Sigurd accepted the chalice, brought it to his bearded lips, and drank. He passed it solemnly to Agnar, who swallowed the blood-infused mead.
Agnar glanced down into the goblet, then returned it to Brynhildr.
A shiver rippled up her spine, as if the Norns had tugged the threads of fate.
Kveld’s deep voice floated over the mist-shrouded fjord. “Blood in stone seals fate. Blood in mead binds the self. Let no god break this blood-bound oath.”
Sigurd and Agnar clasped their forearms again. At midmorning, they would face each other in the championship of the Sólhjarta Tournament.
Burly as his thick brown bearskin, Agnar grunted. “Soon, there will be steel between us. But we are brothers… forever bound by blood.”
Blue fur of his Blárúlfr cloak blowing in the salty breeze over his bare, tattooed chest, Sigurd growled in agreement. “Brothers… forever bound by blood.”
Black wolfskin gleaming in the rising sun, amber eyes rimmed in black glistening like molten gold, Kveld took thegoblet from Brynhildr. He poured the blood-laced mead into the sea-filled fjord and concluded the sacred oath. “You are oath bound as blood brothers. Your impending duel is not betrayal. It is a trial set before you. Face it with glory, valor, and honor.”
Sigurd caressed Brynhildr with fierce lupine eyes before walking away with Agnar. Each warrior would now prepare for the final event and face each other in the championship of the Solhjarta Tournament.
As she watched them stride across the flagstones toward their respective tents, Kveld Nightwolf wiped his dagger and sheathed it at his naked, rune-painted waist. When he handed her the silver chalice, his haunting voice echoed from the Otherworld. “The threads of fate tighten around you, Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden. Tread carefully. The gods are watching…”
Without another word, he loped across the courtyard to the longhouse where theSjórúlfarwere lodged.
Brynhildr clutched to her breast the silver chalice slick with traces of blood and mead.
Beneath her forest green gown, theouroborosseared the skin above her wildly thumping heart.
Deeply inhaling the crisp saline scent of the sea, she climbed the vine-covered stairs to her private chamber.
Chapter 9
Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament
The morning sun rose softly over Hrafnfjall, pale gold spilling across the fjord far below and setting the water aflame. Gulls and ravens circled in the salty sky, their guttural caws and sharp cries echoing against the cliff beneath Brynhildr’s tower.
Within the shelter of her private courtyard, the morning was hushed. Wild roses and thorned vines climbed the high stone walls, their leaves heavy with dew, their pink blossoms glistening in the dawn light. The sweet floral scent of crushed petals and damp earth mingled with sea brine as Brynhildr took her stance on the worn flagstones.
Ulric Ironshield faced her, broad as an oak, braided red beard streaked with silver, leather armor gleaming in the golden light. His wooden shield—painted with the raven sigil of Hrafnfjall—gripped in one hand, practice sword in the other, he watched her, a challenging glint in his fierce emerald gaze.
“Again,” he grumbled.
Brynhildr struck like a flash of light, steel clashing with a jarring screech.
Ulric pressed her, testing her guard, his strikes ruthless and relentless.
Breath steady, focus sharp, Brynhildr darted across the stones, boots light in the dance of battle. Ulric had seen her fall more times than she could count — bruised, frustrated, yet burning with promise.
When Ulric overextended, just barely, she saw it — the perfect moment to strike. Sliding inside his reach, she twisted her blade and struck his shield rim with a sharp crack. Before he could recover, she pivoted, hooked his leg, and drove forward.
Ulric staggered.
His shield fell.
And his sword skittered across the sunlit stone.
When he hit one knee hard against the ground, neither of them moved or spoke.
While the ravens of Hrafnfjall watched from the pale pink sky, the rose-covered courtyard held its breath.
Brynhildr stood proudly over Ulric. Breath heaving, heart hammering, she pointed the tip of her blade against his armored chest and claimed her first victory against him.
