The moment it dropped down behind the mountains, the front door of Trigvi’s cottage was flung open. “Jakob,” Moira whispered. “I see it.” He grabbed her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. Then, raising his voice, he began to sing. Except for the first three notes that broke—more with fear, she thought than anything else—he had the most on-key voice she’d heard in a long while. It had a purity and cleanliness that made her catch her breath. Doom, Doom, Doom I’m back. My fiery room Goes crackle and crack. I’ll tell you true And I’ll not lie, I’ll give to you A chance to fly. And then we’ll make Another pact Or else I’ll take Your living back. Doom, Doom, Doom, Doom, Doom, Doom. A troll boy, a smaller version of Aenmarr, peeked out of the door, his greenish hair spiky and his lower jaw jutting out. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Papa, Papa,” he cried, “look—there be fire and Doom.” From within Aenmarr’s voice boomed, “You best not be joking with me, my son, Buri.
