Wicked Lovers of Time (Blade of Shadows #4)

Prologue Balthazar

The sky hung heavy, swollen with boiling storm clouds as I rode my horse home, intoxicated by the thrill of victory.

As one of the most feared Hersir warriors in the Viking ranks, I could easily lay waste to entire hordes—my blunt mace crushed armor and my battle ax carved through bone like butter.

Each kill, each scream, each shatter of steel fed the shadow inside me.

I forgot who I was. I became the thing the darkness had created.

Violence gave purpose to my cursed existence.

Adrenaline surged through me as I replayed the blood-soaked chaos.

We had faced the Timehunters—a ruthless order whose very name conjured images of death without mercy.

Led by the infamous Chronosbane, they fought like cornered beasts, relentless and brutal in their mission to win at any cost. But in the end, we stood victorious, our blades slick with their blood, our hearts still echoing the rhythm of war.

As I nudged my horse into a trot, a sudden, cold shiver slashed down my spine, raising goosebumps despite the pale winter sun.

A sense of dread settled over me like a storm cloud on the brink of breaking.

My gut twisted with certainty—everything I knew was about to collapse, and I could do nothing to stop it.

I tried to silence the thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind.

I had built a life of honor—or so I told myself.

But lately, the weight of that illusion was suffocating.

Who was I beneath the blood and glory? Did I have a purpose beyond the battlefield?

Or had I been lying to myself all along?

The questions festered, paralyzing me. And in the silence, I feared the answers most of all.

The Havenshield Fjord shimmered in the distance, its waters catching the light like polished steel. Nestled along its edge sat my coastal village’s dwellings and bustling shops. Havenshield thrived on fishing and trade, a lively port that connected us to neighboring towns through waves and wind.

My journey had been long and grueling, but my heart swelled with warmth as I crested the hilltop.

Below, anchored in the valley, stood my cherished home—a longhouse I had built with my own hands, a sanctuary for my family and myself.

Pride stirred in my chest, fierce and unwavering.

Yet again, that same shiver of dread sliced down my spine like a phantom claw trailing my vertebrae. I cast it aside.

As I guided my horse down the slope, a heartwarming sight met me—my five daughters burst from my home, their faces alight with joy.

Laughter rang through the crisp air. I gave a silent nod to our stable boy, H?kon—a ruddy-cheeked lad with golden curls and a permanent smudge of dirt on his nose—who quickly moved to take my reins.

I dismounted, and little Freya ran straight into my arms. I scooped her up, smothering her rosy cheeks with kisses, her giggles as warm as spring. The sunlight danced through her pale braids, turning them into threads of gold.

The other girls swarmed around me in a flurry of laughter and affection, tugging at my woolen overcoat, loose-fitting trousers, and even my fingers. Each was adorned with golden rings etched in ancient runes and Viking knotwork, charms of protection and power.

I smiled at my daughters, my heart swelling with a fierce love that nearly brought me to my knees.

I had been a warrior forged in fire and blood since age twenty-one.

Battle had been all I knew—until them. In my daughters, I had found a purpose beyond the battlefield.

I had thrown myself into fatherhood with the same zeal I once gave to war, eager to share tales of raiding and adventure with bright-eyed little ones who knew nothing of the horrors behind those stories.

Crouching low, I set my youngest down. Instantly, they swarmed me—hugging, kissing, clinging to my arms and legs with giggles and questions flying like arrows.

“Where have you been?”

“What did you see?”

“Did you bring us presents?”

I chuckled, patting the side of my leather pouch. “There might be a surprise or two in here.”

But even as their laughter lifted around me, a shadow passed through my mind—blood on snow, the screams of dying men, the copper scent of death thick in the air. I thought I heard Odin’s whisper, low and cold, brushing against my ear like a ghost.

I hid the image and focused on the light in my children’s eyes.

“Show us! Show us!” they cried in unison.

“Not yet,” I said with a grin, pulling them close once more before releasing them individually.

Finally disentangling myself from their eager arms, I stepped into the heart of our home.

Warmth radiated from the hearth, and the scent of roasted meat drifted through the air.

There, waiting for me with a quiet smile, stood my wife, Zara.

She had prepared a meal in my honor, and the children quickly gathered around the table, bouncing with anticipation for my stories.

I set my satchel down beside the hearth, just where H?kon had placed my weapons. Then I crossed the room to Zara and pulled her into a kiss that made the world disappear.

She let out a breathy laugh, her lips curving against mine. “I must tend to dinner, my love.”

“And I must tend to you,” I murmured, teasing the edge of her tunic. “It’s been far too long.”

Zara slapped my hands away, though a mischievous glint flickered as her gaze slid toward the children.

“After we put them to bed, Balthazar,” she whispered. “Then, I shall serve your pleasures—in our bed.”

A low growl rumbled from my throat as I leaned in and nipped playfully at her neck.

“Balthazar!” she squealed, swatting at me with a laugh.

Later, gathered around the table, I recounted tales of fierce battles and impossible victories. My children gasped and cheered, their eyes wide and sparkling with wonder. I spun stories of daring escapes, brutal raids, brave warriors, and cunning enemies, and they drank in every word like mead.

I told them of my travels through far-off lands—of strange customs, wild beasts, and the ways of people so different from us. As I spoke, I hoped they felt as though they had ridden beside me, faced the danger, and shared the glory. I hoped that through my stories, a piece of me would live in them.

I ended with the tale of my final battle—how I had faced the enemy’s second-in-command alone and struck him down with nothing but grit and steel. The children clapped and cheered, and Zara beamed at me, her hand slipping over mine in quiet pride.

“Come now, my darlings,” she said, rising. “It’s getting late.”

“No!” Freya protested, puffing out her cheeks. “More Papa stories! And presents from Papa!”

“In the morning, my sweetheart,” I said with a soft laugh, rising to lift both Freya and Tove into my arms.

Zara gathered the other three, and together, we made our way to the sleeping area—a cozy corner lined with raised platforms covered in thick furs. The children climbed onto their beds, snuggling close like wolf pups, limbs tangled, laughter fading into yawns.

“Are you going away again?” Revna asked, her voice small beneath the fur. “We always miss you when you’re gone.”

“I don’t think so,” I murmured, brushing a hand through her silken curls.

“Goodie!” Astrid exclaimed. “Papa’s staying!”

“For a while,” I said, tucking the blanket beneath her chin.

Once the children lay asleep, Zara and I returned to the main hall. We settled before the hearth, the fire casting light across the fur rug as the warmth wrapped around us like a cloak.

“I’m glad your raid went well,” she said softly, taking my hand.

“It was a good fight,” I replied. “And what did you do while I was away?” I brought her fingers to my lips, kissing them one by one.

She brushed my braids from my face and caressed my jaw. “I missed you. What do you think I did?”

Her words had tenderness, but a shadow lingered beneath it.

“I missed you, too,” I said, tracing a heart on her flushed cheek with my thumb. “But I’m sure you did more than pine for me,” I added with a teasing smile.

“Of course,” she said with a half-laugh. “I tended the sick. Looked after the children. The livestock. The gardens… There’s always too much to do when you’re gone.”

Her smile faltered, and a small frown creased her brow.

I smoothed it with my thumb. “What troubles you, my love?”

She hesitated, then exhaled. “Some of my patients didn’t make it.” A pause. “I had to kill them… and inhale their souls.”

Zara, like me, was a darkness.

Neither of us fully understood the curse we carried—only that it demanded blood. To stay alive, she had to kill. And though she hated it, she found joy in ending the suffering of those beyond saving. She healed who she could. The rest… she guided into the afterlife with mercy cloaked in shadow.

“Don’t carry the guilt,” I told her gently. “We do what we must. You end the pain of those too far gone. You spare them needless misery. I…” I shrugged. “I kill those whose lives aren’t worth living.”

I crawled toward my satchel by the hearth and retrieved the gift I’d brought her, wrapped in supple leather. Returning to her, I cupped it and pressed it to her heart.

Her eyes lit up as she unwrapped the pouch and pulled out a necklace—ruby and moonstone, shimmering together like blood and moonlight. “Oh! It’s beautiful!”

“Allow me,” I murmured, stepping behind her and fastening the delicate gold clasp at the nape of her neck.

But as my fingers brushed her skin, a dark and unbidden vision slammed into my mind. The necklace—this very one—clung to the throat of another woman, a stranger. Her eyes glowed like dying stars, radiating a darkness deeper than Helheim. My breath caught. The image vanished as quickly as it came.

Where did that come from?

I forced the thought away, anchoring myself in the present—Zara, my wife, my shadow and light.