They really are all wolves. Not just Fen, but every Asgardian.
I'd intellectually understood this fact, but seeing it displayed sends a cold shiver down my spine. I am one of them now, too.
"I have always served the interests of all eight realms," Nimue says, each word precise and calm despite the tension. "Even when others retreated behind their borders and abandoned Earth to its fate."
"You've served your own interests as well," Odin counters, though the gold in his eye dims slightly. "As we all do."
"Perhaps," Nimue concedes with elegant grace. "But my interests align with finding all the Knights' mates and restoring balance among the realms. Which is why I was concerned when I heard about Astrid's close call with death."
I open my mouth to speak, but a soft press of Fen’s hand on my leg silences me. I glance at him and he shakes his head. “Let them finish this. This argument has been a long time coming,” he whispers.
I nod.
"Well, you’ve quite established Astrid's well-being," Frigga says smoothly, "perhaps we should all take a moment?” The glow fades from everyone's eyes, and Frigga gestures for servants to clear the main course plates and bring dessert.
Odin releases a low growl and then sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Then looks over at me and then to Fen. “I suppose you’ll want to leave again to present her to King Stormblood in Avalon? And to the Table?”
“I don’t want to leave again so soon, Grandfather, but yes."
Table? What table?
"I would be happy to provide transport," Nimue offers.
I catch the quick glance Fen exchanges with his grandparents. There's hesitation there, though I don't understand why.
"That's generous," Fen says carefully. "But we will use our own bridge to Camelot."
I watch this exchange with interest, noting the undercurrents. There's more happening here than I understand, but I trust Fen to explain later, in private.
"Astrid will need appropriate attire for travel," Frigga says, smoothly changing the subject as dessert is served—something that resembles a pastry filled with bright blue fruit. "I'll not have a granddaughter of mine dressed in anything less than Asgard's finest to meet the Fae king. Fen, I would appreciate it if you dressed more for your station this time as well and not like a common tower guard."
I resist the urge to tug at the already-ornate gown I'm wearing, imagining even more elaborate outfits that would make stealth and quick movement impossible. Five years in tactical gear and practical boots has left me with a deep suspicion of anything that rustles when you walk. And "Asgard's finest" sounds dangerously close to something that might require a manual to put on.
"I kind of like the common tower guard look," I murmur, earning a soft chuckle from Fen.
Dessert proceeds with lighter conversation. Nimue asks polite questions about my background on Earth, carefully avoiding topics related to GUIDE or my work as an Inquisitor. Each inquiry feels less like small talk and more like an intelligence briefing. She's mapping me the best she can.
I answer with equal care, sharing general facts while omitting details that might be sensitive. It's a dance I'm familiar with from years of government work, revealing enough to seem cooperative without exposing vulnerabilities.
I watch Nimue across the rim of my goblet, reassessing my initial impression. She's not just politically dangerous. She's dangerous the way a precision weapon is dangerous. Elegant, controlled, and designed for a specific purpose.
As the meal concludes, Nimue rises gracefully from her seat. "I should be going, thank you for your hospitality." She tips her head to Odin and Frigga. Then her gaze turns and lingers on me. "Rest well, Astrid Mathieson. Camelot will be... an experience."
"I look forward to it," I reply evenly.
The words come out with practiced neutrality, but inside, my thoughts race. That wasn't just polite conversation, it was a warning wrapped in diplomatic courtesy. Something waits for us in Camelot that Nimue thinks might unsettle me.
Well, I've faced down chimeras and survived my own death this week. Whatever "experience" Camelot has in store, I'll handle it the same way I've handled everything else since meeting Fen… one impossible situation at a time.
Once Nimue has departed, the remaining tension in the room dissipates. "She hasn't changed," Odin mutters. "Still believing she can charm her way to whatever she desires."
"Don't underestimate her," Frigga cautions. "Nimue has spent millennia perfecting the art of getting what she wants."
"And what exactly does she want?" I ask. "Besides opening the door to Earth?"
The three exchange a quick glance before Fen answers. "Power. Influence. And the restoration of the sirens' central role in match-making."
"Before the breaking of the soul-mate magick," Frigga explains, "the sirens were matchmakers and peacekeepers. People would seek their blessing to find their destined mates. When that magick was broken, so was much of their purpose and power."
