Baldr and Heimdall easily dismount Sleipnir. Behind us, Erik is doing his best impression of a drunk trying to solve a Rubik's cube as he attempts to get off Gullfax.
"Your silver-haired companion appears to be... challenged,"Gullfax's voice echoes in my head, rich as thunder and dripping with amusement."Allow me to provide some... assistance."
Before I can respond, Gullfax rears up, sending Erik tumbling into the snow with an undignified yelp. He lands with a thud, a tangle of leather and silver hair half-buried in a snowdrift.
Rhyland pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he's praying for the strength not to strangle his brother or the horse. I swear I can hear his teeth grinding from here.
"Was that really necessary?" I hiss at Gullfax, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
The horse somehow manages to shrug without actually having shoulders."I merely expedited his disembarkation process. Time is of the essence, is it not?"His mental voice is so smug I'm half-expecting him to manifest a top hat and monocle.
Erik staggers to his feet, swaying momentarily before finding his balance. I approach him, offering my arm for support as we head towards the cave of doom."Okay, spill it, Mr. Broody. What's got you drowning in mead and acting like a freshman at his first frat party?"
He gives me that half-smile that's probably charmed the pants off countless women over the centuries. "Nothing that requires your concern, Little Huntress. I assure you, I'm perfectly..." he hiccups, "...fine."
But I catch his silver eyes darting around the area like he's expecting an ambush. When they land on Bryn, his whole body becomes rigid, as if someone just replaced his spine with a steel rod. "Why is she here?" The words come out like shards of ice. "I was under the impression she was remaining behind."
"She thought it was best to come along. Is that a problem?" I ask, my spidey senses tingling like crazy.
Erik brushes past me, his earlier drunken stumble replaced by a predator's prowl. "No, no problem at all." But his voice is tight and controlled, and I'm pretty sure he just went from plastered to stone-cold sober in 2.5 seconds flat.
The wall of stoicism slams back into place so fast it gives me whiplash.
Well, clearly, I misread those vibes earlier. Erik's acting like Bryn's presence is a personal insult, which is weird considering what I thought.
Notto mention Bryn lip-locking with that mountain of a Viking warrior earlier. Clearly my matchmaking radar needs a serious tune-up. Maybe I should stick to my day job and leave the romance predictions to the professionals.
Maybe that's just it. Perhaps the big secret is that Erik can't stand my sister but is too noble to say anything. It would be just like him to suffer in silence, drowning his annoyance in mead while playing the dutiful soldier because Erik puts everyone else's needs before his own.
God, men are exhausting. Vampires even more so. And don't even get me started on vampire brothers with their stupid honor codes and secret-keeping bullshit. Fine. If Erik wants to brood himself into oblivion while pretending my sister doesn't exist, that's his business. I have bigger issues—like not dying in this creepy bone garden while hunting down magical stones.
As we step into the cave, the temperature shifts, the biting wind replaced by an eerie stillness that raises goosebumps on my skin. Baldr and Heimdall lead the horses to a designated stabling area, complete with stone troughs filled with crystal-clear water and gleaming golden hay. Even in the land of the dead, the gods spare no expense for their equine guests.
But it's the cave itself that steals my breath. I was expecting something dark, damp, and cramped—the kind of place that makes you feel like the walls are closing in. Instead, I find myself standing in a vast underground cathedral, so immense that the distant ceiling is lost in shadows.
The air hums with ancient power, making my teeth vibrate and my hair stand on end. Torches flicker along the walls, their warm light dancing across intricate murals depicting scenes from Norse legends—gods battling giants, Valkyries riding through storm-tossed skies, and heroes feasting in the halls of Valhalla.
"Welcome to our Hall of the Fallen," Bryn announces. "Try not to touch anything. Some of these relics have a nasty habit of... shall we say, expressing their displeasure with unworthy hands."
She gestures to a towering figure with a raised sword, her voice carrying both reverence and pride. "Tyr, the one-handed god of war and justice. Lost his hand binding Fenrir—quite the scandal at the time. But that's what happens when you stick your limbs in a giant wolf's mouth, eh?"
"Indeed," Baldr's voice rumbles from behind me, his smile a little too knowing.
Okay, creepy.
Moving through the cathedral-like space, her wings casting dramatic shadows on the walls, she indicates another statue. "Njord, master of sea and wind. Bit of a drama queen if you ask me—couldn't decide whether he preferred the mountains or the shore. He ended up divorcing his wife over it. Gods," she rolls her eyes, "always making everything so complicated."
She stops before a towering statue, where ethereal lightning seems to ripple across the stone, even in the flickering torchlight. Her voice is softer, tinged with reverence and old sorrow. "This is Thor as he was meant to be remembered—the mighty defender of realms, protector of both gods and mortals. His laughter could shake the mountains themselves, and his heart matched the vastness of his storms." Her fingers trace the carved lightning with careful respect. "He was everything a God should be—honorable, just, powerful. But..." she hesitates, her eyes clouding with memory, "he gave everything for this realm."
"During the war?" I ask quietly, caught in the gravity of her words.
"Yes..." The single word carries the weight of centuries, hanging heavy in the ancient air between us.
I turn to look at Rhyland, who is frozen before the towering statue of his grandfather, his broad shoulders rigid with tension. The family resemblance is striking—and heartbreaking—as the grandson stares up at the carved face of the god who lost his life to save what he loved.
Baldr scoffs. "He may have died protecting the realms, but dead is dead."
"Mind your words, Baldr!" Bryn's voice cracks like a whip, her wings flaring with anger. "You dare dishonor the fallen in their own sacred halls?"
