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Hekla’s mind was a jumbled mess, but her feet moved sensibly through the corridor in search of Eyvind’s quarters. She was exhausted, yet her body tingled with the need to get away from her lodgings—away from Gunnar kneeling before her...

I kneel before you now to ask for your hand.

A hot, restless feeling climbed through her. Hekla needed to see Eyvind—needed to see his too-pretty face and hear his arrogant voice. Perhaps he would let her tend to his singed hair or wash the soot from his face. Perhaps she would spend the night in his quarters.

A frisson rushed through her at the very thought. Rather than a twinge of worry, the thought was accompanied by a burst of excitement.

As she neared the innkeeper’s quarters—the largest, he’d repeatedly assured Eyvind, before handing him the keys—voices drifted into the corridor, making Hekla’s heart quicken.

“Your father will be furious.” This voice belonged to Thrand Long Sword, and Hekla was curiously glad to hear it.

“I do not care what he thinks,” said Eyvind sharply. “I own my choice. The people of Istré survived, no thanks to Konal and his rites.”

“Your choice affects more than just yourself,” grumbled Thrand.

Eyvind was silent a moment before he replied. “I know it affects you and the rest of the lads as well. But Thrand, you know in your heart it was the right thing to do.”

“Aye, but it was,” muttered Thrand, clearly exasperated. “But I speak not only of your father’s orders.” There was a note in his voice that made Hekla’s feet falter.

“Speak plainly,” said Eyvind, the exhaustion in his voice easily heard.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that kiss Rib Smasher planted on you,” said Thrand. When Eyvind didn’t reply, he continued, “And there’s the way your eyes follow her constantly?—”

“Leave it be, Thrand,” warned Eyvind.

But Thrand was not so easily dissuaded. “Had you asked me a week ago, I’d have thought you were madder than a berserker to go anywhere near that woman. But now...” Thrand grew silent a moment. “Now, I suppose I can see it.”

A grunt told Hekla that Eyvind had likely punched his second in command.

“Arse,” muttered Thrand. “Have you told her the whole truth? Does she know of Liv?”

Hekla skin prickled in warning. Who in the eternal fucking fires was Liv ?

“It was supposed to be a one-night thing,” said Eyvind defensively. “I thought—” He sighed, apparently unable to complete the thought.

Thrand let out a dramatic exhale. “Eyvie. It is clear there’s no leaving this one behind. I don’t know what it is between you, but this job with the mist is far from over. You owe her the truth about your betrothal.”

The ground seemed to fall out from beneath Hekla’s feet.

Betrothal .

Eyvind gods-damned Hakonsson was betrothed?

An ache bloomed in her chest, pumping through her veins with each beat of her heart. The soft, newly exposed part of her shriveled in despair. Wrong. How could she have been so wrong? How could she have broken her rules and been willing to set them aside for this man?

The pain of this deception sent her back in time—back to a barn where Rothna had loomed over her with that axe in his hand.

Hadn’t she vowed in that instant never again to trust a man with the softest parts of her?

Hadn’t she vowed to build up her defenses so high and so strong that no one would ever be able to hurt her again?

The part of her, left vulnerable in the wake of the blast, now burrowed back down deep inside.

Hekla built up her walls. Pulled her warrior’s mask into place.

She wanted to scream. Wanted to stride into that room and punch Eyvind Hakonsson in his beautiful mouth.

Instead, she turned on her heel and strode away from his quarters.

Somehow, Hekla made it outdoors. The air in the yard was crisp with the late-autumn chill, the sun now descending from its zenith as the stable hands readied the horses for the next hard leg of the journey. She rushed behind the barn, then bent double, trying to control her nausea.

Betrothed. All this time, Eyvind had been betrothed. To think of the things she’d shared with him...and to think that after that explosion in Istré, she’d been open to the idea of a them .

It’s better to bruise now, she told herself, than to break later.

Swamped by her emotion, Hekla failed to see the small creature bounding along the fence until it was directly beside her. With a gasp, she whirled to face the squirrel.

Kritka looked very far to find you, came the child-like voice in her head. If we weren’t bound to you, Kritka might have lost your scent.

“No,” mumbled Hekla, stumbling back.

Protector must return to the woods. Our mistress is waiting .

“For the last time,” she said in a low voice, glancing around to ensure the stable hands could not hear her, “I am not your Protector.”

The squirrel reared up, releasing an angry chittering torrent. Kritka helped you, Protector. Kritka brought you gifts. Helped you seek answers about the dark thing. Now Protector must help our mistress.

She ran a frazzled hand over her hair. “I must return to Kopa. Seek help from others?—”

But the squirrel’s head cocked to the side, and coldness began to gather in Hekla’s gut. Long has our mistress been calling for help. Did Protector not find the symbols?

Hekla’s knees felt weak, the cold pit in her stomach widening. “Symbols?” she repeated numbly, but then she understood. The dead Klaernar strung by vines to the pillars. The Spiral Staves etched in blood all around them. The grove with that tree, Spiral Stave twisted into its bark...

“That was your mistress,” she said numbly.

The squirrel chittered in agreement. Mistress sent her wolves out to all corners of íseldur, to seek out the Protector. Kritka found the scent, and then lost it. But then we found you once more... You must help Kritka’s mistress. Only the Protector can defeat the dark thing.

“The dark thing,” repeated Hekla slowly. The mist?

The dark thing grows stronger, Protector. Now it can escape the woods. Soon it will venture even further.

Thoughts swirled inside Hekla’s skull. “And your mistress,” she asked the squirrel, “she can help defeat the mist?”

The squirrel tilted its head to the side and regarded her. Mistress is very wise—knows many things. Kritka knows only to fetch the Protector to free her.

Hekla folded her arms over her chest, regarding the small creature before her.

For so long, she’d rejected the notion that this squirrel could be more than a fever dream.

But in the past weeks, she had seen things beyond her wildest imaginings.

Was it truly such a stretch to think that there could be more?

And Hekla knew one thing for certain—if they were to defeat the murderous mist, they needed every weapon they could get their hands on.

“Very well, Kritka,” said Hekla, voice resolute.

The squirrel’s ears perked up, his tail twitching in excitement.

“I will do it. I will free your mistress. But first, I must go to Kopa. We need reinforcements. And we must warn the others of the true dangers of this foe.”

With that, she turned her back on the squirrel, glad for a diversion from all that had transpired in the past hour. Hekla needed to fetch her bags. Needed to get away from this place—from Gunnar, who’d asked for her hand, and from Eyvind, who’d bruised her heart.

She needed to get to Kopa. Regroup and gather reinforcements.

And then, she would meet the mist in its own territory. This time, there would be no man to bar her—no rules for her to abide.

Hekla would defeat this mist, or it would defeat her.