Despite the morning chill, his bare chest lay exposed to the elements, his breath misting in front of his face. Sweat slicked his torso, highlighting the lines of muscles and scars bisecting the tanned flesh.
Dark, loose braids clung to his neck as his feet moved in determined steps, his body steady. Her mouth turned dry as she greedily drank in the sight of him.
This was him. All of it.
He could be nothing else. And she could only be herself.
A thorned rose and a velvet-wrapped blade.
Purple smudges marred the thin skin under his eyes.
Despite the exhaustion in his features, one side of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile, making her center ache.
She sucked in a groan. Njáll spun the large silver axe with an effortless twirl of his wrist, his biceps bulging against the confines of the golden cuffs encircling them.
He parried a blow from a short, stocky man, the resulting clang sending mourning doves soaring into the sky.
Metal met metal, neither man relenting. A snarl hissed through Njáll’s teeth as he ducked and delicately trailed the tip of his axe across the other man’s shins, a careful, controlled strike.
Not one to severely injure, but a warning.
The man fell to a knee, his sword sticking in the ground as he held up the other in surrender. Trickles of blood leaked from the wound, and Njáll extended a hand, helping the other man to his feet before issuing a command in thick Norse.
Another rose from the assembled crowd, helping the injured man toward the longhouse.
Njáll carried with him a strength, a confidence that made her feel safe. Even if his methods unnerved her.
With a curl of his fingers, Njáll beckoned his next opponent forward.
Sunlight peeked through the mist, clearing her mind with it.
She closed her eyes, tilting her face up toward the sun, letting its rays warm her wind-burned cheeks.
A knot twisted in her stomach as cold rushed in, bringing with it the reminder of the night before.
It wasn’t just flashes anymore; whatever they were grew stronger.
Last night, she tasted blood in the air. She heard the piercing screams of wailing women.
And worst of all, she’d seen Njáll, streaked with blood as he fought against bloated, decomposing bodies cloaked in tattered threads of wool.
The putrid scent of acrid flesh stung her nostrils and she gagged.
Blood roared in her ears and she almost forgot where she was.
Her heart hammered so fast in her chest she wobbled unsteadily, clutching a wooden fence.
She pressed her palms into her temples, trying to push the images away.
Velvet voices purred, demanding her attention.
“We’re coming, Seiðkona, and neither you nor your Jarl can stop us.”
White light pulsed within her, chasing away the chill that came with the draugars’ whispers. They grew desperate, hissing when she retreated toward the inner light, drowning out their taunts.
Static crackled at her fingertips, zipping down her spine.
Elara’s eyes popped open, relieved to see Alruna perched at her feet, a quiet growl permeating the silence.
