“Come in,” the sweet voice of his mother called.
When he entered, she greeted him from her place on a thick fur by the fire, the glow lighting up her face.
Hazelnut eyes beamed at him as she tended to the worn kettle hissing near a bowl of dried herbs. Strands of silver streaked through her curls, catching the firelight as she stood.
The Dróttning possessed formidable strength, rivaling that of the Konungr’s.
She was the only person who could still his wrath and tame his wolf.
For all that power, she carried herself with an unassuming confidence, spending her time tending to the ill as the most skilled healer among their people.
Her prowess in all things humbled Njáll.
He carried a deep respect for both his parents; they embodied what a Konungr and Dróttning should be.
Images of jeweled eyes flashed in his mind. He knew without a doubt his little flame would be the kind of Dróttning his people needed: strong, brave, and selfless.
“My son,” she said, the affection warming him.
Small, yet firm hands wrapped him in a tight embrace as she rose. Her lips brushed his cheek before she turned his face this way and that, assessing for any wounds needing tending to.
A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he shook his head.
“I am fine, Mamma.”
“And what of the young girl you now court?”
It felt like shards of ice stabbed at his throat as he coughed, his eyes wide.
The title was too much and not enough to explain what his little flame meant to him. Yes, he’d claimed her in front of the clan and made his intentions clear.
But it was more than alliances.
No, what stirred within him for his little flame was something divine, a gift from Freyja, an honor to protect her blessing.
For some reason he didn’t understand, both Freyja and his girl had deemed him worthy of her affection, and he would not waste it.
“She is well.”
“I should like to meet her properly, Njáll,” she said, raising a stern brow.
“Yes, Mamma. You will.”
“Hjartað mitt,” came the gruff voice of his father.
Moments later, the curtains swept aside, and the towering form of his father strode in. Except for the streaks of silver in his white-blond hair, he showed nothing of his age, as commanding and foreboding as he had been since Njáll’s birth.
Njáll spread his hand over his heart, tilting his head in a sign of respect.
“Konungr,” Njáll said.
“In here, you are my son and I am your father. What brings you here so early after a festive night?”
Before Njáll could respond, his mother spoke, fluffing the shawl draped over her shoulders.
“I will leave you two to speak. Astrid and I are helping Astra today.”
A growl hissed through his father’s teeth as he palmed the back of his mother’s head, pulling her for a possessive kiss before pecking her temple.
