45
Nerina
Skeldrhall, Ymirskald
The harsh crack of laughter pulled me from sleep. I blinked into the dark, heart quickening, the furs tangled around my legs. I thought I’d dreamed it—until it came again.
I slid from bed. The floor cold on my toes. My breath puffed pale as I slipped into the corridor.
No guards stopped me. No questions followed. No orders. In Ymirskald, my steps were my own. That is one of the reason I like being here.
The long hallway stretched ahead, lit only by the occasional torch guttering in its iron bracket. I moved toward the sound, pulse loud in my throat. It was coming from the council room—the place Veyrion held his councils, where the great map of Ymirskald sprawled across the table bristling with carved pieces of bone and iron. The room where I’d stitched him back together.
I hesitated at the carved door, pressing close to its seam. Voices spilled through the crack, followed by another ripple of laughter.
Eira’s voice, dry and teasing. “You looked like a fool in front of the whole town. You nearly tripped over your own sword.”
Veyrion’s lower rumble followed, feigned offense. “The floorboards were uneven.”
Eira snorted. “A godling felled by bad carpentry? That’s a tale for the ages.”
Godling.A crack at his pride, no doubt.
“Careful,” he warned, grin audible. “Another word and I’ll turn you into a story they tell children who misbehave.”
“Empty threat,” she shot back. “You’d miss me too much.”
A pause—then, quieter, warm in a way I’d never heard from him, Veyrion said, “Aye. That, I would.”
The silence after was companionable, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. I risked leaning closer, just enough to see through the thin sliver of light.
They sat across from each other at the war table, no strategy between them now. Only a half-empty bottle of dark liquor, two cups, and the kind of laughter that belonged to a family I had never known.
Something twisted in my chest. This was Veyrion as I’d never seen him—unguarded, the hard edges softened. A brother. A man.
I hated that part of me warmed at the sight.
I shifted, straining to hear more—and my shoulder brushed the heavy door. The creak split the quiet. I froze.
Then Eira’s voice, bright with joy. “Now who could that be lurking at this hour?”
My stomach lurched. Before I could retreat, the door swung wider under my hand. Both of them looked toward me—Eira with a crooked grin, Veyrion with that steady, unreadable look that stripped me bare.
Heat crept up my neck. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Eira laughed, waving me closer with her cup. “Nonsense. Come join us. It’s too late for secrets, and you’ll freeze wandering these halls.”
I hesitated on the threshold, every instinct screaming to flee. Her smile was open, coaxing—and even Veyrion’s silence held no blade.
So I stepped inside.
The room was nothing like it had been during the day. The maps and carved tokens had been pushed aside, cleared just enough to make room. The large table was scattered with sprigs of pineand spruce, woven with crimson ribbon. Bundles of dried herbs and fruits hung from the rafters, filling the air with resinous perfume. Candles guttered in uneven clusters, wax running in rivulets down brass holders. A string of polished stones—onyx, jade, smoky quartz—glittered like frozen starlight where it draped across the mantel.
I blinked at it all, unmoored. “What… is this?”
Eira slid a cup toward me and poured dark liquor from the bottle between them. “Preparations,” she said, grin curling. “For the annual Yule celebration here in Skeldrhall.”
Yule.The word tugged at something in me—strange and ancient.
