Chapter 11
Aksel
Over the days following the Synergy Group meeting, I unfortunately had no opportunity to train Lorna remotely or even to get a readout on what had occurred in the room with Horakovsky and Brenteuil.
The silent, ongoing intelligence war between the Groupe Synergistique, as they were known in their Gallic homeland, and the Sons of Odin had reached a delicate point.
Since the first reception at Brenteuil’s headquarters, they had come up with some new countermeasure—our surveillance micro-drones couldn’t currently penetrate their strongholds undetected.
We’d had hundreds of our tiny robotic minions zapped out of the air over the past few days.
I would have to rely on Lorna’s memories to analyze the occasion, once I could make contact.
Takken, however, seemed to have been spooked by something at the meeting—or by some other, unknown factor.
He stayed very close to home for the rest of the week and through the weekend.
I couldn’t risk Lorna’s safety. At least I was able to keep tabs on her via the devices I’d previously gotten into the prime minister’s apartments, and make sure that despite Takken’s obvious rage at his wife, he knew better than to risk a scandal by taking it out on her.
In the meantime, I flew back to Rouen and occupied myself with research in the Sons of Odin’s archives. Lorna’s stunning rate of progress in her skills as a v?lva had fascinated me, and I felt the need to see if I could find a reason—or at least a precedent.
I descended into the ancient vaults beneath our sanctuary, my footsteps echoing off limestone walls that had witnessed a thousand years of our brotherhood’s secrets.
The archives stretched before me in endless rows of carved wooden shelves, each one containing decades of meticulous records.
The familiar scent of old vellum and binding glue filled my nostrils as I made my way to the section I sought—the chronicles of the volur.
My fingers traced along leather spines until I found what I was looking for: a series of journals from the nineteenth century, when the Sons of Odin had first begun systematically documenting the training of female seers.
The Old Norse script came easily to my eyes, though few modern scholars could have deciphered it.
I pulled three volumes from the shelf and carried them to my usual reading alcove, where a single lamp cast warm light over a desk scarred by centuries of use. The first journal, dated 1847, contained the observations of Brother Magnus Thornsson.
The girl Astrid shows remarkable progress, I read, translating the archaic dialect in my head.
After only three sessions of stern discipline and masterful use with the tól, she ascends to the tree with clarity that our most experienced volur required years to achieve.
I suspect her bloodline carries the old power more strongly than most.
I made a note on my tablet, then continued reading. Hours passed as I worked through the journals, cross-referencing names and bloodlines, looking for patterns. It wasn’t until I reached the third volume that I found something truly intriguing.
Brother Erik has proposed a theory that bears consideration, wrote another chronicler in 1863.
He believes that while Northern blood is essential for a true v?lva, it is not purely Northern heritage that produces the strongest sight.
Rather, he suspects that certain mixtures of bloodlines—Norse combined with Celtic, or Norse with Slavic—create a more potent ability.
The evidence is limited, but compelling.
My pulse quickened. I pulled up Lorna’s genetic profile on my tablet, comparing it to the fragmentary genealogies recorded in the old texts. The pattern began to emerge—not a pure lineage, but a specific kind of mixing that seemed to unlock latent abilities.
I needed more data. Rising from my desk, I made my way back to Huginn’s Eye and logged into the database where we kept our records from the past fifty years.
Here, the documentation was more scientific, including genetic samples we’d begun collecting in the 1990s.
Each bed thrall who’d shown promise as a v?lva had been carefully catalogued, their training progress meticulously recorded alongside their bloodwork.
The correlation software I developed on the fly took hours to write, translating Old Norse training notations into quantifiable metrics that could be cross-referenced with genetic markers. When I finally ran the analysis, the results made me lean back in my chair, stunned.
It wasn’t just mixed heritage that mattered—it was specific combinations that seemed to appear in multiple populations separated by thousands of miles and hundreds of years.
Nordic bloodlines mixed with Celtic produced extraordinary results, yes, but so did Norse-Japanese combinations, Norse-Slavic hybrids, even certain Norse-Mediterranean pairings.
The key wasn’t the specific ethnicities but something deeper—a genetic resonance that occurred when particular haplogroups intersected.
I pulled up Mary O’Toole’s file from the previous year.
Her training had progressed with remarkable speed, much like Lorna’s.
The genetic breakdown showed Northern European ancestry combined with Celtic roots and a surprising four percent Native American heritage traced through mitochondrial DNA.
The pattern held across a dozen other exceptional cases.
But genetics alone didn’t explain everything. I refined my search parameters, adding behavioral and psychological metrics from the training logs. Another pattern emerged, this one just as intriguing.
The most powerful volur all shared certain psychological markers—not just submissive tendencies, which we’d long known were essential, but specific responses to particular types of dominance. I frowned at the data, running the correlation again to be certain.
Anal discipline. The connection was unmistakable.
Every bed thrall who’d shown exceptional sight had responded with unusual intensity to bottom-hole training.
Not just the physical submission of it, but something about the psychological surrender required to accept that most intimate violation seemed to unlock deeper levels of consciousness.
I thought of Lorna’s reactions during our first session, how she’d trembled when I’d promised to claim her r?vhul only when she’d earned it. The way her body had responded even to the threat of punishment there through Freya’s Bridle. It all aligned perfectly with what the data suggested.
And as I thought about my next training session with my needy bed thrall, I couldn’t keep my cock from hardening along my thigh or a smile from breaking out on my lips.
Lorna
Three days later I sat in my car outside the nondescript building that held such mystery, shame, and pleasure for me.
My stomach churned with anticipation and dread as I stared at the rusted metal siding.
Seven days of edging myself in the shower, of pressing my finger into that most forbidden place while denying myself release, had left me feeling like a wire stretched to its breaking point.
Every nerve ending seemed raw, exposed. The smooth skin between my legs, kept bare as my Herra commanded, felt hypersensitive even against the soft cotton of my panties.
I’d reminded Takken I had a specialist appointment for my gynecological issues. He’d barely looked up from his tablet, muttering something about ‘women’s troubles’ before dismissing me with a wave. The indifference that once would have stung now felt like freedom.
But I couldn’t make myself open the car door. Not yet.
The burner phone lay silent in my purse.
No messages from Aksel since that night in my bedroom, when he’d commanded me to punish myself while Takken was downstairs.
The memory of it—spreading myself open for an empty room, spanking my own bottom while that horrible device between my legs monitored everything—made fresh heat flood my face.
What was I becoming? The prime minister’s wife, reduced to a trembling mess at the thought of seeing the man who called himself my Herra.
Who’d collared me like an animal, strapped my bottom until I screamed, used my mouth and my pussy for his pleasure while I had visions of impossible trees and hidden threats.
The worst part was how my body responded to the memories.
How even now, sitting in my sensible sedan in broad daylight, I could feel myself growing wet at the thought of what Aksel might do to me today.
A week of denial had sharpened every sensation until even the seam of my skirt pressing against my thighs felt like too much stimulation.
I thought about the Arctic installation I’d glimpsed during my shameful climax at the Synergy Group meeting.
The concrete bunker squatting on permafrost, the excavation equipment, the sense of something massive being built in secret.
Aksel needed to know what I’d seen. That’s why I was here, I told myself.
Not because my body craved his touch, his discipline, his ownership.
This was about stopping Takken’s corruption, about saving Jagland.
The lie tasted bitter even in my own mind.
My fingers trembled against the steering wheel as I tried to gather courage.
The worst part of the past week hadn’t been the denial itself, though that had been torture enough.
It had been the way I couldn’t stop thinking about Aksel’s promise—that he would claim my bottom when I’d earned it.
The very thought made me burn with mortification, yet in the shower each morning, I found myself unable to resist exploring that forbidden place with increasing boldness.
My fingers would circle and press, testing, imagining what it would feel like when he finally…
I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to complete the thought even in my own mind.