Well, I might as well jump right into the deep end of awkward introductions. I peel off my snow-crusted glove and thrust my hand toward him like I'm meeting a new coworker instead of an ancient godly guardian. "Hi, it's Dani. It's nice to meet you."
He stares at my outstretched hand like I'm offering him a live grenade but eventually wraps his massive paw around mine with surprising gentleness. "And this is Erik.My friend and Rhyland's brother," I add, trying to diffuse the tension that's thick enough to cut with a knife.
A ghost of a smirk tugs at Heimdall's lips like he's both amused and baffled by my complete lack of proper divine etiquette. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, lightborn."
My chest tightens.Lightborn.I haven't heard that title since Adrian used it on that stone Golem. The memory hits like a sledgehammer, and I physically shake my head to dislodge it. Nope, not going down that particular angst-ridden rabbit hole today. I've got enough on my plate without taking a stroll down traumatic memory lane.
"Just call me Dani." I flash my best 'let's-all-be-friends' smile while Erik starts his typical security sweep, probably cataloging every possible exit and threat like the strategic vampire boy scout he is.
"How do we get to Ásgard from here?" Rhyland demands, his alpha-male energy practically radiating off him. "We need to speak to him, to find the—"
"Stone?" Heimdall interrupts, looking way too pleased with himself.
"Yeah, about that..." Rhyland's voice drops to that dangerous growl that usually means someone's about to have a very bad day. "What the fuck possessed you ancient assholes to skip the part about this being the same goddamn realm as the air stone?"
Heimdall's lips curl into a smirk. "What was more pressing at the time, Godborn? Your cosmic destiny or a geography lesson?"
I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. Who knew the Norse watchdog had such a sharp wit? Judging by the muscle ticking in Rhyland's jaw, he does not appreciate his answer.
"Besides," Heimdall says condescendingly, "it isn't our responsibility to guide the saviors through their quests. You two are supposed to figure these things out on your own." His precise tone suggests he's explaining basic math to particularly slow students.
I roll my eyes. Oh, for the love ofGOD. If I have to hear one more person spout this "figure it out yourself" garbage, I will lose it. Who came up with this brilliant rule anyway? Some sadistic deity sitting on their throne thinking, "You know what would be hilarious? Let's make them solve deadly riddles and hunt for magical rocks across multiple realms without any actual guidance!"
Because heaven forbid they give us a straight answer for once. No, that would be too easy. We've got to earn our apocalypse-preventing merit badges the hard way.
"But it seems," Heimdall's voice carries the smug satisfaction of an immortal who's seen it all, "that your mate is quite the clever little thing. Figured it out in no time at all."
Yeah, except it was Seraphina who connected those particular dots. But I'm not about to correct this behemoth of snark.
"You still haven't answered my question." Rhyland's patience evaporates like water on hot coals. "How do we get to Ásgard?" His hands curl into fists, and the air around us dances with electric potential. Through our bond, I feel his power surge like a gathering storm, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
"I suggest you keep those sparks under control, Godborn." Heimdall's tone drops to a deadly warning. "Unless you fancy testing if lightning can bring down a sacred spire."
Rhyland exhales forcefully as if physically wrestling his power back under control. I know that feeling all too well—Luminara's magic had me buzzing like I'd mainlined a dozen magical espressos. And now, it seems this realm is cranking Rhyland's divine mojo up to maximum levels.
"But I'm so pleased you asked," Heimdall says. "Odin, in his infinite wisdom, anticipated your return. He has graciously provided you with a means to traverse the realm." He motions for us to follow, leading us to the rear of the Spire.
With a flourish that's entirely too dramatic for my taste, Heimdall throws open a massive door, revealing a sight that takes my breath away.
What in the actual hell?
Rhyland
21
We stand here like fucking statues while the arctic wind tears at our clothes and snow falls in chunks the size of my fist. But I barely notice the cold because, holy shit—there in a covered corral—
A stupendous stallion towers before us, its coat gleaming like pure molten gold in the winter light. This isn't just some oversized horse—it's a war mount bred for giants, its muscles rippling with power beneath that metallic hide. Every movement screams raw strength, a reminder that this beast once belonged to creatures who could level mountains with their bare hands.
Its mane and tail flow like liquid sunlight, somehow untouched by the bitter wind and swirling snow. Those eyes, though—Christ, burn with an intelligence that makes my predator instincts stand up and take notice. Deep amber orbs lock onto me with an intensity that makes my skin buzz like this creature recognizes something in my blood.
The horse is decked out in battle gear—ancient Nordic symbols etched into gleaming armor that covers his towering frame. The headpiece alone probably weighs more than Dani, decorated with runes that pulse with old magic. A saddle that looks like it was forged by the gods themselves sits on his back, and ornate armor pieces flow down his powerful legs to hooves that could crush a fucking car. Jesus, each hoof is bigger than my head—it's a beast bred for war, every inch designed to strike fear into the hearts of enemies.
"This is Gullfax," Heimdall announces with reverence. "Your father's steed claimed in battle from the ice giant Hrungnir. Odin deemed it fitting that Magni's son should inherit his mount." His voice carries the weight of prophecy. "Like your father before you, this golden one will carry you across the winds themselves. Water, air, earth—all bow before Gullfax's might."
Fuck me. My father's horse? The same beast that helped him claim victory over a fucking ice giant? I stare at this beast, trying to process this cosmic hand-me-down. The stories said Gullfax could match Odin's mount, Sleipnir—for speed—a creature powerful enough to run across air itself.
"Oh my god," Dani breathes out in awe, her face lighting up with wonder. "He's beautiful—it is a he, right?" The stallion responds to her voice with a deep whinny, that golden head lowering to study her with ancient eyes. Of course, my mate would charm my father's war horse in under five seconds.
