Tiny fingers clawed at the furs pooled around her waist. She scrambled backward until her body collided with the wall.
Cracked lips parted as she stared at him, horror eclipsing the hate usually brimming there.
Cold sweat clung to his palms as he stretched his arms wide, trying to make himself as unthreatening as possible. She was the only one he’d ever willingly submit himself to. And he’d do it proudly.
“I won’t touch you. It is only me. Njáll.”
He spoke his name for the first time, wishing to hear it fall from her pink lips.
A shuddering sound trilled in her throat as her arms banded around her waist. Blown pupils darted between him and the door.
After a breath, then a second, she stilled.
Finally, a pretty jade color swam in her eyes once more, wet lashes blinking. Confusion replaced the fear there.
“The storm,” she breathed, the sound choked. “The thunder. They’re louder during storms.”
His fingers flexed on the hilt of his axe, instinct demanding he protect her. But from what? How could he fight a foe he couldn’t see?
He knelt on the floor beside the furs, afraid if he stayed standing he might cleave his blade through the hull of the ship, if only to feel useful.
“They… Who?” he asked, keeping his voice soft, softer than he had ever heard himself.
The seiðr changed him, changed who he was, how he behaved—if only with her.
Shadows shifted nearby, and his gaze fell on the panther, its form coalescing enough to reveal fangs dripping from its muzzle.
She huddled tighter, her knuckles almost translucent as she squeezed her sides.
“The draugar, they want me. The cold comes with them.” Her gaze flicked to the panther, unmarred devotion in her eyes. “Alruna keeps them at bay. She… She quiets them. But now, they are so loud. Unforgiving.”
Blood ran cold in his veins.
Stories of the draugar were often told by the skalds to frighten little ones. Any warrior feared them as much as any child. The fate of a draugar was a tormented one. Restless souls bound to their reanimated corpses for eternity.
Some said Hel and Loki tied them to their will, building an army. The army they planned to unleash on his people in hopes of shearing the veil. The signs had plagued his clan for years.
The Völva had been right. A tremendous weapon lay hidden in the quiet English village.
A girl with the ability to see the draugar. Haunting corpses who would fight among the living for a chance to dethrone Odin and unleash bloody Ragnarök with it.
A battle which would determine the fate of the world.
And somehow, this tiny, flaming queen would be at the center of it.
The lump in his throat thickened as he tried to swallow it away.
Water pooled around his boots, his wet braids sticking to his bare chest.
Njáll prided himself on his ability to lead, to fight, to protect. With a blade or spear in his hand, he was borderline invincible. The only warrior who could fell him was the Konungr. Njáll was a strategist blessed with brute strength and speed.
But this… How did he handle this? His axe was useless, and no amount of planning could outsmart sinister spirits spurred by Hel. A battle loomed, one he was woefully unprepared for.
A haunted look plagued his little flame’s eyes, baring her soul to him. She wasn’t fearless. No. She was brave, standing against something that would fell even the strongest warrior. This girl wasn’t just brave.
She was a beacon, calling to the chaos residing a fingers breadth out of reach. A beacon drawing the draugar’s attention.
The panther’s haunches rolled from side to side, a tongue licking across its pearlescent fangs. Alruna was more than a familiar, she was a weapon, one granted by Freyja herself to the witch.
