Freyja oversaw the realm of Fólkvangr. The place her mother now dwelled.
A goddess wished to keep Elara safe from the draugar, speaking in hushed riddles about love conquering grief.
Instant, brief pain hissed across her scalp. The edges of her vision blurred, and a flash of dark braids and two different colored eyes appeared, vanishing in a wisp of smoke.
Njáll.
A man who lived and breathed the will of the gods.
Pebbles burrowed into her skin as her fingers flexed in the dirt.
Njáll, who had spared her and comforted her when she spoke of shadow beings. Most would have called her mad. Some going as far as to kill her, lest she hurt someone with her odd ramblings.
Njáll, the one who knew what she was before she did.
A witch.
The truth knocked the air from her lungs, her chest rising and falling as she stayed there, kneeling in the dirt.
Njáll wasn’t a demon. He wasn’t a curse bound to corrupt her. He was someone sent to her.
For what? She wasn’t entirely certain.
Warmth swam in her belly, swarming like butterflies in spring. The pleasant sensation felt like betrayal. Like she tainted her brother’s memory by enjoying it.
Elara picked her bottom lip bloody, gingerly getting to her feet before anyone noticed her on the ground.
Alruna’s wispy tail curled around her wrist, anchoring her. Elara stared at the tapestry hard enough to make her eyes water. She willed Freyja to appear, to explain herself. To make sense of all the jumbled words and visions.
When nothing happened, Elara growled a tiny sound, turning around.
The only thing certain was Njáll knew more about the draugar and her abilities than she did. She needed him. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, it didn’t change the truth.
She could hate him and need him in the same breath.
Even if that hate burned like desire.
Njáll might have been dangerous, but it didn’t go unnoticed how he softened around her. With her, he hadn’t been an entitled Jarl, coveting anything he deemed precious.
He’d been a man disarmed by something he didn’t understand.
Just like her.
While it still tasted bitter to do so, she had forgiven him. A jarl had submitted to her whims, allowing her to shoo him from his own home. If he could swallow his pride for her, then she could do the same.
“I should return,” she mumbled, the sound barely audible over the wind’s low moan.
As she rose, Alruna vanished in a plume of smoke, leaving Elara to retrace her steps.
Whatever Freyja intended for her, it wasn’t for Elara to face alone.
She and Njáll would have to figure it out together.
Which meant she’d need to apologize to the distractingly attractive Jarl.
She finally stood in front of Njáll’s home once more.
In the daylight, she could fully appreciate the intricate carvings in the wood framing the entrance. Charms hung above the doorway, tinkling in the wind.
