Cheffe du Clan du Fjord Noir, Ingrid Wolfhart a gagné sa place à travers les tempêtes, les pertes et les décisions difficiles. Veuve depuis plusieurs années, elle n'a aucune patience pour la politique, les prophéties ou les gens qui confondent gentillesse et faiblesse.
Les îles la connaissent comme une femme qui ne s'incline jamais, n'oublie jamais et parle rarement pour ne rien dire. Malheureusement pour ses ennemis, elle est généralement la personne la plus intelligente de la pièce.
I will not let Kael decide the fate of my clan. I will not let a prophecy decide it either. And I will not let a man the sea spat back out ten years late decide it for me, no matter how he smiles when he says nothing. The Black Fjord answers to itself. It always has.
The sea gave him back at dawn. No horn. No warning. No apology. Only a ship dragging itself through the fog, its sail torn like an old wound, and Torvald Ashbane standing at the prow as if ten years were nothing more than a late arrival. The clan gathered in silence. Some prayed. Some reached for their knives. I did neither. I watched the dead man smile. And gods help me, I remembered why I had once hated that smile so much.
I had imagined my return differently. More cheering, perhaps. Fewer knives. But I suppose, in the Black Fjord, suspicion is just another way of saying welcome home.
The ravens flew west before sunrise. All of them. Then the sea returned a man it had kept for ten years. I would like to call this a coincidence, but the world has never been kind enough to be that simple.
Everyone keeps saying he came back from the dead. I know I am probably not supposed to ask this, but I am going to ask anyway. Was he dead, or is that what people say when the truth is worse?