“She saw exactly what happened. She saw who you are, Jarl. You cannot wipe the memory from her mind no matter how much you wish it. Not when the outcast’s blood still stains your hands.”
Swallowing the thick lump in his throat, he rotated his hands, eyeing the dried blood coating the callused skin. The same hands he’d held her with.
All the air spilled from his lungs in one long, shuddering exhale.
“She thinks me a monster. A true one. As if I’m something she needs protection from, not the one to protect her,” Njáll mumbled, more to himself than Astra.
While she may have called him a demon, he’d never seen such a fearful glaze in her features. Even when she stepped between his axe and her father, she didn’t stare at him with terror—anger but never fear.
The tip of his tongue swept along his lower lip as he stared at the longhouse, willing her to reappear. Astra moved in front of him, pinching his chin like a mother would a young child and forcing his gaze on her.
“You must give her time.”
Time was not something they had. Not when the earth stirred, and his Elara needed protection. Needed training. And fast.
During patrols, their warriors notice more slaughtered animals, their carcasses and furs left to rot in the sun.
It was a warning from Hel; she prepared for war.
All they needed was a path.
And his little flame lit the way.
So, no, he didn’t have time to spare her.
She was to be a queen—a Dróttning. It hummed in the beat of his heart. Freyja or not. She was his and he was hers. She commanded his soul and stole his breath.
“I must make her understand.”
A weary sigh fell from Astra. She rubbed her hand along his arm, the motion more calming than he liked to admit.
“You have always been impatient, brother. You expect the winter to turn to spring because you demand it, forgetting the earth must first endure the frost.”
Air puffed past his lips. He did not have time for Astra’s riddles.
“This is not about seasons,” he snapped, glaring at her. “This is life and death. You know as well as I do, the outcast came here to die. He could have taken her with him. I did what the gods demanded. I fulfilled my duty. I protected the clan. My kona.”
The sensations swarming in his chest were unfamiliar and bothersome. They tangled around his heart, squeezing. It tasted faintly of remorse, something Njáll didn’t allow him to feel.
He didn’t regret what he’d done, but he did lament his rashness. He could have handled it differently.
“I may know that. The clan may know that. But she does not. You were too brash. You wished to show off for your kona. Any other girl would have swooned at your actions. But not her, and now you’re angry because you didnot think.”
Njáll opened his mouth to protest but snapped it shut before the words fell. Ever since he was young, he relished the looks women gave him, how they fawned over his prowess with a blade.
His flame would not be as easily swayed. Not by blood, or blade, or brawn. She needed more from him, something he had never given anyone else.
His soul. His heart. His breath.
Everything that made himhim.
Everything that hid beneath layers of sweat and steel.
“She is gentle. Soft and sweet. Too soft for this life and for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Njáll,” Astra huffed. “She is strong. She can survive this place. Can survive you,” she chuckled, “gods help her. It takes a different kind of strength to remain warm in a cruel world. You are a blade, brother. You only see strength in the bite of steel. She is the hearth, providing light, but can still burn if you handle her without care.”
Clouds rolled in overhead, drifting in front of the afternoon sun. Astra’s words echoed in his mind as his gaze slid back to the longhouse, eyeing the glow of the fire inside spilling out. He could almost imagine her inside, huddled by the fire, sipping on warm mead provided by one of the women.
