“You know nothing about me and my father!”
Only when his voice echoed from the stone walls did he realize that he’d spoken too loudly. Too unrestrained. Again.
“I know more than you might think,” Njord said. “I watched the runes cast at your birth, after all.”
“You’re lying. My parents would’ve never allowed that.”
“Oh, you really know nothing, little prince.” Njord’s smile was a sharp, dangerous thing.
“I know when aVanrsea witch is feeding me lies.” Without thinking, Thori seized the front of Njord’s tunic, lightning crackling around his fist. “I should throw you from this balcony and be done with this mockery.”
“You could try. But we both know how that would end.”
Their faces were inches apart, Thori’s breath coming quick and shallow. He became suddenly, acutely aware of Njord’s strength, of the lean muscle beneath his grip.
“You think you’re so wise, old man. How does this end then?”
“With your broken body at the foot of these cliffs, if I hadn’t given Lofarr my word.”
“How convenient for you,” Thori snarled, though the murderous fire burning in Njord’s eyes sent a shiver down his spine.
Njord wasn’t struggling, wasn’t even tense, as if he didn’t feel threatened by Thori at all. It was disconcerting.
“You should stay away from the ocean from now on, Prince Thori. Because I’ll always be there. Waiting for you. And believe me, drowning isn’t a pleasant way to die.”
“You—”
Before Thori could form a suitable response to the blatant threats of theVanr, Arngrim approached, his heavy footfalls echoing on the stone floor.
“The feast is still in full swing, my lords,” the warrior announced, his gaze flicking between them with undisguised curiosity. “King Lofarr reminds you that even bitter enemies may share mead without bloodshed.”
He grinned at them as if he wanted to say that he’d find it rather amusing if they slit each other’s throats, then departed with a knowing glance.
“We’re not finished,” Thori warned as they turned to follow Arngrim back to the hall.
But deep down, he was glad to get away from Njord and his angry, too-bright eyes. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a grain of truth in Njord’s talk about attending the casting of his birth runes.
Thori had always felt as if there was a shadow cast over his fate. Some dark premonition that wouldn’t match the stories of glory and grandeur his father liked to tell.
Dread settled heavily in his stomach, but whatever fate the Norns had spun for him, Thori was determined to battle it.
two
The End
Five winters after the Battle of Nóatún - Thori
The scents of late summer tickled Thori’s nose even before his longship left thehron-rad, the magical waterway connecting the Nine Realms, and glided into the sea that encompassed the lands of theVanir. Early morning chill filled the air, damp and fresh, and mist shrouded the coastline in front of them. Thori held the helm and steered the ship towards the fjord, his warriors rowing in complete silence.
A shiver ran down his spine as he was overcome by a peculiar blend of nostalgia and unease. The scenery reminded him vividly of the Battle of Nóatún. The last clash between theÆsirand theVanir. For the time being. Though back then, instead of a single ship scouting the enemy lands, it had been a raiding fleet, and the sea had been churned by the Shipbreaker’s wrath.
Njord.
And his dragon.
A god and his deadly ice serpent, wreaking havoc among the lines of theÆsir.
A spear thrown in utter desperation.
