Chapter 49 - Nerina
Nerina
Skeldrhall, Ymirskald
Last night had been going so well. The gifts. The games. The dancing. For one brief, stupid moment, I’d let myself believe I belonged. That I could laugh and drink and breathe without the constant ache in my ribs.
Alaric ruined it. His confession still echoed—jagged as broken coral.
But it wasn’t only his words. It was the way he’d held me—too tight, like letting go wasn’t an option.
Like my body was a thing he could keep simply by gripping harder.
He’d saved me because he thought I could end his curse.
Because the quartz and I glowed with the same light.
He hadn’t saved me because he was good. He’d never claimed to be.
That lie had been mine—some desperate fairytale I wrote in my own head.
A story where a man pulled a girl from the sea because it was right.
Because heroes did that. Because damsels were meant to be saved.
I’d wanted to believe in that version of him.
But heroes didn’t tighten their grip and drag you across a dance floor.
Heroes didn’t speak through clenched teeth and call it protection.
Heroes didn’t make you feel small inside your own skin.
He’d smiled and touched and let me think the warmth between us meant something else. He’d let me believe he loved me.
The truth cut deeper than anything he’d ever said.
Every lingering touch, every stolen look, every word that had made my heart stumble felt contaminated—like I’d been drinking sweetness from a cup lined with poison.
None of it had been about me. He hadn’t saved Nerina.
He’d saved what he thought I could offer—power. A key. Salvation.
I wanted to hate him. To burn every memory to ash. The hurt ran too deep. My heart had betrayed me, beating for someone who had never really been mine. Who had never really wanted me. How could I forgive myself for being so blind?
Tonight’s dress lay across my bed like a dare.
Ivory silk, luminous as fresh-fallen snow beneath moonlight, its bodice sculpted in silver filigree that climbed like frost over glass.
Constellations shimmered along the skirts, stitched in pale gold and starlit crystal, every thread catching the light as if the night sky had been coaxed into fabric.
Soon the guests would arrive. The hall would roar with laughter and song—fire and mead flowing freely.
And still I couldn’t make myself wear it. I couldn’t step into that hall with swollen eyes and a hollow chest and pretend I hadn’t been split open.
Steam curled in soft tendrils around the bathing chamber, fogging the high-arched windows and clinging to the stone. Firelight flickered from sconces set into the rock, gilding the carved beams above. The scent of cedar smoke and hot water wrapped around me like a cloak.
The round basin at the center of the room was more pool than tub, its carved edge worn smooth by years of bodies seeking warmth. I sank into it with a shuddering sigh as the heat kissed my skin and seeped into muscles wound too tight.
And then the shift began.
The water licked higher, tugging at something deep inside me, and my body yielded.
My legs shimmered—bones and skin giving way to iridescence as scales unfurled in a slow cascade of starlit hues.
Blues and silvers and violets rippled beneath the surface, catching the firelight until I gleamed like a shard of moonlight.
My tail fanned out, translucent fins trailing like silk through the water.
I’d learned the hard way what it meant to go too long without it—the ache in my skin, the tightness in my chest, the brittle feeling, like driftwood cracking beneath a harsh sun.
My tail stirred the basin, sending faintly glowing ripples across the stone.
Eira sat cross-legged on a low bench near the wall, sleeves rolled, boots abandoned by the door.
She worked a length of ribbon through her fingers—braiding and unbraiding it absently—humming some Northern melody under her breath.
After a while, her gaze flicked toward the stool where folded garments waited. White. Silver-threaded. Catching the firelight.
“How are you finding Yule?” she asked gently. I watched the flames waver in the sconces.
The wreaths we’d made with clumsy, drunken hands. The way the hall had lifted me above their heads, chanting. The welcoming hugs.
My throat tightened. “It’s… different than anything I’ve ever known,” I said carefully. “It was wonderful.”
Eira nodded, accepting the answer for what it was—and what it wasn’t. She didn’t press.
Her eyes returned to the dress. “It’s meant for tonight,” she said. “The final celebration.”
“I know.” The words tasted heavy. “I don’t think I’ll be wearing it,” I added. “I’m not feeling well.”
I didn’t want to be seen. Or touched. Or pulled into anything I couldn’t step away from.
Eira studied me—no judgment, no suspicion. Just… seeing. “You don’t have to explain,” she said.
Relief loosened something in my chest.
She went back to the ribbon, her presence warm and steady. As the steam rose and the fire burned low, I let myself rest in the quiet—held not by ceremony or expectation, but by the simple grace of not being alone.
The water’s warmth lingered on my skin long after I left the basin, but it did little to soothe the hollow ache inside me.
Now I sat on the edge of my bed, wrapped in furs. My hair, freshly washed, hung heavy down my back—woven into a neat braid by Eira before she left. My thoughts kept circling the same jagged edges.
A knock broke the silence—three soft raps against heavy oak.
I stiffened, swiping quickly at my eyes. “Come in,” I called, though my voice wavered.
The door eased open. Firelight spilled over broad shoulders.
Veyrion stepped inside carrying a carved wooden tray balanced in one hand. A pot of steaming tea sat atop it, two cups beside it.
“I heard you weren’t feeling well,” he said. His voice was softer than I expected. No wolfish grin. No blade-edged humor. Just quiet steadiness. “I thought I’d check on you.”
Of course. Eira.
He set the tray on the low table near my bed, then straightened. His frost-bound eyes swept over me—quickly, deliberately, not lingering. “You needn’t force yourself to the hall if you don’t wish to,” he added. “But nobody should be alone during Yule.”
Steam drifted upward, carrying the aroma of spiced herbs and honey. My fingers twisted tighter in the fur around me. “I appreciate the thought,” I said carefully, watching him from beneath my lashes, “but I’d rather be alone.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t move toward the door either. He simply poured the tea, the soft trickle filling the silence, and set one steaming cup within my reach before lifting the other into his hand.
“Then consider me a shadow,” he said at last, tone quiet, measured. “Ignore me if you like."
He lowered himself into the chair across from my bed, cloak spilling around him. Firelight carved the hard planes of his face. There was no grin, no mockery—only that unmovable presence, steady as the mountains outside.
I looked away, throat tight. Stars—why couldn’t he just leave me to my misery?
Veyrion only sipped his tea, unfazed. Heat flared in my chest—bitter and jagged. “Did you come here to gloat?” My voice cracked, and I hated it—hated the salt burning in my eyes. “To remind me you were right about him?”
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe even a flash of hurt—but it vanished too quickly to catch.
He set his cup down with a deliberate clink and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.
“If I wanted to gloat,” he said evenly, “I would’ve done it in the hall last night, when he bared fangs and proved my point in front of everyone.
” He tilted his head slightly—not cruel, but unwavering. “That’s not why I’m here.”
I turned my face away, staring at the firelight spilling across the floorboards, trying to smother the crack in my chest with anger. “Then why?” I demanded. “You got what you wanted—Alaric exposed, me broken. Isn’t that enough for you?”
He stilled, like he was bracing for impact. He leaned back in the chair, one arm stretching lazily across the armrest as though he had all the time in the world. “No,” he said simply.
I lifted my chin, meeting his icy eyes with all the defiance I had left. “Just leave. I meant what I said—I don’t want you here. I don’t need you.”
His mouth curved—not wolfish this time. Thin. Tired. Like he recognized the lie wrapped inside my words and didn’t bother calling it out. “You may not want me here,” he murmured, quiet enough that I almost thought I imagined it. “But you need someone.”
I hated him for saying it. Hated that my throat ached, that my chest trembled, that some part of me was afraid he was right. “You think too much of yourself,” I managed, voice thinner than I wanted.
His grin returned—infuriating, familiar. “No,” he said softly. “I think just enough.”
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the crackle of fire and the faint whistle of steam from the pot. I told myself to send him away again. To demand the door. But the words wouldn’t come.
Veyrion watched me with maddening patience. “The third night of Yule,” he said at last, “is for what comes after. Families gather—not only to feast, but to look back on the year behind them. Through the longest night, the fire is kept.”
He stared into the flames, voice low. “Every hearth is allowed to die, just once—so no one forgets what it means to lose the light. When the sun rises, the flame is carried from that fire to every home. Old fire becoming new.”
“It’s meant to be done together,” he continued. “The night is not always kind. It’s easier to survive the dark when you have bodies beside you and voices in the air.”
I curled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, staring at the fire. “And yet here I am.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said.