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His half-brother was blindsided by Hakon’s first feint. Stopping the descent of his battle ax at the last second, Hakon watched a crimson drop of blood running down Brogar’s throat like a grotesque tear.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Tingvalley was illuminated by hundreds of torches and campfires like a myriad of stars fallen from the skies, and the whole place of assembly was bustling with warriors and horses, skalds and noble folks, commoners and whores. Many clans and kings had gathered to worship the gods, talk treaties, promise marriages, celebrate, and, of course, test their strength in the Ting Tournament.

And now all of them had the pleasure to witness the crown prince of the Jotnar lose a duel to his bastard brother.

Leaving the blade at Brogar’s throat a few heartbeats longer than necessary, Hakon savored the moment. He would never rule over Jotunheim, never sit on the Frostland Throne, but at least in battle and on the field of tournament he could show his father that he was more than a useless bastard. When Hakon finally stepped back, his brother threw his sword at Hakon’s feet and stormed off to his pavilion with an angry scowl etched on his face. Hakon grinned. Their father wasn’t going to be amused. But no matter how King Bergelmir would punish Hakon for making the crown prince look weak in front of their enemies, this was worth it.

Gudrun appeared next to him, clapping him on the shoulder and offering him a mead-filled horn.

“All hail, Hakon Bloodaxe!” she roared, and the crowd echoed her words, chanting his name.

The elation of victory made Hakon’s chest light, and he enjoyed the feeling while it lasted.

“You fought well,” Gudrun smirked. “Your useless brother is going to be livid, though, having lost against you once again.”

Hakon shrugged. “Brogar doesn’t need a reason to hate me.”

“He’s a fool,” Gudrun said. “I’ve seen my fair share of great warriors. Your father was a sight to behold back in the day, but you’re something else.”

Feeling a blush rise to his cheeks, Hakon hid his face behind his drinking horn. He watched the first warriors and nobles pouring onto the tournament field. Everybody would be eager to talk and drink with him tonight and even present him with small gifts.

“Well—” Hakon mumbled. Gudrun’s praise made his gut twist with a strange mixture of delight and disgust. “Great warriors bleed and die as everyone else.”

“Not you,” someone said behind him.

Whirling around, Hakon found a boy of maybe six or seven winters standing there as if he belonged on the tournament field. He had no idea where the child had come from, nor had he heard his steps. How strange. The boy’s fine, dark tunic and breeches were smeared with mud, but he was clearly the son of a free man or even a noble.

It wasn’t becoming of a warrior to bother talking to a child, but having grown up as a bastard son, Hakon remembered all too well how it had felt to be ignored all the time. And something about the earnest way the boy regarded him, his green eyes almost glowing in the low light, gave him pause. Also, he had to respect that the boy managed to get to him before everyone else. A smile tugged at Hakon’s lips as he leaned down.

“You think I fought well, little one?”

“You won the tournament at the last ting , and you’re going to win again. You’re the best warrior in the Nine Worlds.”

The boy spoke with a thick accent, rolling the ‘ r ’ in an adorable fashion. His reverence, however exaggerated, made Hakon chuckle.

“Too much honor, I fear, although your words are very flattering. Do you want to learn the trade of war when you grow up?”

The boy scrunched up his nose as if Hakon had said something confusing. “Uncle teaches me.”

No father, then, but at least family. Hakon found this weirdly reassuring.

“Very well,” he said, not knowing what else to tell the boy. Perhaps he should’ve promised him he would grow up to be a great warrior, but that would’ve simply been insincere. What did Hakon know about the boy’s fate, after all?

Looking over his shoulder as if he heard someone calling out for him, the boy started to fidget. He cleared his throat.

“Here.” The boy stepped closer, pushing a small trinket into Hakon’s hand. “Would you consider giving me your hand in marriage, Prince Hakon?”

“What?”

Hakon stared uncomprehendingly at the small ring shimmering in his palm. It appeared to be made of copper, barely big enough to fit around his little finger, with a dainty green stone in the center.

“Would you become my husband? When I’m grown up, of course.”

“I’m no prince,” Hakon said, perplexed. What was the boy talking about? Maybe he’d misheard? The boy didn’t speak the tongue of the Jotnar perfectly, after all.

“Now, don’t be rude, Hakon. Our young lordling is certainly a good catch.” Gudrun roughly poked his side. She was clearly amused by the situation.

The boy, however, regarded Hakon with an intense focus. It made him seem older, lending him something that Hakon could only describe as an aura of power. He could suddenly imagine that this boy might indeed grow up into a mighty warrior.

“Yes, of course. It’d be an honor,” Hakon stuttered, unsure what to do with this strange child.

Gudrun laughed at his clumsy response, but the boy’s face lit up with such a sincere, elated smile that Hakon couldn’t be cross.

Drawing himself up a little taller, hands clasped behind his back, the boy bowed.

“I promise you, I’m going to be worthy of you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be—” Hakon floundered, but the boy nodded at him as if he’d spoken timeless wisdom.

“I have to leave now,” the boy said, and with that he turned on his heels, disappearing between the tents like a shade.

Hakon blinked. “What was that about?”

Gudrun chuckled. “You’ve got a suitor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Maybe he meant he wanted me to attend his wedding?”

Yeah, that would be a reasonable explanation. A powerful warrior’s blessing was considered good luck in many homesteads across the Nine Worlds.

“You’re adorable,” Gudrun cooed. “But believe me, the boy meant what he said.”

“Huh?”

“You realize that the customs of the Vanir are vastly different from ours, right?”

Should the boy have been one of the accursed sorcerers of Vanaheim? He couldn’t imagine.

“The Vanir are weak,” Hakon said.

Gudrun’s lips twisted. “Are they?”

“Lesser gods, relying on magic to protect themselves. Pathetic.”

Absentmindedly, Hakon placed the little ring over his heart. He could feel the magic-repelling protection of the runic tattoos covering his chest and arms pulsing beneath his skin. They would ward off any attempt to enchant him unless it was really powerful.

“Sure,” Gudrun hummed. “Although, you would be crown prince if it were for the laws of the Vanir .”

Hakon didn’t look at her. He knew that many people, not least his father, expected him to try to usurp the throne at some point. But as much as he hated his half-brother, he wouldn’t plunge Jotunheim into a war of succession and make it easy prey for their foes.

“Doesn’t matter,” he grumbled, turning toward the warriors already surrounding them.

Unsure what to do with the boy’s gift, he slipped the ring in the pouch on his belt.