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This desire, this murderous need that sent my fingers curling inward, my nails cutting into my palms—it was everything ugly inside of Yakov, left to grow inside me like a thornbush.

It seemed to come from a twisted thornbush.

Taran lifted it free of the thornbush.

“I uncovered things about myself along the way. It’s like reading a book for the second time. I had to drag myself back through that thornbush. But I understood myself all the better because of it.”

A mighty cheer and a laugh: a club made of knotted thornbush wood studded with sharp iron nails was swung by Thor into Balder’s face.