Fjords sliced through rock like someone had taken a giant butter knife to the earth. Villages clung to the cliffs, all red roofs and silent windows, like they just missed a Viking raid by a few centuries.

Cassian pressed a palm to the glass, tracking the curl of a river below. “Imagine rowing that upstream with twenty lads, two barrels of mead, and a goat you stole from a rival clan.”

Bathsheda didn’t look up. “I imagine it daily.”

Their arrival at the coast involved far too many stairs, a port that smelt like salted fish and magic residue, and a boat Cassian was fairly sure had once been a fishing vessel and only recently decided to become a tourist trap.

A wiry old man handed them both life vests with no sense of irony. “Wand won’t help if you go overboard,” he said cheerfully, gesturing to the choppy grey water.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Is that from experience?”

The man just winked.

They took the boat west, toward the fjords where the guide insisted something “very old” had once lived. Possibly a frost troll. Possibly a sea witch. Possibly both, depending on who you asked. One old lady even swore they were lovers. Cassian stood at the bow, scarf snapping dramatically, one hand braced on his hip like a man auditioning for the cover of “Wizards and Waves: A Heroic Saga.”

They met a pair of local scholars on the second evening. They were camped near a rock formation known to whisper in winter, which apparently meant it was either haunted or acoustically fascinating.

Cassian, predictably, was delighted.

“It is always trolls, isn’t it?” he said, arms crossed as they stood beside a fire pit ringed in runes. “If there is a rock, it is a troll. If there is mist, it is a troll hiding. If your gran stubs her toe on a root… troll.”

The beardy one, Ivar, nodded like that was a valid cosmological stance. “Because they are there. You can’t always see them. But they see you.”

Cassian gave him a thoughtful look. “That is comforting.”

The other one, Torkel, was flipping through a leather-bound book like it might suddenly sprout something useful. “These formations, though. It doesn’t match known stave designs. Could be tied to the older earth bindings… the pre-Aesir cults.”

Cassian perked up. “The jotunn cults?”

Torkel blinked. “You know about those?”

Bathsheda, perched on a cold boulder with a mug of something that smelled like cinnamon raised an eyebrow. “Of course he does. He’s been moving around quoting Norse sagas like it is bedtime hour.”

“I mean,” Cassian said, lifting his chin, “I may have read a thing or two.”

She squinted. “Where?”

He froze just long enough to be suspicious. “Er… obscure texts.”

“Obscure?”

He looked up at the sky like clouds might offer assistance. “You know. Old manuscripts. Lost to time. Possibly published by Stan Lee.”

He couldn’t say Marvel, right? Right? But that didn’t stop his brain from chucking the name in the suggestion box anyway. He stared at the stars, half expecting the old man to peer down and wink. Wait, he was probably still alive. No, did Harry Potter World have Stan Lee or Marvel?

Still. It wasn’t like he was quoting Shakespeare. Norse myth was messy enough that you could probably slip in a superhero origin story and no one would bat an eye. Especially not out here, surrounded by rune-whispering boulders and people who would nod solemnly if you claimed frost trolls had favourite songs.

But he wasn’t even sure if half of his Norse knowledge counted as myth or memoir. Back on Earth, it had all been jumbled anyway. Legends bleeding into each other, gods rebranded across regions, scholars squabbling over whether Odin was a sky-father or a wandering mushroom hallucination. Still, this world had Merlin. Real Merlin. Trolls, too. So if the Norse gods turned out to be just ancient wizards flinging weather magic and carving their names into rocks, he wouldn’t be shocked.

Though locals thought them ancient sorcerers, most agreed they were real. Not gods exactly. Just powerful. Wizards with a flair for the theatrical.

Vikings were mostly remembered as brawlers with enchanted axes and a preference for fireballs over diplomacy. Battle Mages, really, stomping across Europe with rune-carved weapons and enough charm to start a religion or two. As for their gods, Odin, Thor, the whole lot, they weren’t gods so much as the Merlin-types of their time. Famous, terrifying, a bit mad. Glorified Founders, really. Legends, yes. But gods? Not likely.

Well, all in all, Cassian was rather pleased with himself. He managed to quote two sagas, reference three obscure cults, and… though no one had acknowledged it, probably impressed Bathsheda enough to score a second kiss if the mood swung in his favour. Academic swagger… achieved.

They stuck around Norway a few weeks longer since she scheduled to stay there as long as a few weeks, and Cassian would rather be anywhere else but back at home. Ostensibly for “research,” though Cassian suspected most of it was just Bathsheda wanting to see if the whispering rocks really did recite poems in winter. He wasn’t about to complain. Any excuse to wander fjords and dig through old magic suited him just fine.

But then the day came.

Return day.

Hell day.

Home.

They didn’t say it out loud, but both looked at the Portkey with the same weary resignation most people saved for family dinners or overdue Ministry paperwork. It still smelled faintly of mildew. Probably cursed, if they ever got around to checking.

The old towel flapped, and Cassian muttered something unpleasant under his breath as the familiar yank hit. Time went sideways. Then vertical. Then meaningless.

He landed in Britain with Bathsheda appearing beside him, steady as ever. She brushed a curl from her face, looked around, and sighed. “Well, that was fun while it lasted.”

Cassian adjusted his coat collar. “Didn’t even give us a souvenir. Just bruised shins and frostbite.”

They walked into the Ministry office, already tired. A squat little wizard at the desk looked up, gave them the once-over, and waved a wand that made a faint ding. “Name please?”

“Cassian Rosier. Avoiding frostbite.”

“Bathsheda Babbling,” she said, stepping beside him. “Same.”

The man gave a tight nod and scribbled something on a floating slip. “Handover your wand please. Just routine checks,” he muttered. “Nothing to fuss over.”

Cassian offered his wand, brows up. “She is clean. Didn’t bite anyone. Only exploded once.”

The man didn’t entertain him with a response. Waved his wand, muttered spell, and then a squint at the readout rolled out of Cassian’s wand like it might be lying to him.

“Last spells were” He leaned closer, brow wrinkling. “Lumos. Only Lumos.”

Cassian gave a shrug that implied he’d just been caught sneaking biscuits from the staff room. “I like to keep things bright.”

The man didn’t look convinced. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the spell record might somehow be encoded with sarcasm. The wand beeped again, annoyed at being doubted.

A long pause. Then, “Any particular reason you cast the same basic illumination charm… fourty-two times?”

Cassian tilted his head. “Have you ever tried finding your socks in a magically pitch-black tent? It is either Lumos or trip over your own dignity.”

Bathsheda stepped in before the poor Ministry wizard could continue mentally auditing Cassian’s wand for further crimes. “He is not very good at spells,” she said, voice tired but polite. “Would you like to check mine instead?”

The man gave her a once-over. Whatever suspicion he aimed at Cassian, it didn’t follow her. His wand glowed again as he waved it over hers.

“Expulso, Protego, Detection Charm, Lumos, again Lumos… Flame-Freezing Charm?”

Bathsheda nodded. “For the fire. Pit wouldn’t stay lit otherwise.”

“Mm.” The wand gave a soft ping and dimmed. The man grunted. “Right. All in order.”

He passed their wands back, but his colleague, tall, square-jawed, stepped forward.

“Just a quick face-to-face verification,” he said. “To confirm no Polyjuice.”

Cassian raised his eyebrows. “Who in their right mind would impersonate me? Have you met me?”

The man stared. Cassian sighed.

“Fine. Let’s make sure I haven’t been replaced by a cunning imposter with better cheekbones.”

A dull gold glow passed over his face, flickered, and went out. The man grunted again, waved to Bathsheda, who held still while the same light passed over her.

No alarms. No flashing red sparks. The officials seemed mildly disappointed.

They debriefed their research, if you could call it that. There wasn’t much to report unless the Ministry wanted a full catalogue of nearly-died moments and romantic tension beside an eldritch pit. The official summary was, site collapsed, cave sealed, runes unstable, and nothing retrieved.

They both sat through it, tired, a bit dusty, giving statements that read like two students explaining why the potions lab caught fire. Cassian told the truth, mostly, and only leaned on sarcasm when asked whether he interacted with any “entities of unknown origin.”

“If you are asking if I poked the spooky stone, then yes. Happily. I would do it again.”

The poor scribe didn’t know whether to laugh or put it in bold.

Once the Ministry had wrung every drop of useful detail from them, and a few unhelpful ones, they were cleared to go.

They stepped outside, Bathsheda took his hand without looking at him. “You sure you wanna go back?”

He glanced at her, then past her, and beyond that, home. Or whatever Rosier Manor was supposed to be.

“I don’t want to,” he said, and didn’t bother pretending otherwise. “But I have to.”

Spoiler

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep