No one moves or responds, although Thord nods in acknowledgment.
Sigvid’s nails bite into his palms as the scene bathes his vision in that familiar crimson of the berserker.
“Father,” Thrain continues, “there was an issue with the throne.”
Thord waves him off as he gulps mead from his drinking horn.
“If you do this, I swear to the Briny God I will fucking drown you in the South Sea.” Sigvid hisses.
“Your throne was defaced!” Thrain elevates his voice, causing the room to quiet.
Now, he has their father’s attention.
Thord lifts his head from his ale horn, assessing the boys with equal suspicion. “What happened?”
“There is a name carved along the back.” Thrain inclines his head toward Sigvid for dramatic effect.
“You fucking ass! I would never defile something so sacred.” Sigvid defends himself even as his entire body quivers for the beast inside to tear his brother apart.
“Boys!” Thord shakes his head at them. “Both of you, leave your weapons and return to your rooms. I will speak with you shortly.”
Sigvid doesn’t say a word and shoves off toward his room.
As he stalks past, Thrain whispers, “They know I will be a better ruler.”
Sigvid’s eyes blaze red. The berserker fully initiates. He snags Thrain by the shirt and turns him toward the hearth. He shoves his brother’s back into the fire, holding him in the flames while he screams.
“Sigvid!”
“Grab him!”
Hands the size of bear mitts throw him off his brother, who lies whimpering on the floor.
“Take Thrain to the Healer!” His father’s voice barks.
Kar scoops his younger brother’s wailing form from the ground and disappears.
Sigvid looks up to confront the purpling expression of his father.
His eyes drop to his singed hands.
He is like a caged animal in his own home. Yes, he trains from dawn to dusk with an axe to one day lead the Salt Army.
Why does he need to memorize the map of Treland anyway? Or understand the damned Sacred Stones? Why do these things matter? Who cares if some old Ridge person could turn invisible to care for them? Sigvid is a Salt Prince, not a Ridge Prince!
He scrambles to his feet, steadying himself. He swallows, tilting his head far back to take in his Father’s monstrous frame.
Thord crosses his arms. “What kind of ruler would I be if I intentionally cause physical pain to those who cross me?”
Sigvid’s shoulders slump. “He does not deserve to be King of Salt.”
“And who deserves to be King of Salt, Sig?”
Sigvid strokes his arm, gazing at the crackling of the hearth in an attempt not to meet the disappointment in his father’s eyes. “Your oldest son, sir.”
“Hmm.” Thord grumps. “My oldest son shoved his brother into the fire of our home hearth. Does that seem like the action of a future King?”
“No, sir.” But the injustice of his father revoking his title by blood still burns raw beneath his skin. “Why was my right to the throne revoked after your meeting in the Ridge? With King Ceowald?”
