“This is Thori Odinsson,” Svanhild announced with false sweetness. “He’ll doanythingyou ask of him.”
“I certainly won’t—” Thori said hotly, only to be cut off by another jolt ofseiðrthat left him wincing in pain.
Norrin’s reaction was quick; he plucked the cup from Thori’s trembling hands with casual grace.
“Attend my guest,” Svanhild hissed, shoving Thori’s bowed head lower. “As though he were your jarl.”
With that, she turned on her heel, leaving him kneeling at the sea king’s feet like a discarded offering.
Norrin regarded him for a long, unbearable moment, then placed his large hand on Thori’s shoulder to steady him.
Flinching at the touch, Thori’s heart hammered against his ribs.
The ground was hard beneath his knees; his shameful position making it impossible to get comfortable. Rage coiled in Thori’s gut, hot and wild, but he wrestled it down.
He couldn’t afford to fight.
Not yet.
Not with Andora’s life and the safety of his siblings at stake.
Norrin’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, to cup Thori’s chin. Thori jerked, but the warrior’s grip was firm, unyielding. He tilted Thori’s face upward, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“Thori Odinsson. I knew I’d seen your face before.”
They had never met in waking life, but a subtle resonance, a low hum of recognition, vibrated between them. Thori’s mouth felt too dry, and his vision swam. Surely, he would remembera warrior like Stormtamer. Could Norrin be talking about the vision then? Had he seen Thori too?
After what felt like an eternity, Norrin let go of Thori’s chin. But his gaze lingered, sharp and appraising, over the rim of his mead. There was something hard and calculating in his gaze that had Thori on edge. Had he insulted this man? Was there a feud between them? But if they’d crossed paths before—at theÞing, or on the battlefield—he would remember.
But still, Norrin said nothing.
Waiting for this stranger to talk to him, to give him an inkling of his motives, was pure torture. Thori was a man of action. He simply couldn’t play endless games of patience.
Minutes bled into one another.
The air in the tent was too hot, thick with smoke, making it difficult to breathe. His back ached fiercely, each crack of the whip a burning line. His head pounded in rhythm with his heart.
Still, he kept himself upright, refusing to slump, refusing to give Svanhild—or Norrin—any more satisfaction.
“You’re in pain,” Norrin finally said, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t a question.
“It’s nothing,” Thori spat.
Norrin’s lips curved in a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You don’t lie well, Odinsson.”
Thori’s face burned, a hot flush creeping up his neck as the world tilted around him. Being at the mercy of this strange warrior tore at every shred of pride he had left. And yet, here he was, staring helplessly into Norrin’s storm-gray eyes, drawn like a moth to a flame. He opened his mouth. Then he closed it. The right words eluded him.
“Then you must be a master of cunning if you can so easily tell lies from the truth,” Thori finally managed.
Norrin chuckled but didn’t respond. He inclined his head, listening to Sveinn’s prattling and ignoring Thori again.
Quietly, Norrin drank his mead, only now and then responding to something witless Sveinn had said, never once taking his eyes off Thori.
The scrutiny was unbearable.
Shifting this way and that, Thori tried to ease the pressure on his knees, but there was nowhere to go. His muscles screamed for relief, and sweat gathered at his temples. He didn’t dare wipe it away. He wouldn’t let Norrin or Sveinn see his fatigue. Stubbornly, he kept his back straight and his chin raised.
