Chapter 63
North stood before the gilded silver doors that led into the throne room. She could hear nothing of the guests inside. No sound could leave the room so as to keep the privacy of royal matters safe and secure.
Westley and Easta stood at her back, waiting to follow her to her birthright.
She always knew she would make this walk with no one at her side—she’d never expected to have a mate for this moment, nor her parents guiding her through.
Perhaps it had been a self-fulfilling prophecy, but she’d spent her life preparing to do this alone.
She stood tall and nodded to the guards.
The heavy doors opened, and she paused only a moment before taking her first steps towards her birthright.
This was only her fifth time in the throne room in her entire seven hundred years. The first was after Easta’s conception. She’d just turned one hundred and her parents had brought her to announce that she would no longer be the only heir. She would have to fight her way to the throne.
When she first saw the throne room, she’d been angry to be gaining a sister—competition. How dare the little runt hold a claim to her throne, to her birthright?
Similarly, her second and third visits were when Souther and Westley had been conceived.
It was after Souther’s birth that she’d decided the throne would be hers. But instead of battling with her siblings, she’d established her dominance, her intelligence. By her design, they never thought to question her right to rule.
The last time she had been in the throne room, her parents had named her their chosen heir. They’d been so proud that she had put her siblings in line.
She’d graciously accepted without informing them that her siblings had not fought her—none had wanted the throne, content to follow her. Just as she’d planned.
Had their parents known her siblings had not wanted the throne, they would have seen it as a weakness of North’s. Assuming the throne through wit and intelligence instead of brute force was not a recognized strategy.
Jotunheim’s heir, Maddock, had killed five of his brothers to be named heir. And the Vanaheim throne was constantly in danger of being overthrown by jealous siblings.
Idavoll had been seen as a symbol of strength and power, so North and her siblings presented the illusion that she had defeated them by way of magic, staging public duels choreographed so that North would always emerge victorious.
And now it was time to claim her prize.
She marvelled at the room, her freshly grown daisies merging with the precious jewelled flowers that decorated every inch. Her bare feet were silent as she glided towards the throne, her skin heating the cold floor.
North was clothed in a simple gown of cream linen spun from the cotton stores of summers long past. Her hair hung in loose raven waves around her shoulders, and her clean face bore no marks or makeup.
There was no jewellery on her person, no necklace or earrings to adorn her head.
She wore only the simple band that Munin had given her when they acknowledged their mating bond, subtly touching her thumb to the wooden ring he’d made for her from the tree under which they had spoken under for the first time.
The room fell silent at her entrance, daisy petals fluttering down from the hanging vines.
A few caught in her hair as she pressed forward, but she didn’t bother to brush them away.
The train of her simple gown fanned out behind her, sweeping the ground clean ahead of Westley and Easta, who followed with arms linked and heads bowed.
All eyes were on her except Solveig’s. When North spared her a glance, the Asgardian princess was staring intently behind her, no doubt at Westley. North fought to keep the smile off her face, but an equal sadness had entered her heart.
Munin should be with her for this moment.
When she’d woken this morning, she could have sworn she’d felt a fluttering of their bond. A familiar dream of him shackled in a dungeon had haunted her the previous night, his presence lingering in her thoughts and body long after she woke.
She couldn’t shake the sensation of his closeness. Maybe with her loosened magic, their bond was beginning to resurface. She took comfort in that thought, hoping it meant he was still alive.
Her short walk towards the throne was unending, the daunting task of her rule laid out at her feet. She had her work cut out for her.
Just this morning, reports reached her that guards had seized twenty Fae loyal to her parents who had attacked her followers. They were being held in the dungeon, and on a phantom wind, she could almost hear their chant.
Traitor Queen. Traitor Queen. Traitor Queen.
Her own doubts from centuries of deconstructing her beliefs chanted alongside theirs.
Was she making the right decision? What if the gods really had chosen her people? Could there be truth to Ragnvald’s claims? She shook herself out of those unhelpful thoughts.
She had seen enough of the world to know that Ragnvald’s view was narrow-minded at best and controlling at worst. Her grandfather was an intelligent male, and while he may believe he deserved to rule, he was cunning enough to root his lies into the very fabric of their faith to get what he wanted.
Her people deserved liberation. She would show them what real freedom was—what love and compassion could do to better their lives.
Though her inner chants still followed her with each step, she held her head high and kept her back so straight it ached.
The Asgardian queens stood on the dais on either side of the throne. Both Koa and Aelfsi were dressed in white, their crowns shimmering brightly in the sun that gleamed through the room, casting a column of light onto the iridescent throne.
North had never been permitted to sit on the throne, as it only accepted the rightful ruler of Idavoll.
She reached the bottom of the dais and lowered herself to both knees. Westley and Easta followed her lead, kneeling behind her.
“North Stjarna Erikdottir,” Aelfsi started, her voice low and full of power as it echoed through the hall.
“You kneel before your throne, as your subjects will kneel before you,” Koa continued.
“Do you swear fealty to Idavoll, first and foremost?” Aelfsi asked.
“I do,” North vowed.
“Do you swear fealty to Asgard and Vanaheim, second?” Koa asked.
“I do.” She rose on steady feet, with no help save for her own strength, feet planted firmly in Idavoll.
“Do you swear to uphold the wishes of the gods?”
“I do.” One step towards the throne.
“And do you swear to use your power to the best of your ability, to fight, to die, to live for your crown?”
“I do.”
Her magic responded to each vow she made to her people with flowers blooming all around the dais. North took the remaining steps to her throne, her now cold feet leaving icy prints on the floor, marking the path for her people to follow.
The power of the throne entwined with her magic, assessing her worthiness.
Centuries of previous rulers who had bled and died for their people had left their mark on the throne. It overwhelmed her, their anguish and their pride. North used it to bolster herself, to quash the feelings of inadequacy.
She was born to rule.
“Take your place as Queen of Idavoll, North Stjarna Erikdottir,” the queens said in unison.
She lowered herself onto her throne, the earth quaking beneath it with her growing power. The very ground she ruled over was in her control, and she would not let her people down.
A new dawn was on the horizon, and she would usher in the life her people so desperately needed. North raised her chin to gaze through the top of the spire as the sun of Odin shone down on her, blessing her ascent to the throne of Idavoll.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Koa and Aelfsi carrying her crown to her. They raised it over her head, and the hall fell deadly silent as they paused. Energy rose, the power pulling towards her, claiming her soul as queen.
A collective inhale across the world.
“When truth and fairness differ from what is law, better it is to follow truth and fairness. Idavoll, we give unto you your new queen, Her Majesty, North Stjarna Erikdottir.”
The Asgardian queens lifted the crown high, catching the sunlight before lowering it. As it came down, awareness shot through North’s entire being, the crown a hair’s breadth away.
Her gaze snapped to the doors a moment before they were blasted open, revealing a lone tall figure.
North stood abruptly, the crown knocked from the queens’ hands before it could be placed on her head.
“Munin,” she breathed as her memory materialized in front of her eyes.
Her mate staggered through the door in rags, his chest heaving.
She was frozen to the spot as she took in the sight of him. Though he’d always had a slight build, he was noticeably thinner, lankier. Chains hung from his wrists connected to the ones on his feet.
His gaze poured into her, and she could not take her attention from him.
That is, until another figure appeared behind him, coming to stand before her mate, blocking her view of him.
Ragnvald.