Her voice was like venom dripping into his ear, and Thori froze, his muscles locking up.
The tent flap opened, and a gust of cold air caressed Thori’s heated skin. He could sense Norrin’s presence, a breath of fresh, salty air chasing away the stench Svanhild had brought with her.
Thori struggled to tilt his head. Perched above him, Svanhild still lingered, but he could make out the silhouettes of two warriors at the tent’s entrance. Norrin and a tall woman he hadn’t seen before.
Shame and relief washed over him, battling for the upper hand.
“What are you doing here?”
Norrin’s voice sounded icy.
“Helping,” she purred. “He needs preparation for the ritual, doesn’t he?”
But despite her words, she recoiled her hands from Thori’s body.
“I don’t need your help,” Norrin growled. “Get. Out.”
Thori felt such overwhelming relief; it bordered on adoration.
With a few quick strides, Norrin’s shieldmaiden was on Svanhild, grabbing her arm and pulling her off and away from Thori.
“You heard him, priestess. Out with you.”
Svanhild let herself be pulled away, but not before casting Thori one last smirk.
“Sweet dreams, little thunder.”
The moment she was gone, Thori felt a tremble running through his body. He couldn’t stop it. His vision swam, the potion’s effects pulling at him like ghostly hands, dragging him toward unconsciousness.
Norrin stepped closer, and Thori’s heart fluttered like a trapped bird behind his ribs. He didn’t want anybody to see him like this. The thought of Norrin’s inevitable mockery made him sick. He would probably finish what Svanhild had started, and Thori couldn’t—
Not like this.
Kneeling down beside the bed, Norrin pulled Thori’s pants back in place, allowing him a shred of modesty. He brushed a few tangled strands from Thori’s forehead in an almost gentle gesture. A surge of frantic hope clawed its way into Thori’s chest. Maybe he could bargain with him?
“Stormtamer,” Thori rasped, clinging to the furs beneath him to center himself. “I—I’ll complete the ritual with you, but please—not like this.”
“I can’t promise you that,” Norrin said, his sharp features taking on a troubled expression.
Desperate, Thori tried to keep his eyes open for a moment longer. He needed to convince Norrin. If he waited just a few hours so Thori could recover a bit—
“Please,” Thori slurred. It was unworthy to beg, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being dragged to the ritual unconscious and without control over his body. Not after Svanhild had given him a bitter foretaste of what it would feel like. “I’ll serve you, but please—”
For a moment, Norrin hesitated. Then his hand settled against Thori’s cheek, the touch warm and grounding. His thumb brushed along Thori’s cheekbone, and Thori leaned into it instinctively.
“Hush now, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll make sure that Svanhild won’t hurt you again.”
Thori exhaled shakily. He had no reason to believe Norrin’s words, but a part of him did.
Betrayed by his body at last, his muscles loosened despite every instinct screaming caution.
Sleep beckoned, treacherous and sweet. Unable to resist any longer, he gave in to the exhaustion that overwhelmed him.
As his consciousness faded, warmth settled over his hand. Norrin's palm covered his own, solid and anchoring, a reassuring presence in the gathering dark.
“Rest now. Let me handle Svanhild,” Norrin said.
eleven
