“We come for you, Seiðkona. There is nowhere you can hide.”
Even here, the draugar found her.
Shadows stirred, and an inky paw shifted out of the coalescing mist. The panther snarled, standing like a sentry in front of Elara’s crumpled figure.
The pressure in her chest loosened, each breath coming easier as the whispers silenced once more.
With Alruna curled at her feet, rumbling a hissing growl. Elara did the only thing she could. She sobbed, letting her tears flow freely, staining her cheeks until she passed out into an uneasy sleep on the floor.
Four
Njáll
Sprays of saltwater hit his face as the oars slapped against the water’s surface, pushing them away from the shore. Moonlight spilled across the sea, casting a silver glow over the water’s surface.
Supple wood flexed beneath his fingers. Njáll ran a hand through his hair, scraping his nails against his scalp and grunting. The warmth of her skin lingered on his, her wildflower and honey scent torturing him.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he willed the visions of her to flee. But they were as stubborn as her—latched on to his soul in a way he’d never be rid of.
He hadn’t intended to leave her alone so quickly. A twisted part of him enjoyed her ire and wanted to watch her spit fire like a drakeling.
However, when those jade eyes twinkled like polished river stones darkened with desire, he fled, refusing to give in to his hardening cock.
Laughter radiated over the mist, his warriors deep into the ale. Normally, he’d find himself with them, celebrating their victories and toasting their spoils in homage to Odin.
Tonight, he couldn’t, lost in beautiful misery.
When they targeted the village, they intended to claim the southern passes and nothing more.
At least that was what his men believed. In truth, they were there to find the one their Völva spoke of to the Konungr. The priestess foretold of a wellspring of power hidden within a quietEnglish village.
The signs of mounting tension beyond the gods did not go unnoticed. Winters dragged on. Less game wandered their lands. Grime infested their water supplies.
It pointed to the beginnings of Ragnarök, to Hel and Loki testing their armies on the mortals who had forsaken them in favor of Odin and Freyja.
Their Konungr saw the signs, confiding in Njáll, sharing with him their Völva’s vision. One of a young Seiðkona with seven blessings from Freyja. One who knew not who she was or what she was capable of. One who would seal the veil from Hel’s onslaught.
With that knowledge, Njáll set out with his best warriors, knowing nothing of who he sought, hoping the little seeress would make herself known to him.
It didn’t take long for her to appear, the vision of her punching the air from his lungs.
A mane of thick crimson hair haloed around her pale face like a blood moon, making her tiny frame look more imposing than it was. His cock stirred at the sight, all his blood rushing southward.
Njáll was no stranger to appreciating beautiful women, and the way her chest heaved with ragged breaths, straining the thin linen of her dress, made his mind go hazy.
Full, pink lips parted. Lush, curvy hips accentuating her slim waist, which he longed to curl his hands over.
Still, he had a job to do, and he was not one to be deterred. Njáll was the jarl his father had trained him to be, and he would not be swayed by a pretty face.
Then, she did something that made him freeze, his knees cracking as his legs locked. She positioned herself between his blade and her father.
Something foreign stirred in his chest, something beyond desire. Something dangerous that made his breath catch.
His parents had told him stories of Freyja. Of her divine intervention in bringing them together. Of how their souls were bound by fate. It was a pretty tale. Yet, only that. A story woven by skalds for children and drunken warriors.
Then he saw her. A mighty mountain refusing to bend. A vision that moved him with the lightest touch.
But what made his heart forget how to beat was the sight of the smoky panther perched at her feet. Its gold eyes glowed as it protected its mistress like the great felines pulling Freyja’s chariot.
