Sveinn’s thin lips were pressed into a tight line.
“I promised the girl I’d take her to Asgard with me if she managed to free me,” Thori said, a cocky smirk on his lips. “Didn’t expect her to be stupid enough to try it.”
Sveinn’s eyes narrowed, studying Thori with a mix of suspicion and contempt.
“So, this is your scheme, is that what you’re saying?”
“You call manipulating a little girl a scheme?” Thori taunted. “You’re indeed a bad chieftain if I can use even a stupid thrall girl against you so easily.”
An ugly grin spread across Sveinn’s face.
“Shall I punish you then?”
Njord held his breath. Surely the self-centered Áss wouldn’t take the girl’s place, and that meant—
“You’re asking me to take a girl’s punishment? You think that bothers me?”
“You should be scared.”
“Nothing scares a god of the Æsir!”
Sveinn’s gaze shifted back to the girl.
“Get back to your duties, little rat, before I change my mind.”
Andora hesitated, her wide eyes darting between Thori and Sveinn.
Njord felt like he was holding his breath even in this ethereal form.
Thori inclined his head, barely a nod. But his intent was clear. The girl turned and fled, disappearing between the tents.
The image flickered and swirled. Distorted, as if through rippling water, Njord watched Thori being dragged out of his cage and tied to a wooden frame in the center of the camp.
Blinking, Njord stared at Thori’s bronzed back, his tunic ripped all the way down to his waist.
“Let’s see if you can take a girl’s punishment then,” Sveinn said, his voice low and venomous. He circled Thori, taking in his exposed form and raising a vicious-looking whip. He traced it over Thori’s back, a mocking imitation of a lover’s touch that had Thori’s muscles clenching.
Seeing Odinsson suffer should satisfy Njord’s thirst for revenge, but he was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to wrap his hands around Sveinn’s neck and squeeze until the life faded from his colorless eyes.
The first lash landed with a crack, splitting the air and biting into Thori’s back. Njord flinched, his fists clenched at his sides. But Thori didn’t cry out. His hands clutched the wooden beam he was tied to, his muscles coiling with the effort to remain still. Another lash, then another, each one executed with full force.
Njord’s breath caught. He’d hated Thori for so long—hated him for Jökull’s death, for the gaping wound he had cut into Njord’s heart. But now, watching him endure this punishment, his hatred faded, replaced by something dangerously close to pity. Certainly confusion. A grudging respect he wasn’t yet ready to acknowledge.
Five hits landed on Thori’s back.
Ten.
He cried out at the twelfth, whimpered at the twentieth.
Why didn’t Sveinn stop?
Growling in agitation, Njord pushed against the barriers of the vision. His anger made rain clouds gather above the raider’s camp, and the image in front of his mind’s eye spun. He found himself standing behind the frame, looking straight into Thori’s face, distorted from pain. So close was he, he’d only have to reach out to touch Thori’s cheek, his sweaty temples.
Thori opened his eyes, and his amber gaze met Njord’s as if he wasn’t a wandering spirit but really there. And as the next blow landed, he gasped. Screamed. But he didn’t close his eyes again; no, he stared at Njord as if he were a shield holding him afloat in a raging sea. There was something vulnerable and pleading in his gaze that made Njord want to step forward and—
Skalmöld’s voice pulled him back to the fire.
Gasping, Njord woke from the vision. He felt disoriented, sick.
