Chapter 45 Nerina
Nerina
Skeldrhall, Ymirskald
The harsh crack of laughter pulled me from sleep. I blinked into the dark, heart quickening, the furs tangled around my legs. I thought I’d dreamed it—until it came again.
I slid from bed. The floor cold on my toes. My breath puffed pale as I slipped into the corridor.
No guards stopped me. No questions followed. No orders. In Ymirskald, my steps were my own. That is one of the reason I like being here.
The long hallway stretched ahead, lit only by the occasional torch guttering in its iron bracket.
I moved toward the sound, pulse loud in my throat.
It was coming from the council room—the place Veyrion held his councils, where the great map of Ymirskald sprawled across the table bristling with carved pieces of bone and iron.
The room where I’d stitched him back together.
I hesitated at the carved door, pressing close to its seam. Voices spilled through the crack, followed by another ripple of laughter.
Eira’s voice, dry and teasing. “You looked like a fool in front of the whole town. You nearly tripped over your own sword.”
Veyrion’s lower rumble followed, feigned offense. “The floorboards were uneven.”
Eira snorted. “A godling felled by bad carpentry? That’s a tale for the ages.”
Godling. A crack at his pride, no doubt.
“Careful,” he warned, grin audible. “Another word and I’ll turn you into a story they tell children who misbehave.”
“Empty threat,” she shot back. “You’d miss me too much.”
A pause—then, quieter, warm in a way I’d never heard from him, Veyrion said, “Aye. That, I would.”
The silence after was companionable, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. I risked leaning closer, just enough to see through the thin sliver of light.
They sat across from each other at the war table, no strategy between them now. Only a half-empty bottle of dark liquor, two cups, and the kind of laughter that belonged to a family I had never known.
Something twisted in my chest. This was Veyrion as I’d never seen him—unguarded, the hard edges softened. A brother. A man.
I hated that part of me warmed at the sight.
I shifted, straining to hear more—and my shoulder brushed the heavy door. The creak split the quiet. I froze.
Then Eira’s voice, bright with joy. “Now who could that be lurking at this hour?”
My stomach lurched. Before I could retreat, the door swung wider under my hand. Both of them looked toward me—Eira with a crooked grin, Veyrion with that steady, unreadable look that stripped me bare.
Heat crept up my neck. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Eira laughed, waving me closer with her cup. “Nonsense. Come join us. It’s too late for secrets, and you’ll freeze wandering these halls.”
I hesitated on the threshold, every instinct screaming to flee. Her smile was open, coaxing—and even Veyrion’s silence held no blade.
So I stepped inside.
The room was nothing like it had been during the day.
The maps and carved tokens had been pushed aside, cleared just enough to make room.
The large table was scattered with sprigs of pine and spruce, woven with crimson ribbon.
Bundles of dried herbs and fruits hung from the rafters, filling the air with resinous perfume.
Candles guttered in uneven clusters, wax running in rivulets down brass holders.
A string of polished stones—onyx, jade, smoky quartz—glittered like frozen starlight where it draped across the mantel.
I blinked at it all, unmoored. “What… is this?”
Eira slid a cup toward me and poured dark liquor from the bottle between them. “Preparations,” she said, grin curling. “For the annual Yule celebration here in Skeldrhall.”
Yule. The word tugged at something in me—strange and ancient.
I accepted the cup. The metal was cold against my palms. I took the smallest sip. It burned like fire down my throat.
“To surviving another year,” Eira said, clinking her cup against mine. “To fire against the dark.”
She tipped her head toward Veyrion with a wicked grin. “And to reminding my brother that no matter how fearsome he acts, I can still drink him under the table.”
Veyrion arched his brow, settling back. “Is that what you’re telling yourself? I recall last Yule ending with you face-down in the snow, singing bawdy songs to the moon.”
Eira sputtered into her drink, cheeks reddening. “That was one time.”
“One time too many,” he countered smoothly. “The Jarls are still telling the tale.”
Their laughter rang through the hall—effortless, familiar. It tugged at something raw in me. For an instant, I saw not warriors and rulers, but a brother and sister bound by blood, teasing and steadying one another as naturally as breathing.
My chest ached. I remembered Maliea. Her laughter had been different—softer, but just as insistent, spilling like sunlight through kelp forests. She had always tugged me into mischief, shielding me when our mother’s gaze grew too cold. Maliea had been the only one who made me feel less alone.
Eira leaned back in her chair, gesturing to the pine boughs, herbs, and ribbons scattered across the table. “It lasts for three days. Each with its own rite.”
I tilted my head, curiosity tugging me forward. “Three days?”
Eira nodded, eyes bright. “On the first night, we honor the dead.”
“The second day,” Veyrion said, voice steady, “is the feast. Mead without mercy. Gifts exchanged. Oaths sworn. And the Yule Boar.”
“Ooh, yes.” Eira added, her grin widening.
“Evergreen-bound,” he continued. “Every soul in the hall lays a hand on its hide and swears an oath—vengeance, glory, protection.”
Eira’s smile turned fierce. “The boar is sacrificed. Its blood for the gods. Its flesh for the feast.”
“A vow sworn on the boar,” Veyrion said quietly, “binds tighter than any chain.”
“And the lights,” Eira cut in, grinning. “When the sky burns green and violet, the gods are watching. So we burn our fires bright enough for them to see us.”
She lifted her cup. “After that? Chaos. Wrestling, drinking, broken pride. We celebrate. We endure. We remind the dark that it can't take our fire.”
“And the third?” I asked.
“The dawn,” she said, reverent now. “We keep the Yule flame alive through the longest night. When the sun rises, every hearth is lit from it anew. Whatever survives the night carries luck into the year to come.”
I gripped the cup tighter, my throat suddenly dry.
Three days. Three rites. Memory, revelry, rebirth.
And though part of me bristled at being drawn into their world, another part ached with longing. Maliea would have loved this. She would have sung herself hoarse on the second night and whispered a vow to the dawn. She would have belonged here, effortlessly.
I swallowed hard. I wasn’t sure I ever could.
Eira shoved a pile of pine boughs toward me. “There. Enough standing about looking pretty—make yourself useful.”
“Useful?” I repeated, unsure.
She pointed to the piles of evergreen, sprigs of holly, and crimson ribbon. “With the decorations, of course. Gods know Veyrion won’t lift a finger—he only glowers while the rest of us do the work.”
“I do not glower,” he said dryly.
Eira ignored him, already gathering another bundle of evergreen. She shoved it toward me. Resin stuck to my fingers. “Wreaths first.”
“I don’t…” My throat tightened. “I don’t know the traditions. I’ve never celebrated Yule. I’ll only ruin it.”
Eira’s expression softened—only for a heartbeat—then she arched a brow, a sly grin tugging at her mouth. “Then it’s about time you learned, isn’t it? Besides, you won’t ruin anything. You’d have to try very hard to do worse than my brother’s knot-work.”
Veyrion’s eyes flickered, unimpressed. Eira only smirked.
I hesitated, every instinct urging me to refuse, to retreat. But Eira’s grin was a net I couldn’t wriggle free of.
I sighed and took the branches, the clean scent of pine filling my lungs. “Fine. Show me.”
“That’s the spirit.” She slid closer, deft fingers weaving the sprigs into a circle. “Evergreen is life that endures the dark and cold. We weave it into wreaths to remind ourselves winter won’t last forever. The ribbon binds it—just as our oaths bind us.”
Her hands worked quickly, nimble and practiced. Soon she was guiding mine—teaching me how to bend the branches without snapping them, how to tie the ribbon so the circle held firm. Resin stuck to my skin. Needles pricked my fingertips. But slowly the shape began to hold.
Eira nudged me with her elbow. “See? Not so terrible. By the end of the night, you’ll be a proper Northerner.”
I shook my head, though a reluctant smile tugged at my mouth. “I doubt that.”
“Don’t,” she said, eyes flashing. “Yule doesn’t care where you’re from. Only that you bring your fire to the dark.”
The liquor warmed my blood, easing tension in my shoulders. Cups filled and emptied, filled again, until our cheeks glowed from drink and firelight. Wreaths stacked crookedly across the table—uneven but bright, every one a testament to the hands that made it.
I caught Veyrion watching me once, his eyes reflecting firelight, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. No arrogance. No cruelty. Only a quietness that unmoored me.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he said at last, voice low, the words themselves were dangerous.
The drink loosened my tongue before I could find a lie. I lifted my cup in a mock toast. “I’m learning I enjoy many things I never thought I would.”
His mouth curved into that maddening grin. One brow lifted.
The air between us tightened. Not desire. Not quite. Something harder to name—disorientation, proximity, the unsettling realization that the man I’d flattened into a monster refused to stay that shape.
A shadow fell across the table. His hand slid into view, long fingers brushing mine as he plucked the ribbon from my grasp. The touch was light, deliberate—enough to steal the breath from my lungs.
“You’re tying it wrong,” he said smoothly. "Eira will yell at you."