Njord guided him toward his throne. A wood-smith’s masterpiece carved from the same dark wood as Njord’s bed and inlaid with silver and pearls. Gracefully, the master of Nóatún took his seat, leaving Thori standing in front of him.
He was a vision, sitting on his high chair, and the bastard probably knew it.
“Kneel.”
“What?”
He must have misheard. Njord couldn’t in all honesty want him to—
“Kneel.”
Pointing to a cushion at his feet, Njord regarded him with an expectant look.
Thori’s jaw clenched as he fought down his pride. The cushion looked comfortable enough. Kneeling at Njord’s feet would be humiliating but not physically painful. He could do it, but—
“Thori.” Njord gave the chain attached to his collar a gentle tug. “Kneel.”
This time, Thori’s body reacted before he could think twice about it. It was all because of Njord’s soothing voice as he patiently repeated what he wanted Thori to do, completely confident that Thoriwoulddo as he commanded in the end.
He settled onto the cushion with as much dignity as he could muster. The position put him at the perfect height to rest against Njord’s leg if he wanted to. Which he absolutely did not. Instead, he glared up at the arrogant sea god.
“Good,” Njord purred, his hand settling comfortably against Thori’s neck. “You look very pretty at my feet.”
His touch was warm and possessive, his fingers tangling briefly in Thori’s hair before settling. And Thori had to summon all his willpower to resist leaning into it. What was wrong with him? He should be plotting Njord’s death, not melting at his touch and a few words of praise like some lovesick thrall.
“Let theþingbegin,” Njord called, and the great doors swung open.
Thori froze, torn between the impulse to keep his head high to show his bravery and hide his face against Njord’s thigh in shame. How could he have let it come to this?
The hall filled quickly with free folk: petitioners, Njord’s sworn warriors, and nosy onlookers, and Thori felt their stares like a physical burden, some hostile, others merely curious. He kept his expression carefully blank, though he felt sick with shame at being displayed like the spoils of a spring raid.
Njord’s hand tightened briefly on his neck, probably in warning, but to Thori it felt like comfort.
“Listen carefully, little thrall,” Njord said, low enough so only Thori could hear him. “Learn how things are handled in my realm.”
Thori didn’t dare to snark back at him, not in front of all these people, so he decided to look stoically forward. Still, his silence seemed to satisfy Njord.
“Bring the first petitioner,” the master of Nóatún commanded.
And Thori hated how Njord’s voice sent a pleasant chill down his spine.
The cases began simply enough. A dispute over fishing rights, settled with calm authority. A question of inheritance that Njord handled with surprising finesse, asking pointed questions until he uncovered the actual source of the family’s conflict. A complaint about a merchant’s prices that he dismissed with dry humor.
Despite himself, Thori had to acknowledge his skill. Njord listened carefully to each case, asked the right questions, and delivered judgments that seemed both fair and practical. In Asgard, theVanirwere painted as weak yet needlessly cruel. But that wasn’t the way Njord ruled.
It was almost nice just having to listen for a while and relying on someone else to make the tough decisions. Thori only vaguely noticed how his eyes grew heavy, and he began to sway. Thegentle pressure of Njord’s hand on the back of his neck brought him back to the present, not painful, but firm enough to steady him. The touch made warmth radiate from his neck and over his shoulders. Thori could only hope he wasn’t blushing.
“Easy,” Njord murmured, only for Thori’s ears.
The word sounded gentle, almost fond, and the heat engulfing Thori intensified, overwhelming and dangerous. He was losing his mind. That was the only explanation for why his enemy’s touch felt like a reward instead of a restraint.
“You’re doing well,” Njord whispered. “Not much longer. And the next case should be interesting.”
Thori looked up at the warriors dragging a man into the hall, and he immediately understood what Njord had meant. This was no normal petition; this was a trial. The accused was a thin, nervous man with darting eyes and hands that wouldn’t stay still. A chill ran down Thori’s spine as one of Njord’s shieldmaiden recited the crimes he was charged with.
“Egil Ketilsson,” she announced. “Charged with the murder of Gunnar the Fisherman and the practice of forbidden magic.”
With a mixture of fascination and dread, he watched Njord’s entire demeanor change. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by something as cold and terrible as splintering ice.
