The mead turns to ash in my mouth. Rhyland's stories of his lost family echo in my mind, and I feel a dull ache in my chest.
"There was nothing," Bryn continues, her voice flat. "No spark, no connection. Just... emptiness." She stares into her horn like it holds all the answers. "My mother insisted he was the one, that my powers would awaken when I saw him. But they didn't."
She drains the last drops, her knuckles white around the horn. "Elysium came to me, trying to convince me that Rhyland was my destiny. But I knew the truth. I felt it in my bones."
The mention of our father makes my chest tight, and my head spins, trying to reconcile the image of him pushing a fate that wasn't meant to be. When I first saw Rhyland, it was like a lightning bolt to my soul. My powers surged to life not long after, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
"He insisted Rhyland was the one—that I must be mistaken. That the prophecies couldn't be wrong." She shakes her head. "When he finally accepted I lacked this precious 'spark,' he shipped me off to Ásgard. Said it was for my protection, but I knew better. I was a failed prophecy, a broken tool."
She passes me the horn, and I drink deep, trying to wash away the bitterness of her words."For years, I felt worthless. Damaged. And now?" Her eyes meet mine, one blue as a winter sky, one gold as honey—such a badass combination. "Here I am again, sister. Broken in another way—unwanted. The Norns do love their jests, don't they?"
My heart breaksfor her. She's been carrying this weight all this time, thinking she was broken, unwanted.
I reach out, gripping her hand tightly. "Bryn, listen to me. You are not broken. You never were." My voice is fierce and unwavering. "Fate had a different plan for you, that's all. It doesn't make you any less worthy or needed."
I lean in closer, holding her gaze. "What's happening now? It's not a repeat of history. It's a chance for you to write a new story, one that's all your own."
My mind drifts to Erik, to the way he looks at Bryn like she's the sun and stars combined. "You said you felt nothing with Rhyland. But what about with Erik? Is it really emptiness you feel when he's near? Or is it something else, something you're afraid to name?"
I smile softly, my heart aching for the pain she's carried for so long. "This isn't history repeating itself. This is your chance to break the cycle, to find the happiness you've always deserved."
Remembering Seraphina's revelation about fate's twisted path for Rhyland and me, a small smile tugs at my lips. "You know what? Maybe that's exactly the point. Fate's a sneaky bitch with a wicked sense of humor."
Bryn furrows her brow, looking at me like I've started speaking in tongues.
"Look," I continue, refilling her horn, "fate doesn't exactly come with an instruction manual. It's messy and unpredictable and sometimes throws you one hell of a curveball. But that silver-haired vampire out there? He's yours, whether you want to admit it or not." I lean closer, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And don't think I haven't caught you checking out his ass when you think no one's looking."
Bryn's cheeks burn to a shade of red. "I have not," she growls, but the lie is about as convincing as Lucian trying not to be smart-ass.
"Oh honey, that lie was weaker than watered-down ale." I can't help but grin. "Look, I get it. I played the same game of denial when I met Rhyland. I tried to ignore the pull and pretend it wasn't happening. But fighting fate? That's like trying to arm-wrestle a frost giant—you're just going to end up flat on your ass." I take a long drink, letting that sink in. "Come on, sister. Tell me you don't feel something. A pull, a spark, like lightning in your veins whenever he's near?"
Bryn stiffens."Perhaps," she admits grudgingly. "But I wager that's merely because he's shown me a kindness unfamiliar to me. I'm accustomed to brutish oafs who only seek to have me on my knees or my back. Erik is... different."
She jerks her head sharply as if shaking off an unwanted thought. "But he's an insufferable ass, always hovering about like I'm some helpless maiden. I am a Valkyrie—a warrior of Odin. I need no man's protection."
As I listen to Bryn, a realization dawns on me. I may not be a love guru, but my sister is used to being treated like last week's leftovers by the men in her life. It's like she's got emotional whiplash—she doesn't know how to handle a guy who actually respects her. All she's ever known are these douchebags who see her as a disposable pleasure dispenser. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, now get out of my furs.
Or just being tossed aside because she didn't meet the gold standard.
And then there's Erik—all quiet strength and unwavering respect. He looks at her like she's precious, not property. Treats her like an equal, not a conquest. No wonder she's fighting this so hard. When you've spent centuries being treated like you're worthless, having someone cherish you probably feels like a trap.
It's like she's got a severe case of emotional Stockholm Syndrome. She needs time to understand that love isn't about dominance or submission. That being treated with respect isn't a sign of weakness. Erik's gentle nature might be foreign to her, but maybe that's exactly what she needs—even if she's not ready to admit it.
God knows it takes time to unlearn years of toxic bullshit. But Erik? He's got all of eternity to show her what real love looks like.
"Sister, he sees you for who you truly are." I touch her arm gently. "But you've spent so long being treated like yesterday's fish by these mead-hall warriors that you can't recognize real respect when it's staring you in the face with silver eyes."
Bryn's gaze meets mine, then drifts away, her expression distant. For once, there's no sharp comeback, no biting remark. It's like watching ice crack on a frozen lake—the first signs of something deeper breaking through.
"Erik's different," I continue softly. "He's not some glory-seeking asshole looking to add another notch to his sword belt. Just…give him a chance to prove it."
Her silence speaks volumes, and I can almost see the wheels turning behind those fierce eyes, pieces clicking into place like a puzzle she's been staring at too long to see clearly.
I take anotherlong pull from the horn, the mead hitting me with a pleasant warmth. Damn, how many horns deep are we? The room's got that soft, fuzzy edge that warns of an incoming buzz.
"Look," I say, trying to keep my thoughts straight despite the alcohol. "You accepting Erik? That's not just about you two. I want you with us, Bryn. God, do you know how long I've dreamed of having a real family? True family?"
I lean forward, almost spilling my mead in my enthusiasm. "And let's be real—what's keeping you here? These muscle-bound jerks who treat you like last season's shield? Who looks at you differently now because of your wings?"
