Chapter 51 Arctos
Arctos
This is such a bad idea.
He stood before the hearth, staring into the restless flames as he nursed a glass of vodka, wondering how he’d agreed to tonight’s plan.
The fire snapped, throwing molten-orange light across the stone walls. Outside, winter winds knifed through the labyrinth of ravines and snow sifted down the cliffs, yet through all that storm and stone, he could still hear Emilia in the bedchamber finishing her preparations.
Such a bad idea.
He ran a hand over his face, feeling the heat of the hearth on one side, the cold draft on the other.
All he’d ever wanted was a simple immortal life—leading soldiers, loving a warrior wife, raising children who might someday follow in their bootprints.
Politics and scrutiny had always belonged to others.
He preferred steel in hand over whispers at his back.
Yet tonight he would walk with Emilia into a banquet held in her honor, under thousands of critical gazes, among a clan eager for reassurance or ready for judgment.
But he could do it. He would. For her.
He pictured the bermetal smiths pounding glowing ore. Heat, pressure, precision—forging raw metal into something worthy. In these last weeks, Emilia had done the same to herself through grueling training.
Her body had filled out, her limbs taking on a graceful power.
She could run repeatedly to the peak without losing her breath and was a menace to trees everywhere.
She’d even learned to swim—a shaky, stubborn series of laps across the hot spring, her dark hair slicked back, her gaze bright with accomplishment.
Between drills, she waved shyly to the clan, offering hesitant smiles. They’d begun nodding back. The thaw was slow but real.
She deserved the chance to stand before them—not as a burden thrust upon him but as someone rightfully claiming her place.
So he’d dressed accordingly: his finest tunic, winter-dark and trimmed in silver thread, his sword polished bright enough to catch the fire’s gleam. He’d even acquired a welcome gift for her.
“Well…” Her voice came from behind him, low and breathless. “How do I look?”
He turned. An exhalation escaped him.
Emilia stood framed by the doorway, firelight curling around her silhouette. Her expression was lively, her cheeks flushed pink by the hearth’s glow. She’d braided her raven hair into a crown in the old style of the Berserkers. The glossy coils caught sparks of light like woven night.
Taking her with me is a fucking fantastic idea.
He coughed into his fist, buying a heartbeat. “You look well.” His voice was gruffer than intended. “And much like a Berserker.”
She wore a kirtle of shimmering golden fabric that made her amber eyes gleam with a honeyed sheen.
A wide belt cinched her waist, engraved with the clan’s Channeler Stone.
The fitted bodice framed her pert breasts; the skirt fell in elegant lines over the curves of her hips.
A bone-bead choker circled her pale throat—unexpectedly striking.
How had he not noticed her quiet beauty until now?
“Thank you!” she beamed. “That’s a compliment. Dagny deserves all the credit.”
Dagny had sent the garments, along with a note to Arctos requesting to be seated beside Emilia. An arrangement sure to be tense, considering he and Torben had not yet made peace over Yrsa’s troubling behavior.
Arctos would observe the queen tonight. Watch. Measure. But for now, all he could do was brace for the evening.
“Thank you for taking a chance on me,” Emilia said softly.
“You’re welcome.” This was happening. Truly happening. For better or worse, he was taking his “wife” before the clan.
Her smile faltered. “Arctos, I don’t ever want to embarrass you. Or burden you. I don’t want to impose on you again.”
“You work hard,” he said simply. “I cannot ask anything more than that.” A beat passed. “Mayhap Yrsa saw something in you that I did not at first.”
Emilia’s mouth parted, her expression softening with wonder. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Her voice dropped, thoughtful. “And it must be true. Why else would she have wed us?”
Why indeed.
***
Lia
Candles. Sconces. Roaring firepits.
The great court glowed with golden warmth, chasing shadows up the craggy walls. Furs draped hard surfaces, softening the space more than she remembered.
How different it looked from the cold vault she’d first entered. Less tomb, more celebration. Progress!
Berserkers milled about, pounding mugs of honey mead, laughter booming as they turned curious eyes toward her. Lia offered a tentative smile, self-conscious under the scrutiny.
Arctos guided her through the crowd to a table near the queen’s dais.
With quiet courtesy, he pulled out a chair for her.
“Normally we would dine with Yrsa in a place of honor,” he explained, his voice low and even, “but tonight a contingent of noble Fey have arrived. Their wise counsel is valued, and I gladly gave them our seats.”
Sharp-eared Fey occupied the long table on the dais, cloaked in deep green jackets and gowns that called to mind the leafy lands of Faeholt.
“I’ve only seen them from a distance,” Lia murmured. Months ago, emissaries had visited Bloodreach, where King Neculain had openly debated whether to drink their blood or dye thread with it. They’d left with a single warning: You’re on your own now.
A hush swept the hall as Yrsa entered, dressed in a dark-purple kirtle, bear-bone crown resting atop her long mane of hair. Regal. Resplendent. And yet…something about her appearance unsettled Lia. She couldn’t name what.
Everyone rose.
Lia glanced to Arctos. His gaze was fixed on his queen, expression unreadable—a complicated layering of awe, confusion… Perhaps even resentment.
Is he in love with her?
He never spoke much of Yrsa, no matter how often Lia asked. Maybe in time, if they became friends, he would confide more.
Yrsa reached her chair and spoke, her voice carrying across the court. “Tonight we hold a feast to welcome our newest clan member: Emilia.”
The hall erupted in cheers. Mugs banged the tables. Lia’s face burned, but she managed to wave. She made a mental note to practice more dignified waving.
“They’ve accepted you,” Arctos said, a rare ease in his tone. “They see your effort. Iron will earns respect among my people.”
If Co?tin never finds me…if I never succumb to the drive…if I never, never drink blood…I can build a life here.
To thunderous applause, Yrsa called, “Enjoy the feast and the bounties of mighty Ravinelun!” Then she sat and turned her attention to the Fey.
“What did we miss?” came a cheerful female voice. Torben and Dagny approached, the latter radiant and very pregnant. “Sorry we’re late.” Dagny laughed. “I couldn’t get my dress over this bump!” She sank into the chair beside Lia, then promptly pulled her into a hug.
Lia froze, startled. My first hug? Of course it would involve surprise and witnesses. She awkwardly returned it—only to find her mouth inches from the woman’s clean-scented neck, her thudding pulse.
Oh no.
But the ache never came. No tingling. No urge to pierce flesh.
When Dagny drew back, both Arctos and Torben glanced sharply at Lia’s mouth. She smiled reassuringly, and the tension eased from their faces. I passed the test. I’m done with that part of me.
The males both relaxed by degrees. Torben especially had been tensed to intervene.
“I’ve wanted to meet you for so long,” Dagny said.
“They insisted I stay away until we were sure you wouldn’t drain me.
As if you could.” With a wink, she raised one lithe arm and made a muscle.
“Although from what I’ve seen of late, you might give me a run for my money.
” She grabbed Lia’s own arm. “Impressive.”
Torben wryly said, “Can you release her, love, and allow her to adjust to your frosty indifference?”
Speaking of which…Torben and Arctos exchanged only a stiff nod.
Dagny stuck her tongue out at her mate. “I already like her, which means everyone’s lucky I’m not grinding my knuckles into her hair.”
Lia laughed, easing instantly into the female’s unfiltered nature. “When are you due, Dagny?”
“Any minute now, and not a moment too soon. This cub practices battle stances on my bladder all night.”
Lia tried to imagine what that felt like. Once, she’d feared pregnancy—feared Co?tin’s body resurrecting to claim hers. And then had come her father’s shuddersome decree.
Yet here, watching Dagny glow and tease, Lia felt an ache of longing.
Dagny nudged her. “I’ll have plenty of advice when it’s your turn.”
Lia’s eyes flicked to Arctos, whose expression remained carved from stone.
Dagny didn’t notice. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ll be fast friends, you and I. Immune to the petty spats that plague our men.”
The two warriors exchanged another glower.
Dagny only smirked. “I say what I think,” she added. “It keeps life interesting. And I’ve got my sword to back it up.”
Lia chuckled. This bold, straightforward woman was so unlike the scheming vampires she’d escaped.
As mead flowed, the crowd’s tenuous restraint dissolved. Musicians struck up a boisterous tune. Berserkers danced on tables; others hurled axes toward a target in the back. Shadows writhed with stolen kisses.
A server with a leg of game in one hand and a pitcher in the other sloshed amber liquid into Lia’s mug, though she had decided never to drink again. Dagny covered her mug, and Torben did as well.
“Aww,” she said to her mate. “Your solidarity warms me.”
Torben leaned in. “How warm?”
“Sultry.” She pulled him in for a passionate kiss.
Lia blushed, averting her gaze, and found Arctos watching her with faint amusement.
“They’re often like this,” he said with a helpless shrug.
“It’s…educational,” Lia murmured.
When the couple finally parted, Dagny fanned herself. “He can’t even help it. I’m irresistible. All bulbous.”
“I like you bulbous,” Torben said sincerely.
She tweaked his nose. “So let’s eat, grow this bump some more, then return to our den.” In a softer, smiling tone, she said, “Leave these goings-on for those with more cares.”
Their love felt like its own small universe. Lia was happy for them but envious too, wishing she could set out on the grand adventure of matehood.
Yet for the first time, hope flickered for her own future. If she could earn Arctos’s friendship, maybe she’d find belonging here.
As platters of roasted game filled the tables, Dagny said, “So tell me all about you.”
Lia gave an overview of the last few weeks, speaking over clattering mugs and shouted songs. She noticed Berserkers sneaking glances at her, so she exaggerated her chewing.
A scuffle broke out nearby. Then another. Sentries waded in to separate combatants.
“What a…vigorous bunch!” Lia observed.
Dagny chuckled. “With so many Berserkers gathered, brawls are inevitable. Usually harmless, though I’ve never seen quite this many.”
The females’ conversation drifted to swords, clothes, arrow weights, and battle braids. Lia found herself smiling often.
Now and again, Berserkers approached Shieldchief Arctos, many clearly in awe of him. More than one spoke of the battles ahead this Accession and how they slept better knowing he would train their warriors.
Their words softened his usual reserve.
When another fight broke out—this one closer to the dais—Arctos and Torben both stood. Torben kissed Dagny’s hand. “I’ll be back soon.”
“And I’ll count the moments, my love,” she murmured, serious and tender.
Arctos gave Lia a distracted nod. She awkwardly lifted a fist in encouragement. Go get them.
Dagny sighed as she watched them go. “I really will count the moments. I hate being apart from him.”
“What a connection you share,” Lia said wistfully.
Dagny’s gaze went soft. “Before him, I didn’t know my heart could get so full, didn’t know an organ could grow even more than this belly. Maybe you and Arctos can find something like that soon.”
“I’ll settle for friendship. He’s not interested in me that way.” With a smile, Lia said, “I think I’m a bit scrawny for his taste.” And he’s way too big for mine. The idea of bedding him made her cross her legs, even before he brutally shoved his way into the fray.
“I think he’s conflicted. You don’t know his history, do you? Arctos probably told you nothing.”
“History?”
Dagny glanced over at the fight, as if judging how much time for privacy she and Lia would have. But then her attention got lost on her male as the fight burgeoned like a storm—tables splintering, pitchers flying, men roaring.
Arctos and Torben didn’t bother drawing steel. They moved through like bears on a hunt, silent but unstoppable.
Arctos caught a lunging drunk by the collar and swung him into Torben, who slammed the male down so hard dust puffed from the rushes. Must have been a practiced move; it seemed to amuse them both.
Maybe they could recover from their own fight by battling others?
When a brute charged Arctos with a broken bottle, Lia tensed to intervene, but Dagny stayed her. “They’re bonding.”
Torben hooked the attacker’s leg, flipping him into Arctos’s awaiting fist. The Berserker folded with a sound like cracking ice. Few remained to challenge them.
“History?” Lia prompted again.
“Yes.” Dagny lowered her voice. “There’s no easy way to say this, but…a vampire hunting party murdered their families.”
Lia froze. “What?” Her mind spun. The kind of party Co?tin enjoys leading.
“Yrsa hunted the vampires down. Slaughtered every one.”
Relief shocked through Lia. She grieved for their parents, could only feel grateful Co?tin hadn’t been involved. One small mercy in a long list of horrors.
“After that,” Dagny continued, “the queen watched over the boys. Became their gods-mother.”
Gods-mother? Did that explain Arctos’s feelings toward the female? Their bond? Even now Yrsa’s gaze was riveted to Arctos.
The brawl ended with a last crash and roar. The noise drained from the room, leaving only the wheeze of the subdued and the clink of mugs being refilled.
The queen beckoned Arctos, and he followed her without a flicker of hesitation toward a back chamber.
He didn’t look back. Not once.
The knowledge sank like a stone in Lia’s stomach—whatever bound him to his queen wasn’t mild or distant or easily dislodged. Certainly not by a fledgling vampire with a hope of friendship in her chest and borrowed clothes on her back.
Is he in love with her?
Did she marry him off to rid herself of his affections?
Before disappearing through an archway, Yrsa turned. Her eyes swept the hall, then locked on Lia.
Cool.
Assessing.
Not hostile, not welcoming—simply taking her measure the way a queen sizes up an unexpected piece on her board.
For whatever reason, another royal has me in her sights. This powerful female could decide where Lia fit.
Or whether she fit at all.