Page 182 of The Sun He Buried

Paths in Myrkviðr bend around roots and stone because the forest was here first and has never accepted another authority. Humans call that poor planning. Human roads run straight enough for armies.

Ours make every stranger turn twice before finding a door.

The houses below sit where the trunks permitted. Workshops grew into the spaces between them. Even the Hall was built around three old pines instead of cutting them down. The roots lift one flagstone every spring. The same mason has reset it for two hundred years and complains each time.

He will complain again.

The forest allows Myrkviðr to exist.

I appreciate an honest arrangement.

Snow reaches my calves near the top. The storm has stripped one side of the ridge bare and buried the other. My boot breaks through the crust twice. The second hole hides a root that catches my ankle.

I don’t fall.

A triumph. Solveih would’ve praised it.

The thought gets farther than it deserves.

At the crown of the hill, the trees open.

Myrkviðr lies below me.

Firelight smears across the snow beneath the storm. The Hall holds the highest ground, its long roof nearly white, smoke flattened east before it clears the chimney. Smaller houses gather down the slope between the pines. The market is dark. The smithy still glows near the lower path. Beyond it, the mine road vanishes into black.

My territory has no walls.

It doesn’t need them. Human kingdoms built those farther out and named the space between them Náströnd. A treaty, according to men who enjoy clean words. A cage, according to anyone required to live inside it.

The Sálarættin received the darkest forest in that cage.

The weakest bloodline received most of the vein-silver under it.

The joke has lasted centuries and made us rich.

Every ruler around Náströnd needs what comes from my ground. Human kings need it more. Their ships, gates, crowns, bribes, and wars all improve when my people dig deeper.

They call us unfit to lead.

Then they wait for our metal.

I know every roof below. Every storehouse. Every mine brace Ketill has replaced since the first tunnel opened beneath the ridge. I know which winter took the old market and which fire blackened the stones under the smithy. I know where the snow gathers, where the ground breaks in spring, and how many families will need another stack of wood if this storm reaches a fourth night.

This is what I rule.

Not a court.

Lives.

Other Dróttin gather people around them and call the crowd proof of power. I keep ledgers, roads, mines, winter stores, and enough fear in the correct people that my border remains quiet. My court eats together when hunger or weather forces the issue. Nobody here performs devotion across a polished floor.

Emotion feeders learn young that false warmth tastes sour and loyalty can’t be rehearsed. My people know I see through every wall they raise. They still argue with my orders, curse my name in their kitchens, and trust me to know which roofs will survive the night.

Honesty is not affection.

It’s worth more.

The mask tightens when the Hall wakes beneath another strike of wind. Purple light runs through the fracture lines.