Page 16 of The Magic of Vanaheim

Closing his fingers around his hidden blade, Håkon surged forward. A precise cut to the boy’s throat should do the trick. Håkon didn’t fancy killing him, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d make it quick.

The boy turned to Håkon, raising his hand in a futile gesture to protect himself. It was perhaps best Håkon finished him off now, for such a meek creature could not survive on the throne for long.

Crashing into an invisible barrier, Håkon was pushed back against the pool’s edge.

What in Hel’s name?

He was aJotunnwarrior, his whole body covered in magic-repelling runes. No spell should’ve been able to stop him.

The boy flicked his wrist.

Something curled around Håkon’s body, a cold, unyielding touch. He was lifted out of the water and thrown on the hard floor; the impact knocking the breath out of him. The entire chamber erupted in screams as three guards wrestled Hrungnir to the floor, while others hurried to overwhelm the rest of theJotunndelegation.

Groaning in pain, Håkon tried to get back to his feet. His chest stung with a freezing touch, and he collapsed again.

“Seize Bloodaxe!” Frekegar shouted.

The guards closed in on him, and Håkon gripped his dagger tighter. He only managed to rise into a crouch with difficulty, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“No, you don’t,” Talvi growled, and Håkon was pushed down again by the invisible, icy touch.

Håkon gasped. It was suddenly hard to breathe. With the stunned detachment of the defeated, he watched Talvi rise from the bath. Rivulets of water ran down his body, and Håkon’s gazewas involuntarily drawn from the man’s muscular chest down to his dark pubic hair and half-hard cock. Battle, fear, danger, and victory—all these things could arouse a man, Håkon knew. But the sight made a shiver ofsomethingrun down Håkon’s spine.

“Greetings, Prince Håkon.”

With a lazy hand gesture, the boy made a towel wrap around his hips. Confidently, he walked over to where Håkon was sprawled on the floor, leaving wet prints in his wake. Gesturing to his warriors to stay back, he didn’t seem to doubt for one second that his spell would hold.

Gritting his teeth, Håkon pushed against the power holding him down. He’d never experienced anything like this. Usually, his tattoos swallowed any spell directed at him without Håkon even noticing, but now he was immobilized, a touch like ice tracing every swirl of ink on his body.

“Now, did your father send you to kill me, or are you here in your sister’s stead?” The boy grinned as if he dealt with assassination attempts every day. Håkon felt the irrational urge to chastise him for his recklessness.

But instead of doing the sensible thing and putting a knife between Håkon’s ribs, Talvi crouched down in front of him and gently brushed Håkon’s tousled hair away to get a proper look at his face.

Håkon had no idea what to say; the heat of shame flushed his face. What a despicable picture he must make; defeated, his body tangled in the flimsy fabric of a woman’s shawl. How could it have come to this? How could he have failed even this simple mission to kill an unsuspecting boy?

Curling his fingers around Håkon’s jaw, Talvi forced him to lift his chin. However, his touch was surprisingly gentle.

“Håkon,” he breathed. “It’s really you.”

“Y–yes?”

A soft smile lit up the boy’s face, giving him the appearance of someone who’d been surprised with a precious gift. Oh, Håkon had been a fool. He thought he’d been so clever. But this strange young man had seen right through his ridiculous disguise, hadn’t he?

“What are you doing here?” Talvi asked softly, almost as if Håkon was an intriguing riddle to him.

His fingers skimmed featherlight over Håkon’s jaw and caressed his cheekbone. Håkon had to suppress the urge to lean into the touch. He was unable to avert his eyes from the boy’s face. He couldn’t pull away and he couldn’t think straight.

“We’re under attack!” A shieldmaiden stormed into the room. “Your Highness! TheJötnarare attacking!”

Attacking? An unexpected stab of hurt pierced Håkon’s gut. Brogar might have been able to plant a traitor in their delegation, but a full-blown attack? That had to be Bergelmir’s decision, and of course, he hadn’t considered Håkon important enough to let him in on his plans, even if his survival depended on it.

Hrungnir’s maniacal laughter filled the bathhouse, echoing eerily off the tiles.

“What’s so funny?” the boy growled.

“Your weakness,” Hrungnir hissed. “Your ignorance. Your patheticcrush.”

Twisting in the grip of the warriors holding him down, Hrungnir’s features rippled and changed. Where there’d been aJotunnwarrior with black hair and a shaggy beard only moments ago, suddenly sat a petite blonde woman. Avala. But none of Bergelmir’s priestesses. What was going on?