I forced the thought away as I sank into the carved seat, the fur-lined interior warmer than expected—a nest of luxury buried in iron and wood.
He climbed in beside me, close enough that I felt the weight of him, smelled the faint bite of pine and smoke clinging to his furs. With a single nod to the lead wolf, the world lurched forward.
The sled jolted and the ground dropped away. My stomach pitched as the wolves surged into motion, the landscape blurring into white and shadow. The force hit me all at once—wild, untamed, terrifying.
And—exhilarating.
The wind tore at my braids, whipped my mantle back like wings, stung my cheeks until they burned. Cold, clean air rushed over me, sharp as the first plunge into deep water. Trees streaked past in green and white, hills rising and falling like waves, and something inside me broke loose.
A laugh spilled out—startled, bright—bubbling up from a place I’d thought had withered.
The sound shocked me as much as it seemed to shock him. Veyrion’s head turned, brows lifting, eyes narrowing as though I’d spoken a spell he couldn’t decipher.
Then he leaned forward, his voice cutting through the wind. “Mikinn!” (MEE-kinn.)
The wolves lunged faster, harder. The sled banked so violently we nearly tipped. I shrieked, clung to the edge—then laughed harder, breathless and wild.
Again he called, “Mikinn!” and the beasts obeyed, the sled cutting hard across a hill, snow spraying in glittering arcs. The sky tilted, the ground raced beneath us, and I was flying—laughing until tears stung my eyes, my throat raw with sound.
The wind howled. The world spun in pale flashes. I didn’t care. Every jolt sent another burst of laughter tearing free, until the storm in my chest finally broke open—not fury, not grief, but something sweeter.
Joy. Pure, unshackled joy. It had been so long since I’d felt this—something wild and unbound, something that wasn’t fury or fear or grief.
The wolves slowed to a steady lope, snow whispering beneath the runners. My laughter faded, leaving only its echo ringing in my chest—strange and fragile, like a secret I wasn’t sure I should have shared.
Ironfjord, Ymirskald
This village wasn’t the same as the place Eira had taken me shopping. Here, the town felt more human. Warmer. Lived-in. Less ceremonial, more functional—though no less proud.
Low timbered shops lined the road, thick furs hung over doorways. Children in woolen cloaks darted between them, shrieking with laughter, boots kicking up snow as they passed bundled elders and smiths bent over morning work.
As we glided in, townsfolk paused. Heads turned. Eyes lingered. Not on Veyrion. On me.
Murmurs followed. The shopkeepers tilted their heads, and I caught the soft greeting more than once.
“Lady.”
The word settled into the frost-laced air with a weight I wasn’t sure I’d earned—but accepted all the same. I was suddenly grateful for the deep-blue dress. For the mantle. For the silver wolf clasps. If they didn’t know what—or who—I was, they could at least believe I belonged.
The sled eased to a stop outside a squat, wide building with a chimney belching smoke. Heat shimmered through open slats, the steady clang of hammer hitting metal ringing into the street like a heartbeat.
Veyrion stepped down first and offered his hand. I declined.
When we crossed the street, people came. Children ran up without hesitation, clutching his cloak until he scooped oneup and swung the boy onto his shoulder. The child squealed, clinging to Veyrion’s like a tree instead of a man.
Old women pressed wrapped bundles into his hands—bread, dried herbs, smoked meat—murmuring blessings cracked with age but heavy with meaning. Smiths and hunters clasped his arm, slapped his back, traded rough jokes that drew the ghost of a smile from his lips.
Whatever else Veyrion was—whatever threats he’d made, whatever blood clung to his hands—these people didn’t see a monster. They saw their protector.
I wondered if both could be true.
The contradiction scraped at me like salt in a wound. Either they were blind.
Or I was.
Sparks danced in the air, carried on the steady clang of hammer to anvil. The smith—a large man with arms like tree trunks and soot smeared across his jaw—looked up from his work and nodded in greeting.
“Lord,” he said. Then, to me, with a respectful bow of his head: “Lady.”
