For someone as brutal as Njáll, his tender touches reminded her what he was capable of—destruction and damnation. Even if in the undercurrent of each brush of his fingers whispered unspoken promises of devotion.
“She is lucky to have you,” Elara said, fingers stilling by the hem of his trews. “I am lucky to have you. The draugar are quieter when you hold me. They fear you.”
A puff of air rolled from him and remained silent for a long pause. He leaned back enough to gaze at her properly, loose chocolate hair falling over his shoulders. Her fingers combed through the strands, pushing them off his face.
Rough skin slid under her chin as a bent knuckle tipped her head back. The unguarded adoration in his gaze made her heart stutter.
“Do not diminish your light. It is you they fear.”
The guttural growl of his command made the light within her glow with pride.
She was no warrior. She couldn’t strike an enemy with a sword or defend herself with a shield. Njáll said pretty words to console her, when they both knew no one feared her.
As if hearing her thoughts, he shook his head, his hand sliding higher to bracket her face.
“My father believes you are a practitioner of seiðr. The most powerful one to exist for Freyja to guard you so fiercely.” Tight creases framed her eyes, and Njáll spoke again. “Magic, little flame. Priestesses and Seeresses. Divine connections with Freyja, capable of bending time and fate.”
Warmth leeched from her limbs, leaving a shivering shell in its wake. Her fingers instantly sought the rune around her neck, tracing the marks.
Harsh breaths stung her chest, stabbing like shards of ice. The edges of her vision blurred as she tried to focus on the one steady thing in her life.
Njáll.
“No. No… I’m not… I can’t. You’re mistaken. I’m not someone wh…”
Even as the protests slipped from her, she knew they were lies. While she’d never been able to name the things she felt and saw, something coalesced within her, growing stronger ever since her mother passed.
Something she stubbornly tried to ignore, pretending it was nothing more than grief-induced hysteria.
The nerves in her body ached. Tiny tremors quaked in her hands as she stared into nothingness.
“Shhh. Do not fear, my brave girl. It is not a curse, but a blessing. Let us get dressed and I will take you to the Völva, an elder in my clan who has practiced seiðr for longer than my father has been Konungr.”
Her body moved of its own accord while her mind struggled to keep up. She hadn’t even realized she’d agreed to go with Njáll until they stood dressed at the end of a deserted path on the outskirts of the village.
Fingertips rested possessively on her hip, keeping her tucked into his side. He drew small circles there, the simple touch banishing the worst of her worries.
Growing up, people told stories of witches and magic and prophecies, but they weren’t real.
They weren’tsupposedto be real.
She tugged at her fingers, toying with a loose thread on her cloak.
They stood in front of a moss-covered dwelling, so different from the rest of the homes sprinkled throughout the village. It was built into the base of a massive stone outcropping, half cave, half wooden structure.
The scent of charred logs and dried herbs mingled with the crisp, dewy morning air.
“Wait here,” Njáll whispered, the command in his voice no less potent.
Njáll’s hand fell to the hilt of his axe despite there being no visible threat. Elara stiffened, pulling the thick tawny fur of her hood closer to her face.
An alarming surge of white noise crackled—both nearby and impossibly far away.
She blinked, her face blank as she felt both comforted and terrified by the growing warmth zipping at her fingertips.
Sticks crunched under his boots as Njáll rapped his knuckles on the heavy oaken door.
After a few silent beats, a short figure emerged from within the cave opening.
