Despite his dismissive tone, Andora hesitated, but the sound of voices in the distance made her decision for her. She slipped the jar of salve through the bars and rose, pulling her hood over her head.
“I’ll come back,” she promised.
And then she was gone, disappearing into the mist and rain like a ghost. Thori slumped, the small amount of food Andora had brought him leaving him hungrier than before. He hated this. He was a god, his power beyond measure. Their short conversation shouldn’t have tired him. But it had. Curling up to preserve some warmth, he decided to close his eyes just for a moment.
He must have fallen asleep, because the next time he opened his eyes, the sky had darkened and he felt colder than ever. Shivering, Thori pulled his legs closer to his chest. As he moved, the whip marks covering his back made themselves known with a stinging ache.
His memories of the whipping were somewhat hazy as the pain had overwhelmed his senses. The priestesses must’ve enchanted Sveinn’s whip, because no mortal weapon should’ve been able to hurt a god. But hurt it had. And when Thori had thought he couldn’t take it anymore, there’d been this presence calling to him. It must’ve been a vision. A warrior standing in the shadows, watching Thori with compassion. A man both familiar and strange to him. He’d clung to the image desperately, and even now the memory held something comforting.
Thori vaguely remembered being dragged to his cage afterward. Sveinn had separated him from the other thralls by moving him to the edge of the camp. Still, Thori could smell the fjord, although he couldn’t see what was happening down there. He wished he knew what was going on.
Light footsteps approached his cage. A slender figure moved towards him, and for a moment, Thori thought Andora had returned despite his harsh words. But then the person drew closer, and Thori stiffened. It was Svanhild. Her golden hair shimmered in the faint light of the torches like a treasure from Nidavellir. The cruel smile that curled her lips promised nothing good. She stepped in front of the cage and scrutinized him as one would a precious steed or a hunting dog.
“On your feet, thrall.”
How Thori wanted to snap her scrawny neck.
Rising slowly, he could feel her taintedseiðrthrumming through his shackles. It hurt. His power stirred beneath his skin, restless and angry, but it couldn’t break her grasp.
Svanhild’s eyes narrowed, and her smirk tightened. With a snap of her fingers, she made the cuffs around Thori’s wrists pull his arms behind his back, locking them there. Only then did she open the cage.
“Step out.”
Thori obeyed, although his whole body protested his movements. But being out of the cage meant more opportunities to flee. And if he played his cards right, maybe he could take Andora with him.
“Myseiðris working even better than I’d expected,” Svanhild said as she summoned a glowing rope that curled around Thori’s neck. “You’re slow. Weak.”
Thori growled, bristling at being led on a leash like an ox guided to a place of sacrifice. But Svanhild stepped closer, clearly unafraid of him. His skin prickled unpleasantly with herproximity. Grabbing his chin with an unyielding hold, she forced him to meet her gaze. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of amusement and irritation.
“I quite like this result. It means you’ll learn obedience soon.”
Thori didn’t deign her with an answer.
Svanhild stared at him a moment longer before her hand fell away, and she stepped back, gesturing toward the camp.
“Come. You need to be presentable.”
Presentable for what, she didn’t say. She was taunting him, making it all too clear that as a thrall, he was in no position to demand information about his fate. Wordlessly, she led him through the bustling camp; her stride brisk, skirts swishing with her movements.
Thori’s cheeks burned, and he wished he could wrap his arms around his bare chest to protect himself from the biting wind and the curious glances of Sveinn’s warriors. He wasn’t ashamed of his state of undress, per se; no one in Asgard would care if he walked the halls naked. But Svanhild had a way of making him feel like a valuable horse, a commodity to be shown around and discarded when no longer needed. It made him sick.
Paying his discomfort no heed, Svanhild led him to a large pavilion that stood away from the others, almost level with the shoreline. Its canvas was painted red and black, and its poles were decorated with herbs and skulls. The tent of a seeress. Surely Svanhild’s own dwelling. He followed her through the tent flap, although the thought of being alone with her made him feel queasy.
“You live comfortably,” Thori said as he took in the lavish decor inside. Every inch was covered in rugs and furs, linens and silks, every little surface crammed with bones, herbs, and crystals. Strange little figurines stared at him with eyes of red glass. Svanhild’s presence lingered among the trinkets. and Thori had the nagging feeling that it would smother him.
“Hold your insolent tongue, thrall,” she hissed. “Your new master will not take so kindly to your defiance.”
“Who are you talking about? Is this about the warrior who arrived this morning?”
She giggled.
“Now wouldn’t you like to know? Did that little rat fill you in on the gossip in the camp? What was her name again? Andora, am I right? Did she tell you about the sea king?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know that?” Thori snarled, although he could have slapped himself for his carelessness. Why did his pride compel him to talk first and think about the implications later, more often than not?
“Enough!”
Svanhild’s power crashed down on him, the pain not unlike the lashes of the whip. The force of it almost sent him to his knees, but Thori pushed back, his thunder trying to break free from its chains. He could feel his power sizzling at his fingertips, barely out of reach. Just a little bit more… if he could break herseiðr, he could—
