Without another word, he crossed to a heavy oak door at the far wall and pushed it open, revealing a narrow stair spiraling upward.
I blinked, startled. “I didn’t know Skeldrhall had another floor.”
He gestured toward the steps. “A surprise.”
Caution pricked in my chest—but curiosity tugged harder. I gathered my cloak tighter and climbed, stone narrowing around me as the stair wound tighter with each turn. The air grew cooler, faint light spilling down to meet me. Then the final step gave way—I had never seen anything so beautiful.
The ceiling above was not stone. It was glass, arched wide and tall, framing the heavens. The sky blazed.
Rivers of green and violet shimmered across the dark, pulsing and shifting like a living song written over the stars. The lights moved with a slow, impossible grace—like the ocean turned inside out, waves of fire instead of water.
Everything fell away—the ache, the betrayal, the taste of lies still fresh on my tongue—washed clean by wonder.
My hand drifted to the glass as if I could touch it, pull that brilliance into myself. Behind me, boots whispered against stone. Veyrion’s presence brushed close—steady and sure. “With all the excitement,” he said at last, voice low, almost reverent, “you didn’t get to see them last night.”
He paused, and when I looked back, his eyes were catching the lights too—frost-bright. “They’re why you stayed,” he added quietly. “After all.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Not bitter. Just wonder.
His mouth curved, low and dangerous. “I’ll admit,” he murmured, stepping closer, “I was half afraid you’d forgotten how to smile.”
Heat bloomed in my cheeks, traitorous and fast. I hated that he could pull it from me so easily—hated it almost as much as I hated that my lips threatened to curve again.
“Don’t start,” I muttered, waving him off like smoke. “You ruin everything the moment you open your mouth.”
His chuckle was quiet—dark at the edges. He leaned in just enough for his voice to curl low. “Would you prefer I do something else with my mouth?”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the glass, desperate for the distraction of the lights—and cursing myself for letting him see even a flicker of my reaction. Behind me, his low laughter rumbled like a storm breaking in the distance.
Above, the aurora shifted—green and violet weaving across the night in slow, breathtaking arcs.
50
Nerina
Skeldrhall, Ymirskald
The halls of Skeldrhall had gone quiet since Yule ended. Where there had been music and mead, garlands and laughter, now there was only the low murmur of distant voices and the hollow echo of boots against stone.
I was heading for the sunroom—as I did most afternoons—to sit with my thoughts and test the edges of my magic in the thin, pale light.
It wasn’t until I neared the council room that I heard it. Not laughter. Not celebration. Not the clatter of mugs and teasing the way it had been while wreaths were strung and feasts were planned. This sound was sharper—voices raised, overlapping, urgent.
I slowed, pressing my palm to the cold doorframe as I crept closer. The door stood cracked, a wedge of light spilling into the corridor. Shadows paced within.
Eira’s voice cut through the din—iron and unyielding. “The scouts from the southern currents confirmed it. The shimmer is failing in places—whole stretches of reef laid bare to the human eye. If it continues, the Veil will collapse before the end of Mörsugur—the deep winter stretch. Days, not weeks.”
Another voice—ragged with exhaustion—answered. “The healers are already drowning in the wounded. They cannot keep pace.”
“The Tidekeepers promised the Veil would hold,” someone snapped. A heavy silence followed.
Then a voice—bitter, accusing. “And yet their Veil fails. Do they let it falter? Or are they simply too weak to sustain it?”
The Tidekeepers.My mother.Why wouldn’t they fight? The question burned hot in my chest. Meris commanded tides that could shatter mountains. The Tidekeepers held enough magic between them to create the veil and sustain it this long. Why would they drop it now? Were they stretched too thin—forced to choose between holding the shimmer and tending the sea? Or were the poachers armed with something worse—nets laced with toxins, weapons that chewed through magic before it could take shape? Or—
Was their silence not weakness, but choice? The thought bloomed, dark and dangerous.
I wanted to believe they were faltering. That their strength was fraying under pressure. But another part of me—harder now, less forgiving—whispered of motives I couldn’t yet name. My stomach twisted as a storm churned inside me: fear, rage,betrayal. Did I care if Meris’s fate was tied to this? Did I care if the Tidekeepers fell?
