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“This Volsung Fá, this barbarian king, put fear into Valdir’s heart. But not mine! I know what he is. A vulture. He came to our land thinking it his. But he is no more one of us than we are Gold. This land belongs to the Volk! We purchased it with our blood! While he lurked in the asteroids beyond the Rim, we broke the might of Gold, the machines of Silver! Now he comes a thief in the night, to murder Freihild, may she feast in Valhalla, to claim with heretical tongue there is no Allmother, only an Allfather.” She spits the word, and the jarls stomp their axes in fury. “He is our enemy. A heretic! I will drink from his skull before the moons grow full.”

They roar.

“All know the wisdom of Baldur. It is not wise to fight an enemy with anot

her at your back. This heretic king has poisoned the blood between our Republic brothers and sisters. Today we cleanse that blood; tomorrow, we turn our axes on him.”

She lifts the razor of Aja and points it to the Bellona Doors, sparing a nod for Xenophon, who must have arranged this. I know in my belly what’s coming. Xenophon stares at the doors with intense contentment.

They say the Hall of Eagles wasn’t built to reach the heavens, but to fit its doors. The famed Bellona Doors, the last great treasure of House Bellona not sold off by looters or sculpted by the Obsidians in their own image, begin to open. Formed from the trunks of two of the tallest godtrees ever grown, the interlocking wooden wings that close off the eastern façade of the hall are pulled open by infernal machines. Raw rusted iron clatters and rattles now, as it used to for the damn Bellona family so that they could sit in their pretty armor and remember the horrors of war. As if it wasn’t the definition of their own name.

The chanting of the crowd gathered in the city to protest the Alltribe’s looming war with the Republic flows in. They chant for their Reaper. How far away he must seem.

On the floor, a long needle of daylight splits the Obsidian jarls and stabs toward Sefi’s throne, dividing the shadows of the room before widening to melt the shadows away. All except one. As the Republic diplomatic shuttle taxis for landing, it casts a stain on the floor the shape of a bird.

“The raven shadow,” Ozgard murmurs.

I’ve seen men snap during bombardments. It’s like a physical switch has been thrown, and they go manic as an addict. Ozgard’s switch goes. He bolts to his feet. Rushes for Sefi, frothing for her to shoot down the ship. To not let it spew out its evil. He is knocked windless on the ground before he can even make it four steps. The sealant on my heel won’t come off. Dammit.

Blood leaks out Ozgard’s mouth and pools on the floor like cherry syrup as he’s dragged back to me. He stares at his reflection. I whisper his name. He’s straight gone. Snapped at the mental waist. He doesn’t even look up as the ramp of the Republic shuttle bangs down at the far end of the room.

I wait for a bomb to go off in the shuttle. For some horrible weapon to evaporate the gathered host of Obsidians. But the Fear Knight has something more intricate in store.

His slave, Xenophon, walks from the place of honor at Sefi’s side down the stairs of her throne dais, nearly to the end of the ranks of Obsidian warjarls.

“Sefi Volarus, are you a god?” Xenophon asks. Her brows knit together in confusion. “Are you a god?” Sefi’s taken aback by the impertinence of her only “loyal” servant.

Her voice comes out in an annoyed growl. “Xenophon, return to your place.”

“No.”

The jarls murmur in discontent. Sefi stands. “Servant, obey.”

“I obey only one, and you are not him,” Xenophon replies. The Valkyrie bodyguards take a predatory step forward. Even Sefi’s competitors amongst the warjarls seem on the verge of breaking the uppity White’s neck. Faced with something she doesn’t understand, Sefi reverts to what she knows.

“The blood of Ragnar Volarus runs through these veins,” she says to the question. “Kneel on your knees, or on stumps. I care not.”

“The blood of Ragnar Volarus,” Xenophon crows. “The blood of a god. Alia was no god. She let the Children of the Spires languish in chains. She sold her sons to the stars for her own gain. From what wellspring then does Ragnar derive his divinity? If not from his mother, then it must be from his father.”

The room goes still in bafflement. Xenophon raises that crystal-clear voice and suddenly lurches, as if possessed by an evil spirit like a shaman, to sing in flawless Nagal.

“There was one mightier ’fore Allmother’s reign

Allfather, King of Stains, was his name.

For him, Old Kuthul rose against Sunborn

Till in Ladon was he felled, for kin to mourn

To the fires his people and the Volk were sent

But not all to ash and bone must we lament

From sun to dust did the moons and dragons chase

The brood of Kuthul, who hid in darkest space,

Five ages passed of shadow and ice