Footsteps on creaking floorboards, slow and deliberate.
I try to turn my head, but the angle is wrong and all I catch is a shadow moving in my peripheral vision.
The footsteps circle around me, unhurried.
Taking their time.
Then she steps into view.
Sol. The woman from the café.
She looks different now.
At the café, she was playing a role—the friendly stranger, the concerned citizen, the woman who just wanted to help a lost little girl find her mother.
Now the mask is off.
Her dark hair is pulled back severely from her face, emphasizing the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the cold calculation in her eyes.
She's wearing black from head to toe, practical clothes for practical work.
No jewelry. No softness. Nothing but hard edges and ruthless efficiency.
And in her hand, she's holding a knife.
It's beautiful, in a terrible way.
An ornate handle, carved with intricate patterns that look almost ritualistic.
Nordic, maybe—runes or ancient symbols I don't recognize.
A blade that gleams even in the dim light, wickedly sharp despite its age.
It looks old.
Antique.
The kind of thing you'd see in a museum, preserved behind glass with a placard explaining its historical significance.
Or in a nightmare, held by a woman who wants you dead.
"Dalla," she says, rolling my name around in her mouth like she's tasting it. "The princess of the Raiders of Valhalla. Daughter of the great and terrible Runes. The girl who has everything—money, family, love, a bright future ahead of her." She smiles, but there's no warmth in it. No humanity. "I've been waiting alongtime to meet you. You, or your sister, that is."
My voice comes out rough, scratchy from the chloroform. "What do you want?"
"Right to business. I respect that." She pulls a chair from the corner and sets it in front of me, sitting down so we're face to face.
Close enough that I can see the scar near her eyebrow, thin and faded.
Close enough that I can see the madness lurking behind her eyes.
"My name is Solveig. But you can call me Sol. We're going to be spending some time together, after all."
"Freya's daughter," I whisper.
Her smile widens. "So, youdoknow who I am. Good. That saves time." She leans back in her chair, the knife balanced casually on her knee. "Tell me, Dalla. What do you know about your father? About the things he's done? The blood on his hands?"
"My father is a good man."
