is useless. Page three of the good explorer’s handbook,” he muttered without looking back. “I do not pick up anything a magpie would not pick up, which means it has to shine...”

“But if we manage to fix the fishing rod, perhaps we could get a few kroner for it...” his friend replied.

“I doubt it... But I will show it to my father,” said Max. “What we need is something else: a compass that works, binoculars, a logbook with maps inside. Something that smells of the past... and can be sold in the present...”

Ragnhild followed them in silence. She did not jump over puddles. Her boots were almost a treasure compared with those of her two companions, and she was not prepared to get them any dirtier than absolutely necessary. She did not speak much. Her gaze moved from shadow to shadow, from cracks to corners. She did not play at finding treasure; she hunted for it like a bloodhound.

“And which page says that rummaging through rubbish does not give you infections?” she remarked, crouching to look beneath a pallet crusted with salt.

“This one,” Axel replied, pointing dramatically at his bandaged knee. “Courtesy of the time I fell while trying to open a barrel that turned out to be full of... maggots. No gold, no glory. Just a stink.”

Max stopped abruptly. He had reached a pile of old crates with faded lettering. Some still bore words such as “DRIED FISH” or simply “DO NOT OPEN”, which to a child meant “open immediately”. One of them had a caved-in side, as though something heavy had been pushed against it from within. Yet they did not appear to have been abandoned. If they were caught looking inside, they might end up in gaol and receive a sound thrashing from their parents.

“Axel,” Max said, lowering his voice slightly, “write this in the journal: territory explored and conquered, signed, King of the Puddles. It is almost dark. Time to get out of here.”

“And by Ragnhild, who does not step in mud because she wears expensive new boots,” Axel added from behind.

“Because I do not want them looking like yours in a week,” she replied without changing her tone. “It is not sentimental. It is survival. My mother said they have to last until I can no longer fit my foot inside them. Then my sister inherits them. Tell me that is not a curse.”

The two boys looked at her.

“Ours are war relics. My great-great-grandfather fought in the snow wearing these. Literally. They are about to surrender from sheer wear. Total disintegration,” said Axel.

“Explain that to your mother if you ruin your boots at the harbour,” said Ragnhild. “I am sure she will pat you on the shoulder and say, ‘Never mind, son... Come inside, where I have a three-page list of punishments waiting for you.’”

The harbour was dark, filled with damp, salty mist, creaking cranes, shrieking gulls and hollow-eyed men who stared too much or not at all.

“Keep being this fussy and you will lose the few friends you have,” Axel grumbled, folding his arms.

“And what do I have to do to stay in the club? Jump over these puddles full of salt and muck?”

“Take part. Or at least pretend you care about what we are looking for.”

Ragnhild stopped. She looked towards several crates stacked in a suspiciously haphazard fashion.

“Shhh... Will you stop making so much noise?” she murmured.

She pointed towards a corner where the crates seemed to have been piled too carelessly.

Max took out his broken compass and held it before him as though it were guiding the way. It was useless, but it gave the gesture a certain authority.

“Set course for the suspicious creaking,” he announced. “We look, we search and we leave. Without touching anything. Or almost anything.”

Max and Axel approached more cautiously this time. Axel lowered his voice, as though the place itself demanded it.

Ragnhild was already moving.

“This is exactly how a story begins when it ends with one of us shouting, ‘Run!’” she whispered.

“Exactly,” Max added pointedly. “These crates have not been abandoned. They belong to someone. They are old, but they have not been thrown away. If my father finds out we opened one of them, I will go three months without dinner...”

“But the warehouse itself is abandoned,” said the girl.

“It is not,” said Max, growing more serious. “There are no abandoned warehouses at the harbour. Not for long. Someone is always watching.”

“And what does that collapsed roof mean, then?” Axel asked.

“That the roof has collapsed... which is not the same as it belonging to no one.”

“And the open door,” said Ragnhild, pushing it wide with a single shove. “There is no padlock. Nothing. If they do not want anyone going inside, they should lock it properly.”

Max was beginning to have doubts.

“If they catch us here, we are in for a serious telling-off. The kind that leaves a mark. I have never seen this door open. Ever.”

Axel smiled at once.

“That is exactly what someone would say before finding gold.”

Max hesitated for only a second. The quay was quiet, too quiet. A steamship snorted in the distance, and even the gulls seemed quieter than usual.

“We go in and come straight back out,” he said. “Just to look.”

“That settles it,” said Axel, kicking a coil of rope beside the threshold. “If there is no treasure in here, there had better at least be something we can resell, like my cap. Literally. Bite mark included.”

Silence returned. Dense.

Beyond the door, the shed waited. It had the kind of patience possessed only by things that are neither new\... nor entirely harmless.

“We take a look and decide inside whether what is in there is rubbish or whether someone is actually storing something,” said the girl.

Ragnhild did not wait. She was already ahead of them. No one had given her the role of leader, but she took it all the same.

It smelled different in there. Like entering somewhere no one had breathed for a very long time... or where someone was still breathing, though they could not be seen.

“It smells of dust and tobacco. Someone has been smoking...” said the girl.

“Exactly. Time to leave.”

It was cold inside. Not the cold of the sea, but a sealed, ancient cold. The shed was larger than it appeared from outside. There were stacked sacks, wooden crates reinforced with metal, and a strong smell of tar... and something else.

“This is not fish, and this place is not abandoned,” Max whispered, wrinkling his nose.

Ragnhild approached one of the crates. On its side was a fresh black mark, painted in thick strokes. It was not a letter. It was a crude symbol, like a broken arrow or a claw.

Max rested his hand on another crate to get a better look.

And then they heard it.

Voices.

Deep. Adult. Close.

Max had no time to tell them they needed to leave, because his friends had already crept closer to where the voices were coming from.

They peered through a gap between the planks. Inside, amid the gloom and the smell of paraffin, two men were unloading a crate from a handcart.

“Not tonight,” the shorter man growled, spitting on the floor. “The boss said not a single mistake.”

“He always says that,” replied the other, a broad man with a scar across his cheek. “And what about the sailors from the MS Friedrich? They have been looking around more than they should.”

Ragnhild held her breath when she saw what was inside the crate. There was no food. No tools.

There were rifles. Well oiled. Carefully stacked.

Axel leaned a little farther forwards. In another crate, poorly closed, they could see bundles of banknotes wrapped in dark cloth. They did not need to be adults to understand. This was not legal work. The army did not hide weapons in half-collapsed sheds. It was probably part of an arms-smuggling operation.

“And who is all this going to?” the scarred man asked as he slammed the crate shut. “I do not like not knowing who I work for.”

“Do not ask,” the short man replied, suddenly serious. “The less you know, the longer you keep breathing.”

From the back of the warehouse, a third voice emerged from the shadows, slow and heavy.

“Danny... are you becoming stupid or what?”

The two men stiffened at once.

“No one here asks who is buying or who is selling,” the voice continued. “Do you know why, Danny?”

Silence.

“Because bodies turn up in the water in Bergen every few weeks. And it is not because they could not swim.

“It is because they heard something they should not have. They were somewhere they had no business being.

“Do you want to end up floating with your face swollen like theirs?”

The crate struck the floor with a dull thud.

“Move,” the voice growled. “And keep watch. I do not want any surprises tonight.”

At that moment, a shadow crossed the strip of light beneath the door.

Max felt his heart leap into his throat.

“Out!” he whispered, pushing his friends backwards.

Axel took one step back... and his heel struck a badly stacked pile of crates.

The stack gave way.

An entire crate toppled over, hitting the floor with a sharp crash. The lid flew off, and several tins rolled across the concrete, colliding in a metallic clatter that could not be mistaken for anything else.

The echo rang through the warehouse.

Silence.

A silence so dense that Max could hear his own breathing.

Then, from inside, a chair slowly scraped across the floor.

“That was not a rat,” someone said in a low, firm voice.

The unmistakable click of a weapon being cocked rang out.

“Nor the wind.”

Then came footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Not the steps of someone curious, but of someone who had already made a decision.

Neither Ragnhild nor Axel wanted to look. But Max was still watching through the gap.

“Come out,” one of the men ordered. “Right now.”

Another man spat on the floor.

“Whoever they are... they cannot leave.”

A torch suddenly came on, sweeping across the inside of the shed.

“If they have seen the weapons,” added the voice from the shadows, “they are already dead. The only question is how far they will run first.”

Max waited no longer.

“Now!” he whispered, pushing Ragnhild.

Behind them, someone shouted:

“They are children!”

And another replied without the slightest hesitation:

“I do not care. Do not let them leave the quay! If they get into the city, we are fucked. There are still people about...”

The first shot was meant to kill. For sailors who might be in Hamburg within a week, leaving no trace mattered more than earning a place in heaven, where God, if He existed, would never let them in.

The second shot went high, shattering the calm of the quay like a dry crack of thunder.

“Fuck! Do you want the police here in twenty minutes, you idiot?” said the shorter man. “No more shooting.”

The children knew that this was no longer about being sent to bed without supper; those men meant to silence them for ever.

“Max!” Ragnhild shouted.

“This way!” he replied, taking the lead without thinking.

They burst out into the open just as another shot exploded behind them.

“I said no more shooting, you fucking idiot!”

Bergen’s old harbour was a maze of shadows, slippery cobbles and damp alleyways. The gas lamps trembled in the sea wind.

Max turned right between two warehouses, and they entered the Bryggen district, where the small, colourful wooden houses crowded against one another as though trying to shelter from the cold.

The men’s footsteps followed them, drawing closer. One of them swore loudly. Another shouted something about “taking them alive if possible...”

It did not sound like a threat. It was an order.

“Axel, jump!” Max shouted as they passed an abandoned cart. He used it as a ramp and leapt over a low wall, helping Ragnhild across before Axel landed clumsily behind them.

“We should have gone home two hours ago. There is no one left in the streets. We need to find adults who can protect us.”

They kept running down a narrow street where water had gathered in dark puddles. The sound of their footsteps mingled with the echo of those pursuing them. Max felt his heart pounding, but not with fear... with clarity. The adrenaline had awakened something in him that he had not known was there. He saw every turn before reaching it. Every dark corner, every shadow, spoke to him as though the whole world were whispering which way to run.

“To the market!” he said, veering right.

He was fast, but his friends could not keep up with him. The men were almost upon them.

They entered a square where a few fruit stalls and crates of fish still stood beneath hanging tarpaulins.

Max seized a barrel and shoved it without slowing. It rolled violently forwards, sweeping aside baskets of apples and a stall piled with oranges. One of the men saw it too late.

“Shit!” one of them shouted, slipping on the debris.

Max helped Ragnhild climb a stack of crates. Agile as a cat, she launched herself through an open window and disappeared into a shop.

Axel hesitated, but took Max’s hand and jumped as well.

“Go! I will meet you on the other side!” Max shouted to him.

A hand appeared around the corner.

The first gangster was armed.

Max did not think. He jumped through the window and slammed the shutter closed, securing it from inside with an iron hook.

“Run, run, run!” Ragnhild shouted from the far end of the storeroom.

They escaped through the back door, crossed an overgrown garden and entered another alley where the wooden houses creaked around them. Above, lines of wet clothes brushed against their heads. Max did not stop.

A man was crossing the street.

“Sir, three dangerous men are chasing us. We have done nothing, I swear. They have guns.”

The children saw fear pass across the man’s face. Max knew at once that he would not be able to protect them.

To their right, an iron staircase climbed to a low balcony.

“Over the rooftops!”

“Are you mad?” Axel groaned, though he was already climbing.

The balcony boards shook, but held. Max was the first to reach the low, sloping zinc roof, and from there he climbed towards a higher section, where the sea could be seen in the distance and the mist was beginning to swallow the ships.

Ragnhild reached him. She was panting and no longer smiling.

“Since when can you run that fast?”

Max did not answer.

Below them, they could hear the men drawing closer.

“Which way did the children go?” the scarred man asked the man standing in the street.

“Is there some problem?” the man asked.

“There will be if you do not tell us which way they went. Did they tell you why they were running?”

The fear on the man’s face made it clear that he knew too much.

“I do not want any trouble.”

The scarred man drove a knife into his stomach while covering his mouth.

Max, Axel and Ragnhild watched from the rooftop in horror.

“They do not want us talking to anyone,” Ragnhild whispered. “If they catch us, they will do the same to us... We need to hide. They do not know where we are.”

“They will not catch us,” Max said, looking towards the next roof. “Can you jump?”

Max was already running.

And then he felt it: his body did not hurt. He was not tired. His muscles burned, but with life.

He jumped.

And flew farther than should have been possible.

On the other side, Ragnhild and Axel stood frozen. Then he knew they would not jump, and that if they did, they probably would not make it to the roof where he was standing. He would have to make the men follow him and forget about his friends. He was the fastest.

Below, the voices of their pursuers were already drawing near.

“There! They climbed onto the roof.”

Max raised a hand and pointed west, away from the route his friends might use to escape.

Then he whispered, only to himself:

“Come on. I saw you kill that poor man... I am going to tell everyone!”

And he ran.

The roof creaked beneath his feet, but he scarcely noticed. His body did not feel the same as usual. He moved as though he knew the roof before stepping onto it, as though the wind itself were showing him the way.

He jumped onto another rooftop, this one narrower. The moss was slippery, but his feet did not hesitate. Something seemed to be guiding him.

“There goes one of them!” a voice shouted from the alley.

“After him! Only shoot if he is close and no one is watching. There are still people in the neighbourhood.”

Behind him came footsteps. Heavy strides. One man slipped and fell behind. Another swore. But one of them... one of them kept up.

The scarred man.

Max saw him when he glanced back for an instant. That one would not give up. That one wanted him dead.

He climbed down a drainpipe onto a balcony and then jumped two storeys into a narrow alley. He landed badly. His ankle hurt.

But the pain faded.

His body seemed to refuse to stop, as though it remembered how to move beyond fear.

He sprinted past a closed shop, crossed a street where a milk cart almost ran him over, and knocked down a stack of fishing nets hanging from a façade. He thought about asking the milkman for help, but he would end up like the other man.

The scarred gangster was still behind him.

“You are going to tire yourself out, kid!” he shouted.

Max did not answer.

Then he turned into a narrow alley where the sea mist was beginning to creep between the houses like a thick blanket.

And there he saw it.

The tower of old St Mary’s Church.

A stone structure rising above Bryggen like an ancient finger pointing towards the clouded sky.

Max knew that church. Every child in the neighbourhood knew it.

Or so he had thought.

He ran towards one side, where an old rusted gutter ran down the wall. He jumped, grabbed it with both hands and began to climb with all his strength.

Behind him, the scarred gangster bellowed:

“I am going to find you, bastard! And when I break your legs, you will not feel like running any more!”

Max reached a ledge where the auxiliary bells had once hung. From there, he climbed onto the sloping slate roof, wet and treacherous.

The great bells slept above, in one of the two towers, like forgotten bronze giants.

The wind lashed at him, but the view made up for it:

The market. The red rooftops. The chimneys. The sea swallowed by the mist.

Then he heard stone scraping behind him. The scarred man was climbing as well.

Max had nowhere left to go but up.

But there was still a way down.

He crawled to the edge of the roof, where a small vault projected over a shadowed back courtyard.

Below lay a small fenced vegetable garden. Difficult. But possible.

Max drew a deep breath. The wind struck his face.

He jumped.

He rolled as he landed, crashing into the damp earth. Everything hurt... but he was alive.

From above, someone swore.

The gangster did not follow him. The drop was too dangerous.

Max got to his feet and disappeared among the trees in the back garden. The adrenaline would not let him tire and drove him towards home, but panic began to rise in his mind.

If only the scarred man had followed him, his friends were in danger.

He could have kept going to his house. He could have shut the door, climbed into bed and pretended that everything had been a stupid mistake. But the image of Axel and Ragnhild, huddled together on the rooftop where he had left them, tightened around his chest like an iron hand.

Max did not run.

His legs wanted to, but the knot in his stomach warned him that hurrying through the darkness was asking for disaster. So he moved quickly, yes, but like a wounded animal: cautious, alert, his neck stiff from constantly looking over his shoulder.

If only he had been followed, they might still be there. Waiting. Frightened. Or worse.

So he went back. With fear. With anger. With that knot in the stomach known only to those who flee... and then decide to return.

The way back through Bryggen was emptier than usual. The old wooden houses, with their pointed roofs and dark windows, seemed to lean a little farther than they normally did, as though they had grown tired of standing upright since the fifteenth century.

The air smelled of salt and smoke. Smoke from low chimneys and from a badly extinguished cigarette beside a half-open door. Someone coughed in an alley, but Max barely glanced over, just enough to make sure it was not one of his pursuers.

The shops in Bryggen were already closed. Their windows were black mirrors reflecting his tense silhouette. Now and then, a warm light escaped through the gap beneath a poorly lowered blind: someone eating a late supper, someone listening to the radio, someone not expecting visitors.

The wooden floors of some houses creaked with every step, but Max’s did not. His was the tread of someone who knew he had to move without being heard. Only the cord of his coat sometimes whispered as it brushed against his belt buckle.

The square beside the warehouse was empty. Not a drunk, not a dockworker, not even a wakeful gull. The mist from the sea had slipped between the streets like a repentant thief, and everything seemed asleep... or pretending to be.

There was no sign of the scarred man or the others. But there was no sign of Axel either. Nor of Ragnhild.

He passed the fishermen’s premises—closed, as always at that hour—and climbed up the side of the main warehouse. He had done it many times before. But this time, the sweat on his hands was not from the effort.

The rooftop where he had last seen his friends was still there.

Its outline rose in the gloom like a cracked spine. The badly laid tiles. The angle from which they usually climbed.

He went up.

With his heart in his throat and his eyes burning from trying to look in every direction at once, he reached the edge.

“Axel...” he whispered.

Nothing.

“Ragnhild... are you there?”

Barely even air.

Only wind. Only darkness. Only that smell of tar that did not come from the sea.

He crawled towards the place where he had left them minutes earlier.

The corner between the broken chimney and the loose tiles. Their makeshift hiding place.

But there was no one there.

Only one of Ragnhild’s boots lay there, on its side, as though it had been torn off in haste.

Shit.

His first thought was the sensible one: alert the police. Run and find his father.

But even as the idea formed, he knew it would be no use.

Those men were not playing games.

And twenty or thirty minutes—finding an adult, explaining, convincing them—could make the difference between seeing his friends again... and never seeing them again.

The adults would not understand.

They would tell him to calm down, not to exaggerate, to wait.

And meanwhile, the men from the quay would not wait for anyone to make up their mind.

Max clenched his fists.

If I go and find Dad now\... he thought, by the time I come back, they will be gone.

They would not be there.

They would not be anywhere.

And he would be nothing but the idiot who had gone home with his pockets full of rusty nails...

While the others disappeared for ever.

He headed back towards the harbour. He was a child, but he knew it was a mistake, and even so, he had no other choice.

Max returned to the warehouse as the last of the moonlight that had helped him see an hour earlier disappeared behind dark clouds. The wind dragged dust through the empty streets and made the loose boards over the windows creak. Every step weighed upon him as though he carried stones in his pockets.

He knew it might be a trap.

Through a gap between two planks, he saw them.

Axel was sitting against a post, his wrists tied behind his back. His face was dirty, one eyebrow split, and his eyes swollen from holding back his fear for so long. Beside him, Ragnhild was trembling, unable to hide it. Each time she breathed, the rope rubbed against the collar of her shirt.

Then Max understood. They were too visible, too alone. They had not been gagged. That was the worst part. They had been allowed to breathe, to cry, to beg... so that he would hear their voices and be unable to walk away.

“Max...” Axel whispered when he saw him appear among the shadows.

The boy raised a finger to his lips.

He could not speak. He could not even think too much. If he did, the fear would rise into his throat and leave him paralysed.

He moved forwards in a crouch between broken crates, sacks of rotten flour and damp beams that smelled of mould. The warehouse seemed asleep, but he knew it was not. Somewhere in the darkness, the men were waiting.

His fingers touched the first rope.

“Do not move,” he murmured, scarcely making a sound.

Axel clenched his teeth. Ragnhild wept silently.

“They are close. Hiding...”

Max began to loosen the knot. His hands were trembling, but he did not stop. He had learned to untie ropes on the quays, playing with nets and moorings; he only needed a few more seconds. Just a few seconds.

Then a shadow detached itself from the darkness behind him.

An arm as hard as an iron bar wrapped around his chest and lifted him off the floor.

“Look what we have here,” a voice growled beside his ear. “The little mouse came back for the cheese.”

Max did not think. He twisted his body as best he could and drove his heel into the man’s shin. The criminal gave a stifled cry. The boy fell to his knees, rolled to one side and ran.

He did not get far.

Another man stepped out from behind some crates and struck him across the shoulder with a bar. The impact sent him crashing into a pile of planks. Pain shot up his arm to the back of his neck, but even so, he got to his feet. He threw a punch, bit a hand, kicked a knee. He fought with a small, savage, desperate fury, like a trapped animal.

But there were three of them.

One grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. Another twisted his arms behind his back. The third struck him in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. Max fell to his knees, gasping, his eyes filled with tears he refused to shed.

“Keep still, you little devil,” one of them spat.

They bound his wrists so tightly that the rope burned his skin. Then they shoved him beside his friends.

The leader of the criminals crouched in front of Max. He was a broad man with an unshaven beard and small eyes sunk deep into a merciless face. He smelled of tobacco, stale sweat and metal.

He seized Max’s chin with a filthy hand and forced him to look at him.

“I am only going to ask you once,” he said slowly. “Have you warned anyone?”

Max swallowed.

Silence spread through the warehouse.

“No,” he replied.

The man smiled without humour.

“Children are very bad liars.”

“I have not told anyone.”

The blow came quickly. His cheek burned at once, and the world tilted for a second. Max let out a sob. Axel clenched his fists against the ropes.

“Think carefully,” the leader insisted. “Who knows you are here?”

Max breathed through his nose. His face hurt, his shoulder hurt, his hands hurt. He was afraid. A vast, filthy, cold fear. Even so, he raised his eyes.

“I saw a policeman in the street. He said he would fetch reinforcements.”

One of the men approached from behind.

“Let us finish this. If the boy has talked, they will not take long to get here.”

The leader stood. For a moment, he seemed to consider it. Then he drew a knife from his belt and opened it with a dry click.

“If he had spoken to a policeman and the man had believed him, he would not be here alone. Chances are he didn’t tell anyone. Even so, we need to clear this place out and move the cargo.”

“Fuck! That means carrying crates all night.”

“We cannot stay here. Which useless fool left the door open? Even children are more professional than you lot.”

The three children remained motionless.

“We are leaving now,” he decided. “But they are not getting out of here.”

Ragnhild began to cry in earnest.

“Please...” she whispered. “Please, do not...”

Max felt something break inside him. He did not want to die there. He did not want his friends to die because they had trusted him. He tried to pull against the ropes, but only succeeded in hurting himself more.

The bearded man approached him first.

“Look at me, boy.”

Max did not obey.

A hand seized his hair and pulled his head back. The blade of the knife appeared beside his throat, cold, almost delicate.

Then a voice came from the entrance to the warehouse.

“Are you truly not ashamed of yourselves?”

The criminals turned.

A tall, fair-haired man stood in the doorway, wrapped in a dark coat. The grey light from the street left half his face in shadow, but Max felt his heart stop.

For an instant, he thought he saw his father.

It was not him. It could not be.

But the resemblance was too strong.

The same way of standing, firm and unhurried. The same stern gaze, as though fear were something that happened to other people. Even the tilt of his head held something familiar, something painful, something that made the boy forget for a second about the knife resting against his skin.

The leader gave a harsh laugh and jerked his head, signalling for the others to deal with the stranger.

“We are only punishing them for something they did. They robbed us.”

The stranger took a step into the warehouse.

“Three armed men against three bound children,” he said calmly. “And what is the punishment? Torture? There are more discreet ways to be a coward. But I admit this one has the virtue of leaving no room for doubt. What comes next? Stealing clothes from newborn babies? Tearing bread from the mouths of orphans? Tell me: do you still have anything resembling shame?”

One of the criminals swore and lunged at him with his knife raised.

The man did not retreat.

He moved so quickly that Max could barely follow him. He caught the attacker by the wrist, spun, and the man’s arm cracked with a dreadful sound. Before the scream had ended, the stranger drove his elbow into the man’s jaw and dropped him like an empty sack.

The second man attacked from the side.

The newcomer seized a broken wooden bar from the floor and brought it down across his legs. The man fell to his knees. A sharp blow to the temple left him unconscious.

It all happened in barely a few seconds.

Max felt air return to his lungs.

The leader stepped back, pale with rage. He was no longer smiling. He drew a pistol from his coat and aimed it at the stranger’s chest.

“Stay still. Move away from the door.”

The man raised his eyes to him.

He did not look surprised or frightened. Only tired.

The gunshot thundered through the warehouse.

Max screamed.

But the stranger had already moved aside. The bullet bit into a beam and sent splinters flying. Before the criminal could aim again, the man seized an iron bar leaning against the wall and hurled it with impossible force.

The metal cut through the air like lightning.

It struck the leader in the face.

The gun hit the ground first.

Then he did.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Only the children’s ragged breathing could be heard, along with the distant groan of wood beneath the wind.

The stranger approached slowly. He crouched in front of Max and cut his ropes with one of the criminals’ knives.

“Are you hurt?”

The boy looked at him without answering.

Up close, the resemblance to his father was even more unsettling. Not perfect, not exact, but enough to tear a hole in his chest.

“Who are you?” he finally asked, his voice broken.

The man freed Axel and Ragnhild before answering.

“Someone who arrived in time and who cannot understand how you managed to be foolish enough to cause such a mess and, on top of that, walk straight into this trap.”

Max rubbed his aching wrists. He wanted to thank him, but the words caught in his throat. That man was not normal. Nobody moved like that. Nobody brought down three armed adults as though they were dolls.

The stranger stood and looked towards the door.

“We are leaving. Now.”

“You...” Max swallowed. “You are not an ordinary man.”

The stranger stood still.

Then he turned his head just enough to look at him over his shoulder.

There was something ancient in his eyes. Something that did not wholly belong to the world of children, nor to that of men.

“No,” he admitted quietly. “I am not.”