Chapter 49 Rhyland
Rhyland
The hot bath and fresh trim have me looking like the fucking warrior prince I am.
My usual wild scruff now follows the sharp line of my jaw, highlighting the predator beneath the fancy clothes.
The midnight blue tunic clings to every hard muscle of my chest, and the red silk sleeves do nothing to hide the strength in my arms. Pure Viking warrior meets Norse royalty in leather pants and boots.
Magni's son cleaning up nicely for once, though the beast inside still prowls beneath all this polished bullshit.
Erik emerges, like a fucking silver prince, all clean lines and regal bearing. His tunic is a shade lighter than mine. He looks put together, composed—a far cry from the broken man I pulled out of that trough.
Trust my brother to make even formal wear look like battle armor.
But my mind's not on my brother. It's on a sassy brunette who's probably knee-deep in Valkyrie drama.
I can picture Dani now, playing sister and confidante to Bryn, trying to piece together the mess my brother's mate made of herself.
My jaw clenches at the memory of her missing wing, the space where it should be like a fucking wound in reality itself.
The image of her severing her wing, carving away what she saw as a mark of failure... it hits too close to home.
Self-loathing is a poison I know all too well.
I've watched it eat at Erik for centuries and watched him punish himself for sins long past. He drowns in guilt, each misdeed another weight around his neck, dragging him down into the depths of his misery.
And now Bryn—proud, fierce Bryn—is sinking into that same abyss.
Watching them is like seeing two sides of the same cursed coin: Erik drowning in guilt over past bloodshed, Bryn destroying herself over a destiny she couldn't fulfill.
Both are too proud to accept help, too stubborn to see their own worth, and too caught up in their self-imposed exile to recognize salvation when it's staring them in the face.
Both warriors to their core, wearing their scars like armor while bleeding out inside. The irony would be fucking hilarious if it wasn't so tragic.
"Ready?" The question hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Erik's silver eyes meet mine, and we both know I'm not talking about some fancy party.
Erik straightens his collar, a ghost of his usual composure settling over his features. "Let's mingle, brother."
A snort escapes me as we step into the hallway. The moment we hit the grand staircase landing, my jaw nearly hits the floor. Holy shit.
The great hall has transformed into a winter wonderland straight out of Valhalla.
Crystalline ice sculptures tower between marble columns, their surfaces catching and fracturing light into rainbow prisms. Floating orbs of pure starlight drift near the vaulted ceiling, casting ethereal shadows across the crowd.
Gossamer curtains of silver and blue ripple in a phantom breeze while frost patterns spiral across the windows like nature's art.
The Aesir mingle in their finery, pristine armor gleaming beneath formal robes.
Warriors in ceremonial dress swap war stories over horns of mead, while nobles in elaborate Norse attire cluster near the ice sculptures.
Though inside, the scent of winter pine and fresh snow hits my senses.
Magic crackles in the air, making my skin tingle.
Then I see her.
My heart stutters, then stops. There, beside an ice sculpture that pales in comparison, stands Dani. And fuck me—
Light blue chiffon floats around her, each movement sending ripples of fabric dancing across curves that make my mouth water.
The bodice hugs her in all the right places, silver threading and crystals weaving patterns that draw my eyes straight to those magnificent tits.
When she moves, the dress parts, flashing a glimpse of leg that has my beast ready to murder anyone else who dares look.
That silky, chocolate brown hair cascades down her back in waves, interrupted by intricate braids that some fancy-ass probably spent hours on.
Tiny crystals and sapphires woven in each one, catch the light with every breath, but the way she carries herself—confident, radiant, mine—makes my blood surge hot and thick through my veins.
She's a goddamn queen, and every fucker in this room recognizes it. Seeing her punches the air from my lungs—all that power wrapped in starlight and sin. I preen with savage pride.
Look at her.
Look at what chose me.
What fights beside me.
What shares my bed.
My mate. My savior. My everything.
And judging by the hungry stares from half the fucking room, I'm not the only one appreciating the view. I choke back a snarl, ready to stake my claim.
She hasn't spotted us yet, but my body's already moving, drawn to her like a magnet. Erik's knowing chuckle follows me down the stairs.
"Try not to start a war by fucking her against a pillar, brother."
I flip him off without looking back. "No promises."
Dani's in my sights, but a wall of golden perfection blocks my path.
In all his prissy glory, Baldr materializes like an unwanted ray of sunshine.
His suit probably costs more than most kingdoms, every thread screaming, 'Look at me.
' That perfectly styled blonde hair and those sharp, aristocratic features remind me of those marble statues mortals love so much—cold, hard, and full of themselves.
"Ah, Godborn. You clean up nicely." His voice drips honey and wine, matching the crystal glass in his manicured hand. Everything about him is too polished, too perfect.
"Thanks." The word comes out like gravel, bristling at his presence. Something about Baldr pisses me off. Sure, he's Odin's son, Frigg's golden boy, my internal alarm bells scream, like a snake hiding in silk sheets.
Maybe it's how he holds himself like getting his hands dirty would shatter his entire existence. Or perhaps it's his smile never quite reaches his eyes, even when he's laying on the charm.
Sure, he plays the part of the gracious host with all proper manners and protocol. But my centuries of dealing with two-faced bastards scream that there's more lurking behind that perfect facade. The way he watches everyone, calculating behind that benevolent mask...
My instincts have kept me alive too long to ignore them now. And they're telling me this pompous shit is about as trustworthy as a starving wolf in a sheep pen.
"Drink?" A crystal flute appears under my nose, Baldr's fingers wrapped around the stem. The servant who delivered it melts back into the crowd like a ghost.
The drink sparkles like liquid diamonds, the scent of frosted cherries and something stronger tickling my nose. Sweet with a bite—like everything else in this realm. I take a swig, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue.
"Thank you." The words taste less bitter than expected, probably thanks to the drink.
Across the hall, a crowd swarms around Dani. Their excited chatter rises and falls, individual words lost in the general din of the celebration. My mate handles it like she was born to it, her laugh carrying over the noise.
"They're quite fascinated by her victory over the Einherjar." Baldr's voice slices through my thoughts. "Defeating them is quite the accomplishment, even for the prophesied savior."
Another sip of that sweet fire as my eyes sweep the room. Heimdall's impossible to miss—the giant stands like a mountain made of flesh beside a marble column, his ceremonial armor gleaming. Those unsettling green eyes never stop moving, watching, analyzing.
"Tell me, Rhyland." Baldr swirls his drink, the liquid catching the light. "The guardian's name—you never mentioned it."
"Vidar." The name drops like a stone between us. Across the room, Dani's laughter rings out again, drawing my gaze. She's radiant, holding court, while I'm stuck here playing twenty questions with Golden Boy.
"Ah, yes. Vidar." Baldr's eyes gleam with recognition.
"Thor's right hand during the great war.
They say his strength rivaled the AllFather himself—the silent god who could match Fenrir's fury blow for blow.
" He takes a measured sip of his drink. "When Ragnarok came, he fought until his last breath, taking down scores of Moretemis's shadow warriors before falling.
His sacrifice bought precious time for the evacuation of the lower realm. "
The prick actually shows a hint of genuine respect. "After his death, Odin himself chose Vidar to guard the Zephyrite stone. His spirit became one with the trials, testing those who would claim its power. A fitting role for one who died protecting the realm."
My jaw clenches at the reminder of what Dani faced. "And now he rests in Valhalla, having deemed her worthy."
"Indeed." Baldr's perfect features arrange themselves into something like admiration. "The silent god's final judgment. Quite poetic, don't you think?"
I grunt, downing the rest of my drink. Poetic isn't the word I'd use for watching my mate fight for her life, but these gods do love their fucking drama.
"Another drink?" Baldr's hand lifts, and a servant appears like he conjured her from thin air. He selects one, offering it to me. "From Odin's personal reserves. A thousand years of perfection."
I accept the glass and take a drink.
"Magni's son." A woman glides closer, her elaborate gown whispering across marble. Gold threads catch the light as she moves, matched by the lustfilled gleam in her eyes. "The lightning wielder. Commander of Dark Skies."
"Mm." I take a strategic sip of the sparkly liquid, gaze fixed on where Dani charms a group of warriors across the hall.
"Such power in your blood." She steps into my line of sight, blocking my view. "Tell me, grandson of Thor—how does it feel? Standing in the halls of your ancestors?"
"Fine." Another sip. Longer this time.