Chapter 42 Alaric
Alaric
Ymirskald
The potion still burned like hellfire as I swallowed it, the taste of crushed bone and bitter kelp tearing down my throat. It hit faster than last time—a brutal rush that left my hands flexing at my sides like they belonged to someone else.
Years. I’d waited years to break this curse.
Years of cursed coves and half-rotted ports, of salt-choked air that tasted of death.
I used to dream of the moment my boots touched true earth again.
Cities bursting with life and color, music spilling down crowded streets.
I made lists in my head—names, places, promises scrawled in the silence of my damnation.
But now, as the potion scorched through my veins, none of that mattered. All I could think about was Nerina.
Not vengeance. Not redemption. Just her.
Just Nerina.
Saints—how could I have been so blind? So arrogant? I might as well have tied her up with a bow and presented her to Veyrion on a silver platter. The things I’d said to her—meant to cut, to push her away—I could never take them back. Every syllable was a blade I’d turned on myself.
She deserved better than me. Better than curses and secrets. Better than a man who bleeds regret like seawater through a cracked hull. I didn’t deserve her forgiveness—hells, I didn’t even deserve to hope for it.
But I still had to see her. Just once. To know she was alive, her flame still burning. Even if she hated me. Even if she never looked at me again as she once had.
Because if Veyrion had harmed her—if he’d dimmed even a spark of that light—I would tear him apart piece by piece. I would make him wish he’d never crawled out of the frost of Ymirskald.
Skeldrhall, Ymirskald
The shore of Ymirskald was colder than I remembered. Frost clung to jagged rocks like silver claws, and the scent of snow-buried pine stung my nose. My breath steamed in the air, curling into frantic ghosts before vanishing into the dark.
I didn’t wait for the ship to dock. I leapt before the lines were cast, boots slamming into frozen earth with a force that rattled up my spine. Pain flashed—too bright, too deep—the curse had claws in my bones and didn’t like being denied.
I was already moving. Already running.
Every heartbeat pounded like war drums, echoing through my bones like thunder rolling beneath ice.
I knew exactly where she was. Where he would have taken her.
Once, long ago, Veyrion and I were more than rivals. We were brothers. We drank from the same cups, fought side by side, carved scars into the same enemies. I knew the shape of his rage, the cadence of his laughter—and the fortress he called home.
That was where Nerina would be.
The guards saw me first. Veyrion’s men—hulking, broad-shouldered warriors born of snow and tempered on steel. They weren’t mercenaries or palace watchmen. They were oathbound, their loyalty tattooed in blood and sealed in ice.
I didn’t hesitate.
The first lunged with a roar, sword arcing for my ribs. I ducked beneath it, slammed the hilt of my dagger into his side, and sent him sprawling into the snow.
For the words I can’t take back.
Another came from behind, blade high. I turned—steel met steel. Blades shrieked, sparks spitting like fireflies across the dark. I twisted, shoved his edge away, teeth gritted until they ached.
For the night I let her walk away.
The third rushed, and I used his comrade’s momentum to spin him into the other. They collided, stumbled. I drove my boot into the nearest one’s knee. Something gave with a sickening pop. He went down howling.
For the way she looked at me when I made her believe I didn’t care.
The last I shoved into a snowbank so hard the air left him in a grunt.
For every moment she’s been in Veyrion’s hands instead of mine.
Blood misted the air, mixing with snow and sweat. My vision narrowed for half a second—predator focus snapping into place—before I forced it wide again.
Skeldrhall rose like a storm-forged fortress above me, carved from dark timber and stone that glistened beneath sheets of ice.
Runes etched along its beams pulsed faintly in the twilight, ancient and humming with restrained magic.
Smoke drifted from the roof in twisting plumes that smelled of burning myrrh and pine resin. It was beautiful—unyielding. Eternal.
I shoved through the doors, stumbling, limbs screaming with every step. “Nerina!”
My voice split the stone, raw and desperate. Too loud. Too unguarded. I didn’t care. Let the mountain crack and crumble. I would burn this fortress to ash if she didn’t answer.
And then—There she was.
Running into the hall, firelight in her hair, bare feet on the stone—and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. A thousand memories surged like a tide: the lilt of her laugh, the sting of her last words, the way her eyes once softened when they found mine. It all collided in a single heartbeat.
She stopped when she saw me.
Her eyes widened—surprise flashing like struck flint. But whether it was relief or dread, joy or anger, I couldn’t tell.
She didn’t speak at first. Neither did I.
I crossed the space between us in long, reckless strides and pulled her into my arms. I didn’t ask. I didn’t think. My hands moved before my mind caught up, gripping her like the world might tear her away again.
She stiffened—shocked—but she didn’t pull back.
Her warmth hit me first. Then the faint, maddening trace of violets clinging to her skin. Her pulse thudded against me and something in my chest answered it—immediate, hungry.
I pulled back just enough to cup her face, to make sure she was whole. My thumbs traced her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw, desperate for proof she wasn’t a dream.
“Did they hurt you?” She said no.
I didn’t believe her.
“I couldn’t stay away,” I admitted, the confession raw—torn from somewhere I’d buried too deep. “I had to know you were safe.”
And when she said she was—when she whispered that she chose to stay in Ymirskald—my world stuttered.
Part of me wanted to believe her, to take her voice as truth and nothing more. But another part—the darker, hungrier part—heard Veyrion’s shadow in every syllable.
Still, I held her. Because letting go felt worse than facing the possibility she didn’t want me here.
And then I saw what she was wearing. Blue.
Not just any blue. Midnight velvet, rich and shimmering like frostbitten starlight. Distinct. Unmistakable. Veyrion’s house colors.
I noticed the silver clasps at her shoulders, shaped like twin wolves.
My stomach twisted. Jealousy surged, hot and unwelcome, burning beneath my ribs. Irrational. Reckless. And I couldn’t stop it. The thought of Veyrion’s hands draping that fabric over her shoulders, of her moving through his hall cloaked in his colors—it tore at me like claws.
“Well,” he drawled, silk coiled tight with venom, “do make yourself comfortable, Alaric. Bleed on the carpet if you must. It was a gift from the Solterra royals—it could use a little color.”
“Your men insisted on a warm welcome,” I said evenly.
A flicker crossed his face. Not surprise.
“Yes,” he replied. “I saw.” He noticed the blood at my boots before meeting my eyes again.
“They drew steel.”
"They saw a vampire pirate crossing into Ymirskald without herald, without banner, without courtesy.” His head tilted slightly. “What, precisely, did you expect?”
“Don’t look so surprised to see me,” I said evenly. “You knew I would come for her.”
“She is not yours to retrieve,” Veyrion said quietly.
“And she is not yours to keep,” I answered.
Silence.
Heavy. Old. Volatile.
“She stays because she wills it,” he said.
My jaw clenched. She stepped back.
Just barely.
“You… chose to stay?”
The question tore through me—raw, unspoken. Why? What did he say to you? What did he promise? Safety? Power? A freedom I could never give?
I wanted to believe it was this place, its false promise of shelter, that made her stay—but when her eyes flicked to him, I saw it.
She nodded. Slow. Certain.
The thought that there could be something between her and Veyrion gutted me. Nerina was too good for me—I’d always known that. But she was better than him, too. Far better. He didn’t deserve her any more than I did.
I tried to laugh—dry, bitter—jealousy tasted like blood in my throat.
Veyrion just stood there, arms folded, watching me like a wolf that had already won. And then he opened his mouth.
“You should try letting her breathe sometime. Might surprise you what she’s capable of when no one’s tightening the chains.
” he said, each word measured, precise. Cold—threaded with that satisfaction that comes from cutting along old scars.
“But then… you always did have a hard time letting go, didn’t you?
” The words landed where he meant them to.
I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. I looked at her.
Her eyes fixed on him. She exhaled through her teeth. “Veyrion, you’re not helping.”
He didn’t flinch. His smile tilted—slow, deliberate, smug. “I wasn’t trying to.”
Rage surged in me, molten and rising. My hands flexed at my sides, aching for steel.
I could feel the impulse riding my nerves, eager for permission.
He wanted this. I saw it in his eyes—that flicker of anticipation, daring me to move first. To forget myself.
To show her how easy it was for him to pull me apart. The monster disguised as a man.
It had always been like this between us: quiet wars laced in clever words. Brotherhood soured into rivalry. Trust curdled into betrayal. Every smile a threat, every memory a blade turned sideways.
Nerina stood in the middle. Between us—her presence a line neither of us would cross.
He knew it. That was why he was so calm. Arms folded, shoulders loose, as if he hadn’t just gutted me with words he’d been waiting years to say.
I hated him for it. Hated the ease, the poise, the quiet satisfaction that radiated from him.
He knew me too well. He knew exactly where to cut. Exactly how deep. Saints help me—he enjoyed watching me bleed.
“Enough.”