Fair point.
“When are you going to stop treating me like a kid?”
“When are you going to stop being so reckless?”
For ten rapid heartbeats, we glared at each other, tension coiling in my stomach, in our shoulders, in the air. There was something on the wind, something electric, as if lightning might strike at any moment.
“People care about you,” he finally said, a ragged jumble of words. “You’re what we call a skært ljós.”
“What does that mean?” My voice was no more even.
“Someone that makes things better. Literally, a… bright light.”
My chest went tight. It was beautiful and thoughtful, and I was a storm cloud; I was rain and thunder, not sunshine or a cloudless day. But I quickly said, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Immediately, his forehead smoothed. “Next time at least call for backup. We’re trained for this. We can help.”
A rogue snowflake landed on his lip. Fists tight at my sides, I resisted the urge to wipe it away. Metal splitting wood pierced the silence—people rebuilding, although for a second, it had felt like just us in our own little snow globe.
“Right.” Gulping, I took a shaky step back. The shrill buzz of an electric saw drilled into my ear. “Next time, I’ll ask.”
Cheeks heating, I spun around, my insides somersaulting. My foot skidded, and I tumbled to the frosted ground, ass hitting the ice first. Ow.
Gunnar moved with shocking speed, at my side before I could blink. One firm hand steadied my shoulder; the other pulled me up.
Another gentle touch. More undeserved kindness. And my pulse, racing again.
“You good? Should I call back the medic?”
“Yeah, yes.” I nodded, lungs working to catch the wind that’d been knocked out of them. “I mean no. Train with you soon? Later? Tomorrow?”
When he didn’t answer quickly enough, and his brow only quirked, eyes skimming my face like they were holding a different question, the heat caught up to me, and I stumbled out of his hold.
Grasping the rough wall for support, I scurried away.
Okay. Sure, I think he said, but his voice was muffled by the construction, the commotion and, loudest of all, my pounding heart.
Chapter 27
I kept my head low as I stalked down the hall, evading the looks of curiosity, the fists pounding against hearts in honor, the sneers of mistrust—few of those, luckily, but that was due to the fact that everyone was in the northern part of the castle, helping with the avalanche.
A young elf sprinting by had been nice enough to direct me to the archives, where Olivia told me she’d be. I thought I was heading in the right direction—nothing looked familiar.
I traveled up a spiraled staircase, pale light shining through the window slits.
The paintings lining this corridor were darker, more sinister. Fallen soldiers, contorted creatures, deathly stares frozen in time with eerie accuracy.
A set of silver-edged doors waited at the far end. I swallowed, the air stale and scratchy. Sputtering torchlight cast shadows over the tales of battle and blood etched into the wood.
Gut twisting, I reached for the handle. The metal was cool against my palm as I pushed the doors open, holding in a cough at the powerful whiff of must.
Darkness spilled out, heavy on my skin.
“Olivia?” I squeaked.
I wavered on the threshold, the cold curling out from the depths, before stepping in.
A bob of light flickered on—Galdur. It hovered near the ceiling, washing the room in a yellow light. Long, wooden tables filled the immediate space, matching chairs tucked in.
