Freya‘s pov. continuation

He turned. That impossible face—smug and solemn at once, beautiful as a sin confessed—tilted into a smile that had haunted more than one lifetime. “Freya,” he said, like the word pleased him. “You are… unchanged by time. Or changed only in ways that make songs.”

He was the same. Twenty-five at most. Not a wrinkle, not a scar the years could claim as theirs. The valley had frozen him in amber.

I closed the distance and embraced him ...