“Bjorn…” Snorri said, stepping forward. “I don’t think this—”
“Do you trust that I won’t miss?” Bjorn said to me, acting as though his father hadn’t even spoken.
I swallowed. “Bjorn, I’m wielding a cooking pot.”
“You’re wielding Hlin’s power,” he corrected. “So perhaps the better question is whether you trust the goddess? Or whether you trust yourself?”
Did I? Hlin’s magic had held against Tyr’s once before, but Bjorn had been unprepared. What if this time his axe sliced through my magic?
The memory of the pain I’d felt when the axe had burned me filled my head, feeling so real I looked down at my hand to ensure it wasn’t aflame. My breathing accelerated, my pulse a dull roar in my ears as the arm holding the pot trembled.
“Bjorn,” Snorri snarled, “if you hurt her, I’ll cut out your gods-cursed heart!”
Bjorn did not so much as blink, only asked softly, “Well, Freya?”
Terror and nausea rolled in my guts, every instinct telling me to back down. To say that I couldn’t do it. That I needed a proper shield and time to test just how powerful Hlin’s magic was. But a defiant, albeit potentially idiotic, part of my heart forced two words up through my strangled throat and across my dry tongue. “Do it.”
Bjorn threw the axe.
I clenched my teeth, fighting the instinct to dive sideways, instead holding my pot steady, a scream filling my ears. Crimson flame flipped end-over-end toward me, the screaming—which I realized was my own—abruptly drowned out by a concussive blast that shattered the air like thunder.
The axe ricocheted off my pot, smashing through tree branches and up into the sky before winking out.
Ylva gasped loudly, but Bjorn only laughed, his eyes bright as he reached out to touch the glowing pot.
“Careful!” I tensed, afraid that the magic would shatter his hand. But with utter fearlessness, he pressed his palm against the magic.
Instead of repelling his touch, my magic allowed Bjorn’s hand to sink into it like water. I felt the moment he touched the pot itself, a gentle pressure, whereas with the impact of his axe, I’d felt nothing. The sensation moved up my arm and down into my core, as though he touched not magic and metal, but my bare skin, and I shivered.
“You get what you give,” he murmured, then lifted his eyes from the magic to meet mine. “Or perhaps more accurately, you give what you get.”
The rest of the world fell away as I considered his words, it feeling for all the world like he was the first person to ever understand me.
Except…that wasn’t quite it.
My family understood me. My friends understood me. But there were parts of me that they wanted to change, whereas Bjorn seemed to accept the way I was. Seemed to encourage the parts of my character that everyone else in my life had tried to quash. A quiver ran through me, a powerful mix of emotions filling my chest in a way that made it hard to breathe.
Then Snorri spoke, shattering the moment. “Her magic is more powerful than yours? The shield maiden is stronger than you?”
My jaw tightened at the use of my title rather than my name, a reminder that to Snorri, I was a thing, not a person.
If Bjorn’s ego was bruised by the comment, he didn’t show it, only shrugged. “That certainly seems to be the case.”
I waited for him to caveat the statement. To argue that in battle, I wouldn’t stand a chance against him. But he didn’t. Didn’t tear me down in order to make himself look strong, as so many men did.
“Yet more proof the gods favor her.” Snorri smiled. “That they favor me.”
I couldn’t stop myself from demanding, “Why? How is the strength of my magic proof the gods favor you as the future king of Skaland?”
“Shut your disrespectful mouth, girl!” Ylva shoved past Bjorn, and I lowered my pot lest I accidentally send her flying across the camp. “A tool is only as good as the hand that wields it, and it was Snorri who received the foretelling. You are nothing without him.”
My jaw tightened, but before I could retort, Snorri said, “Be at ease, my love. She has not your experience and wisdom to have faith in the gods.”
“It is true,” Bjorn said. “I’d estimate two decades’ less experience. Or is it three, Ylva?”
Snorri struck.
One moment Bjorn was laughing, and the next he was on his knees, bleeding from his mouth.
“You are my son, Bjorn, and I love you.” Snorri’s voice was rimmed with frost. “But do not see my affection as weakness. Dishonor Ylva, and you dishonor me. Now apologize.”