Chapter 22
Danica
Holy. Shit.
If you'd told me a few months ago that I'd be riding a magical golden horse through actual air, I would've suggested a good therapist. Yet here I am, playing jockey on a mythological mount while defying every law of physics I learned in college.
The wind whips past us at speeds that should probably terrify me, but I'm too busy being awestruck to care that my face feels like it's being sandblasted by arctic air. Even through my frozen eyelashes, the view below is mind-blowing.
I risk a glance down and—wow. Just... wow. It's like someone draped a giant white blanket over the entire world. The snow stretches out in every direction, broken only by the occasional mountain peak or cluster of trees. From up here, it all looks so peaceful and serene.
It's like some crazy mash-up of Norse mythology and The Neverending Story, minus the tragic horse-drowning-in-a-swamp scene (thank god).
Though I've got to say, Falkor the luck dragon has nothing on our golden boy here.
Gullfax is practically glowing with happiness, his powerful muscles moving beneath us with all the confidence of someone who regularly tells gravity to go screw itself.
Rhyland's arms band around my waist like steel cables, his chest pressed against my back as I grip Gullfax's reins.
Gullfax moves with the fluid grace of liquid gold, each stride covering impossible distances as he literally runs on air.
Through the Faerite stone, I can feel waves of pure joy radiating from him.
He's finally getting to do his job again after who knows how long.
There's something adorable about how proud he is to be carrying Rhyland—like he's come full circle, serving the son of his former rider.
I never thought I'd say this, but galloping through the sky on a magical warhorse while my demigod vampire mate holds me close? Yeah, it's definitely going in my top ten most remarkable moments ever.
After what feels like an eternity of arctic torture (but is probably closer to an hour), the endless sea of white suddenly transforms into something that makes my brain short-circuit.
The landscape below us explodes into a spectacular vista, and I forget how words work.
Gullfax's giant hooves dance across invisible air, and through our connection, he proudly announces, "ásgard. "
And my god, if this isn't the most incredible thing I've ever seen. Sorry, Grand Canyon—you've officially been demoted to "mildly interesting hole in the ground" status.
As we soar through the air, he becomes my tour guide, pointing out sights that make my inner science nerd have an existential crisis.
"Those peaks before us," he explains as we glide past mountains that pierce the sky like giants' teeth, "are older than time itself.
Their snow never melts, blessed by the first frost giants.
" The mountains gleam with an inner light that is definitely not covered in any National Geographic episode I ever watched.
We bank left (and fuck, who knew a horse could corner like an F-16?), giving me a perfect view of what looks like rivers made of liquid crystal. "The sacred waters," Gullfax tells me, "flow with the essence of life itself. One drop can heal any wound, though few are deemed worthy to drink."
The forests below us shimmer with leaves that actually sparkle in the light, creating a natural light show that would put Times Square to shame.
"The ancient groves," my golden guide explains, "where the first gods walked.
The trees remember their footsteps still.
" Well, that explains the bling—these trees are literally older than dirt.
Meadows burst with flowers in colors that probably don't even have names in mortal language, their petals throwing off light like nature's own disco ball. "The Fields of Forever," Gullfax says with what I swear is a mental smirk. "Where spring never ends and winter dares not tread."
"This is incredible," I whisper, though the wind probably steals my words. But Gullfax's answering whinny tells me he heard me just fine.
"Just wait," he tells me, his mental voice tinged with mischief. "You haven't seen anything yet." And without warning, he does a dive maneuver—like a roller coaster drop—that makes my stomach relocate somewhere near my throat.
Show-off.
I play translator for Rhyland, relaying highlights from Gullfax's guided tour while my Viking drinks in the view of his ancestral realm. Our bond allows me to feel his mix of awe and something more profound—like pieces of his heritage finally clicking into place.
When Gullfax finally touches down on actual solid ground (praise God), my thighs and ass immediately file a formal complaint. Holy hell—apparently, those horseback riding muscles are entirely different from my "running for my life" muscles.
"Ow." I groan, trying to rise with some semblance of grace and failing spectacularly. "I didn't think my ass could hurt this much after such a short trip."
Though considering it feels like we were galloping through Luminara's enchanted forests not long ago, you'd think I'd still have some horseback riding muscles in working order. Clearly, magical realm-hopping does nothing for maintaining one's equestrian fitness level.
Rhyland and Erik hop off like action heroes because, of course, they do. Meanwhile, I'm sitting up here contemplating if breaking both legs would be worth keeping my dignity. Thankfully, Gullfax seems to understand my human limitations and kneels like the gentleman stallion he is.
"Need a hand, shorty?" Rhyland's lips twitch with amusement as he reaches for me.
I shoot him my best death glare. "Not everyone has vampire-enhanced agility and legs that go on for days, Thunder Thighs."
"Indeed," Erik adds dryly from somewhere behind us. "Though your strategy appears to require some practice."
He's not wrong. My dismount attempt quickly turns into an X-rated circus act as I somehow manage to wrap my legs around Rhyland's head.
Thirteen feet is a long way down, and my man's giant frame has become my personal fireman's pole—except I'm pretty sure real firefighters don't end up with their thighs accidentally choking their rescuers.
"If you're done using my face as your stripper pole," Rhyland growls from somewhere between my legs (and oh god, this position is definitely not appropriate for divine company), "we can schedule a private performance later."
I flail around like a drunk octopus, trying to untangle myself from my compromising position. My foot catches in his jacket, my other leg is somehow hooked around his neck, and I'm pretty sure I just kneed him in the ear. It's like a game of Twister gone horribly wrong.
"Though I gotta say, Angel," he purrs as I continue to struggle with this damn marshmallow suit that's intended to suffocate me, "I'm enjoying this new dismounting technique of yours."
My face feels hot as I try to salvage what's left of my dignity. I swear I can hear Gullfax laughing his golden ass off at my predicament. Even Erik seems he's trying not to choke on his amusement.
"Not my fault you're built like a redwood tree," I mutter, my face burning hotter than the sun as I try to extract my leg from behind his ear. How did it even get there? "A little help here would be nice instead of just enjoying the show!"
His hands finally grip my waist, but I swear he's taking his sweet time helping me down, enjoying every second of my mortification. By the time my feet touch the ground, I've given him a full-body massage with my failed attempts at dismounting.
Gullfax's mental laughter booms through my head while Erik's trying (and failing) to hide his amusement behind his hand. Great. I've just turned this into an erotic comedy show for both immortal and equine audiences.
"Glad my suffering provides quality entertainment," I grumble, trying to massage feeling back into my mutinous legs.
"Don't worry, baby," Rhyland whispers in my ear, his voice pure sin. "I've got some special exercises planned to help with those sore muscles. Lots of stretching involved."
"Odin awaits," Gullfax's voice echoes in my mind before he takes off like a golden meteor. His hooves barely touch the ground as he disappears quickly, leaving us in a cloud of dust.
"Well," I turn to my boys with what I hope is a confident smile, "according to our fancy four-legged Uber, the big man himself is waiting. Guess it's time to meet the god who makes Thor call him daddy."
The joke falls a bit flat as the reality of what we're about to do sinks in.
We're about to have a sit-down with the All-Father himself.
No pressure or anything—it's just the most powerful god in Norse mythology.
The guy who sacrificed his eye for wisdom and hangs out with ravens who spy on the Seven Realms.
Totally normal.
I finally take in our surroundings and holy moly—if I thought the aerial view was impressive, it's nothing compared to seeing this place up close.
The palace of ásgard rises before us—soaring spires of polished gold and gleaming silver pierce the sky, their surfaces etched with runes that pulse with ancient power.
Huge columns that look like they were carved from pure starlight frame a courtyard larger than a football field, and fountains that seem to flow with liquid light cast rainbow reflections across walls that weren't built by mortal hands.
"Damn," I whisper, trying to pick my jaw up off the ground. "And I thought Vegas was flashy."
The steps leading up to the entrance are carved from what looks like pure crystal, each wider and glowing with internal light.
When we reach the gargantuan double doors, I'm sure my jaw is permanently unhinged.
These bad boys look like they were forged by giants—their surfaces etched with scenes of ancient battles and victories that seem to move when you look at them too long.