But my mind's not on my brother. It's on a sassy brunette who's probably knee-deep in Valkyrie drama. I can picture Dani now, playing sister and confidante to Bryn, trying to piece together the mess my brother's mate made of herself. My jaw clenches at the memory of her missing wing, the space where it should be like a fucking wound in reality itself.
The image of her severing her wing, carving away what she saw as a mark of failure... it hits too close to home.
Self-loathing is a poison I know all too well. I've watched it eat at Erik for centuries and watched him punish himself for sins long past. He drowns in guilt, each misdeed another weight around his neck, dragging him down into the depths of his misery. And now Bryn—proud, fierce Bryn—is sinking into that same abyss.
Watching them is like seeing two sides of the same cursed coin: Erik drowning in guilt over past bloodshed, Bryn destroying herself over a destiny she couldn't fulfill. Both are too proud to accept help, too stubborn to see their own worth, and too caught up in their self-imposed exile to recognize salvation when it's staring them in the face.
Both warriors to their core, wearing their scars like armor while bleeding out inside. The irony would be fucking hilarious if it wasn't so tragic.
"Ready?" The question hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Erik's silver eyes meet mine, and we both know I'm not talking about some fancy party.
Erik straightens his collar, a ghost of his usual composure settling over his features. "Let's mingle, brother."
A snort escapes me as we step into the hallway. The moment we hit the grand staircase landing, my jaw nearly hits the floor. Holy shit.
The great hall has transformed into a winter wonderland straight out of Valhalla. Crystalline ice sculptures tower between marble columns, their surfaces catching and fracturing light into rainbow prisms. Floating orbs of pure starlight drift near the vaulted ceiling, casting ethereal shadows across the crowd. Gossamer curtains of silver and blue ripple in a phantom breeze while frost patterns spiral across the windows like nature's art.
The Aesir mingle in their finery, pristine armor gleaming beneath formal robes. Warriors in ceremonial dress swap war stories over horns of mead, while nobles in elaborate Norse attire cluster near the ice sculptures. Though inside, the scent of winter pine and fresh snow hits my senses. Magic crackles in the air, making my skin tingle.
Then I see her.
My heart stutters, then stops. There, beside an ice sculpture that pales in comparison, stands Dani. And fuck me—
Light blue chiffon floats around her, each movement sending ripples of fabric dancing across curves that make my mouth water. The bodice hugs her in all the right places, silver threading and crystals weaving patterns that draw my eyes straight to those magnificent tits. When she moves, the dress parts, flashing a glimpse of leg that has my beast ready to murder anyone else who dares look.
That silky, chocolate brown hair cascades down her back in waves, interrupted by intricate braids that some fancy-ass probably spent hours on. Tiny crystals and sapphires woven in each one, catch the light with every breath, but the way she carries herself—confident, radiant,mine—makes my blood surge hot and thick through my veins.
She's a goddamn queen, andevery fucker in this room recognizes it. Seeing her punches the air from my lungs—all that power wrapped in starlight and sin. I preen with savage pride.
Look at her.
Look at what chose me.
What fights beside me.
What shares my bed.
My mate. My savior. My everything.
And judging by the hungry stares from half the fucking room, I'm not the only one appreciating the view. I choke back a snarl, ready to stake my claim.
She hasn't spotted us yet, but my body's already moving, drawn to her like a magnet. Erik's knowing chuckle follows me down the stairs.
"Try not to start a war by fucking her against a pillar, brother."
I flip him off without looking back. "No promises."
Dani's in my sights, but a wall of golden perfection blocks my path. In all his prissy glory, Baldr materializes like an unwanted ray of sunshine. His suit probably costs more than most kingdoms, every thread screaming, 'Look at me.' That perfectly styled blonde hair and those sharp, aristocratic features remind me of those marble statues mortals love so much—cold, hard, and full of themselves.
"Ah, Godborn. You clean up nicely." His voice drips honey and wine, matching the crystal glass in his manicured hand. Everything about him is too polished, too perfect.
"Thanks." The word comes out like gravel, bristling at his presence. Something about Baldr pisses me off. Sure, he's Odin's son, Frigg's golden boy, my internal alarm bells scream, like a snake hiding in silk sheets.
Maybe it's how he holds himself like getting his hands dirty would shatter his entire existence. Or perhaps it's his smile never quite reaches his eyes, even when he's laying on the charm.
Sure, he plays the part of the gracious host with all proper manners and protocol. But my centuries of dealing with two-faced bastards scream that there's more lurking behind that perfect facade. The way he watches everyone, calculating behind that benevolent mask...
My instincts have kept me alive too long to ignore them now. And they're telling me this pompous shit is about as trustworthy as a starving wolf in a sheep pen.
