After Isabel’s son’s birth, Calder ordered the infant removed before she had a chance to hold him. While still shaken from childbirth, Calder ordered guards to drag her into a shallow grave where he froze her solid before shattering her flesh onto the ground.
Aura cradled the squawling infant she named Leofwine, ensuringhe would not be a nobody in this cruel world. She traveled with him in a carriage to a small village in Borg Hold, where he could lead a normal life per Isabel’s dying request.
“Do not leave the castle without my permission, boy.” Calder barks at the courier while clutching Aura. “Go into the Hall and ask for Serk. He will ensure you eat.”
Calder moves Aura into a side sitting room, allowing her to sink into a chaise.
“Speak to me, beautiful girl. What happened?”
Aura bites her bottom lip, frustrated with herself that she still hasn’t told Calder about her fascination with and care for Isabel’s son. After the boy’s fifth nameday, she is finally compelled to look the Iss Drengr in the eye and reveal the truth.
“Should the Manchineels steal him from us, then let your son have my firstborn.”
She utters the prophecy for the first time since she spoke it in the highest tower of Nightwall Keep. “I spoke those words to Isabel while Lavinia had me imprisoned. It was my first vision from the Norn. I hardly understood my words then.” She buries her head in her hands.
Calder quietly strokes his beard in that anxious manner she has grown used to. “You should have told me sooner.” His eyes lock with hers, and she feels shame settle in her belly.
“I had been wondering how she lived as long as she did with my ice mark. You removed it and allowed her to give birth!” His growl shudders through her bones, as his reaction was exactly as she had envisioned.
“You have delivered the enemy our child!”
If her parents knew that the heir to the god Freyr was now in the hands of the Manchineels, they would wrestle the crown from her head.
Before her coronation, the Manchineel family retreated into the rural lands of Timber, making it more challenging to locate them. That wretched family would likely raise Leofwine as a weapon against her clan.
Not to mention, he is foretold to take their firstbornchild.
Suddenly, the room's door slams shut.
Aura leaps to her feet just as the sconces and hearth flicker before extinguishing altogether.
She snaps her fingers, reigniting the candles and firewood, which bathe them in an unsettling light, unveiling an ethereal stranger.
A tense woman in a high-necked, floor-length gown greets them with a grim expression, her hands clasped at her abdomen.
“Greetings, Caldersson family. I should acknowledge the Sigvidsson-Redwood side, but we all know this branch of the family will shake the continent more than any other.”
“Who are you?” Aura demands.
“So uncouth for a queen. You are much like your father.” She sighs as she examines a painting of Argnier hung above the room’s hearth. One that Aura painted.
“You may call me Gullveig, the Goddess of Order. Patron of Pradacia.”
“Another god.” Calder crosses his arms, eyes not leaving their unwanted guest. “What do you want?”
“Straight to the point.” She pulls herself away from the painting. “I have come to remind the young Queen of her duty as both a witch and a ruler of the Endless Shore.”
She strides closer to Aura, the tension nearly radiating in harsh waves from her misty form.
“Your responsibility lies with the greater pantheon. I understand that you owe a favor to the God Volund. I would hate to remind you both of your grave offense in Steinlund.” She gestures delicately. “I advise you to reconsider fulfilling his stipulation.”
“Do you think we have a choice? He is the God of Death!” Aura pushes back against the absurdity of this conversation.
Gullveig’s expression does not shift at her outburst. “This is not a pleasant house call, congratulating you on your crown.” She stands straighter. “If you wish to remain inmygood graces, you will obeymywishes.”
Calder stands before Aura. “Are you threatening us?”
The goddess’ smirk is the most unsettling thing the young Queenhas ever seen. “Heed me, Calderssons. I am not known for my forgiveness.”
