Chapter 46 - Nerina
Nerina
Skeldrhall, Ymirskald
“Green for life enduring in the dark,” Eira said as she fastened the clasp at my throat.
The first night of Yule descended on Ymirskald.
Eira had planned it all—three nights, each with its own purpose. She’d seen to every detail, from the wreaths we’d crafted half-drunk in the war room to the gowns waiting in my chamber. Each evening, she insisted, would require a different dress.
Tonight’s was deep pine green, stitched with gold that caught the firelight when I moved. A fur cloak rested heavy on my shoulders, its collar brushing my cheeks.
I’d laughed at first, overwhelmed by her seriousness—by the meticulous care she poured into something I still didn’t understand.
But now, standing in the hall swathed in pine and gold, I did.
Each gown was more than fabric. It was meaning made wearable—threads of tradition woven into the rhythm of Yule, binding me—whether I belonged or not—into its story.
Skeldrhall blazed with light and sound. Torches lined the stone path, flames licking at the dark as guests arrived from across Ymirskald—Jarls and warriors, their kin bundled in furs; merchants and hunters carrying gifts of meat, mead, and fresh-cut evergreen.
Laughter and song echoed through the mountains, carried on the bite of the wind.
I stood beside Veyrion and Eira at the doors of the great hall, greeting each guest as they crossed the threshold.
They greeted Veyrion with bows and firm handclasps. Eira with kisses on the cheek and teasing remarks.
And me—
They offered hugs.
At first, I froze every time an arm slid around my shoulders or pulled me close, stiff as driftwood.
No one in Thalassia had ever greeted me like this—never with warmth, never with easy familiarity.
But here it was offered without hesitation, without question.
Strong arms. Warm furs. The scents of pine and smoke and snow wrapping around me like something I hadn’t known I needed.
Each embrace left me a little more unmoored. A little more… Welcome.
I smiled where I could, dipping my head politely—though my thoughts were far from the hall.
I invited Alaric.
The thought of his name alone set my heart skittering. He hadn’t answered. Still, I searched every face that crossed the threshold. Every dark-haired man made my pulse jump until I realized—again—that it wasn’t him.
“Looking for someone?” Eira murmured beside me, sharp-eyed as ever.
I forced a smile, but didn’t answer.
Eira had told me the first night was for the dead. For ancestors, for kin long gone—for names carried on smoke so they might walk beside the living once more.
Inside, Skeldrhall glowed brighter than I’d ever seen it.
The lopsided wreaths we’d strung together hung proudly on the walls, their imperfections swallowed by ribbon and garlands of polished stones.
But it was the trees that stole my breath—towering pines cut from the forests beyond, their branches dripping with ornaments of bone, carved wood, hammered bronze.
Some glittered faintly where they’d been dusted with powdered quartz, reflecting candlelight like snow trapped in ice.
At the center of it all stood the hearth—larger than life, a pit dug deep into stone. In its heart waited a massive log, a trunk so wide it took four men to roll into place.
“The Yule log,” Eira whispered, her grin softened by reverence. “It burns for all three nights. From its fire, every hearth in the village is rekindled. Each home carries the same flame—so the whole of Ymirskald is bound together.”
Veyrion strode forward with a torch. The music dimmed. Voices fell to a hush.
He lowered the flame to the waiting log. When it caught, the fire roared up in a pillar of gold and smoke.
The crowd erupted—cheers, laughter, tankards pounding against tables.
I watched the flame. Sparks leapt like stars across smoke-dark beams, and for an instant I felt the strange pull of it—as though I could see every hearth it would touch, every family gathered, every shadow pushed back by the same fire.
Men and women pressed forward, each carrying a carved piece of wood or bone etched with runes.
One by one, they placed their tokens into the fire, faces solemn, lips moving in vows or prayers.
The flames consumed it all—wood, resin, memory—until the smoke rose in a column that seemed to reach for the sky itself.
Beside me, Eira leaned close, her voice softer than usual. “This is Mother’s Night. Doors stay open all night. The hall fills with ghosts,” she murmured. “But do not fear, they are the ones who keep watch.”
I nodded, throat tight. “Verjah?”
Eira smiled. “Yes. Verjah.”
The fire roared, swallowing another name. Another memory. Another vow.
Sleep didn’t come gently. It dragged me under.
I dreamed the world had gone still—no tide, no wind, no warmth. The sea pressed in around me, black and endless, yet I lay flat and unmoving, pinned to the floor. Above, the sky cracked open, stars spilling through the fracture like broken glass—violet and silver, too bright, too close.
Cold filled my lungs.
Light split beneath my skin, constellations threading through me where veins should have been. The crescent mark on my brow flared—burning so hot it felt carved into bone. I screamed, but the sound echoed back wrong, layered and distant, something else screamed through me.
You do not belong.
The stars shifted, aligning into shapes that watched. Judged.
The sea tore open beneath me and a ship rose from the dark, its hull scorched, its sails stitched with bone and iron. Green fire licked the mast, hissing.
At the helm stood a figure crowned in rusted iron—faceless and vast—its hand lifted not in warning, but command.
Stay.
I fell instead.
Through frost that burned. Through light that cut.
Three shards of pale crystal tore past me, dragging at my blood—wrenching something loose inside my chest as they went. I reached for them and felt myself split—hollowed—unfinished.
I woke with a gasp, tangled in furs, Skeldrhall’s carved beams looming above me. Firelight flickered across the walls, steady and real—and still my skin ached. It felt like something inside me had been broken apart and stitched back together wrong.
I pressed a palm to my racing heart and stared into the dark until the air stopped feeling like it might crush me.
Then I slid from bed, wrapped myself in a heavy shawl, and padded into the hall. Stone bit my bare feet. The corridors were dim, lit only by the low glow of banked hearths and pale moonlight spilling through narrow windows.
Every shadow felt too sharp. Every sound lingered too long.
The kitchen was warm.
Warm with fire—and bread.
The scent hit me first: toasted grain, honey, spice. Something rich and sweet.
Veyrion stood near the hearth, sleeves rolled, dusted faintly with flour. He turned a tray of honeyed loaves near the coals—dense rounds scored with runes pressed deep into the crust.
“Neri?”
I startled, nearly spilling water as I poured it. The clay cup clicked against the table. I drank too fast, then forced myself to slow, letting the warmth of the room settle the tremor in my hands.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said, hating how thin my voice sounded.
His gaze moved over me—not intrusive, not soft. Assessing. Like he was counting things I hadn’t told him.
“Mother’s Night,” he said after a moment. “It has a way of doing that.”
I frowned, turning the cup in my hands. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“Did you dream?” he asked lightly.
My pulse skidded. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“They call it the night the veil thins,” he said, setting the tray aside. “Not just between life and death—”
His mouth tightened slightly.
“—but between what is and what is coming. Between worlds. Lifetimes.”
The fire cracked sharply. I flinched.
Veyrion watched the flames for a moment before he spoke again. “Long before halls and kings, this was the night mothers prayed for sight. Dreams were said to walk closer to the waking world.”
His gaze flicked—briefly—to my brow, where the crescent mark rested.
“Dreams were recorded,” he went on. “Carved into bone. Pressed into wax. Whispered to iron so they wouldn’t be forgotten by morning.” His eyes stayed on the fire. “Most were nonsense. Some were warnings. A rare few…”
He exhaled slowly.
“…changed everything.”
I took another sip, eyes fixed on the flames, and wondered—uneasily—how many nights like this he had lived through.
The question stabbed through my caution anyway. “Did you dream?”
His expression didn’t change.
But something in him went still. “No,” he said.
Then, after a beat, “I don’t sleep on Mother’s Night anymore.”
I didn’t press.
The loaves were finished by the time the coals burned low, their crusts dark and split, steam ghosting into the air. Veyrion tested one with his knuckle, nodded to himself, then took a knife and cut a thick slice from the nearest loaf.
The crust cracked cleanly. The inside was pale and dense, still steaming. He passed it to me—warm enough that I had to shift it from palm to palm. “Eat,” he said. Not a command. Not a kindness, either.
I hesitated. Then tore off a piece and tasted it.
It was… good. Honeyed and rich, the grain nutty and filling, a faint bite of spice lingering at the back of my tongue. The kind of food meant to anchor you—to keep you in your body when your thoughts wanted to drift somewhere colder.
My shoulders loosened without my permission. “Oh,” I breathed. “That’s—”
I took another bite, slower this time, letting the warmth settle in my chest.
Veyrion said nothing. He turned back to the hearth, adjusting the coals with measured precision.
But I saw it—the way his shoulders eased. The faint almost-smile he didn’t quite let reach his mouth.