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A brisk wind from the east billowed their sails as they neared the port of Saeborg. Standing at the dragon ship’s bow, Hakon was painfully reminded of that night four years ago when an army led by his half-brother had tried in vain to seize the sea fortress. Now, in the pale light of an early summer’s morning, they’d returned with a new ploy to conquer the city and end the reign of the Vanir once and for all. And most importantly, to save Anya from being wed to a prince regent whom she had never met and who most likely despised her for her ancestry.

“This is madness,” Gudrun mumbled next to him.

She wore the gray robes of a handmaid, her magic-deflecting tattoos hidden under gloves and a high collar.

“We can still slip away into the crowd of the harbor. You owe your father nothing and certainly not a measly death in a foolish attempt to assassinate Prince Rune.”

Guilt twisted in Hakon’s gut at taking Gudrun on this doomed endeavor. They’d been over the plan a thousand times, and their odds didn’t get any better. But although Hakon had implored Gudrun to let him sail alone, she was too loyal to abandon him.

“You should leave,” Hakon tried again. “Find a ship and go back to your little fishing village.”

“It’s a large village, and a dozen farms are scattered along the fjord,” Gudrun replied haughtily. “I rule there, as you know. You could come with me.”

Looking up at Saeborg’s star-shaped ramparts, Hakon sighed. “You know I cannot.”

“Then I won’t leave, either.”

“You’re just eager to see me married to a Vanr sorcerer.”

“I wouldn’t mind a proper wedding feast,”Gudrun said with a mischievous grin.

She stepped closer and offered him a delicate veil and a circlet that looked like it was made of ice flowers, the last pieces missing to complete his ridiculous disguise. He already wore a creamy white fur coat and a long, pale blue tunic with a silver belt, garments Anya should’ve worn on her wedding day, luckily not yet fitted for her slender frame. Hakon couldn’t help feeling like a thief.

“Cover your face before someone spots your ugly mug from the battlements and realizes you aren’t Anya.”

Hakon eyed the veil in distaste before pulling it over his head. He fumbled with the cloth until Gudrun took pity on him and batted his hands away.

“There,” she huffed. “What a pretty bride you are.”

“Very funny.”

“It’s not funny. Let’s hope the bloody Vanir will only have eyes for your beauty and oversee the fact that the king sent his only daughter into enemy territory with barely any protection.”

“Stop fretting, old hag,” Hakon grumbled, but Gudrun was right.

Despite having approved of the plan himself, his father had given them only a small delegation; one ship and a dozen warriors under the command of a man called Hrungnir; not exactly fitting for the Jotunn princess he was to impersonate. At least Bergelmir hadn’t been stingy with the wedding gifts. A whole chest filled to the brim with treasures sat in the belly of the ship. Hakon could only hope that the Vanir wouldn’t become overly suspicious when they realized that their supposed princess was traveling with a modest following.

Gudrun rolled her eyes and turned her gaze toward the citadel towering above them.

“By Hel , we’re doomed.”

At the mooring, they were greeted by a red-haired man with a dozen warriors in tow. Bergelmir had always insisted that the Vanir were nothing but a tribe of weaklings, foolishly relying on seier instead of steel. But as their failed attempt to raid Saeborg many years ago had shown, the truth wasn’t as simple.

Taking a deep breath, Hakon followed Gudrun onto the jetty. His eyes wandered over the bustling harbor, the lower town with its neat little houses, and up at the light-colored walls of the citadel, gleaming in the sunlight. No dark smudge left by sorcery or fire tainted the sandstone, and Hakon couldn’t find a house that showed any signs of damage, either. The Vanir had rebuilt properly.

“Welcome to Saeborg, Princess Anya,” the redhead greeted them. His hand never leaving the hilt of his ax, he regarded them wearily.

He was short and sturdy, and his braided hair fell to his back over a breastplate that seemed to comprise thousands of tiny golden scales. The armor looked so intricate and otherworldly, like a treasure made by the dwarves of Nidavellir. But the Vanir and the dwarves had been enemies for centuries. Could it be that they had forged a new alliance?

Nowadays, they knew so little about the other realms and their inhabitants. If it had been up to Hakon, he would’ve sent delegations and spies to every court they were still in relation with. How could Bergelmir hope their raids would bring rich plunder and that Jotunheim would be protected from their enemies if they were so oblivious?

Inclining his head silently, Hakon returned the warrior’s welcome.

“It’s customary to bow to a princess of Jotunheim,” Gudrun chided. “As is a formal introduction.”

“Oh, my bad,” the man said mockingly. “I’m Arngrim Frekegar, Captain of the Guard, and I’m honored to welcome you to Vanaheim, Princess Anya.”

Frekegar, oh yes. Hakon darkly remembered him from the ting . They might’ve even dueled on occasion, but that must’ve been many winters ago.

“My lady is tired,” Gudrun said, unimpressed. “Won’t you lead us to her quarters?”

“My chieftain wants to have a word with his betrothed first.”

Gudrun sent him a questioning glance. She’d surely thought that they would have some more time in private to talk. Maybe she’d even hoped to convince him to run, but he’d never let Anya down. Hakon was relieved that he’d meet his fate in the form of Vanaheim’s ruler soon.

He nodded firmly.

Frekegar regarded him with a strange look, probably wondering if the Jotunn princess sent to wed Prince Rune was foolish or mute. But then he merely shrugged and led the way.

They were led through the lower town, where the citizens of Saeborg gawked at them openly. It came as a welcome surprise that the Vanir only stared at them instead of hurling curses and rotten vegetables their way.

When they finally entered the citadel, Hakon’s breath caught in his throat. He’d known that the Vanir possessed riches—the whole point of his father’s raids and marriage schemes was to fill their treasuries with the gold of the sorcerers, after all. And Hakon had almost set foot into the citadel that fateful night when Brogar cowardly retreated and their raid failed. But he had never imagined the large halls decorated with marble and intricate silverwork so magnificent. No wonder Bergelmir desired to rule here.

They reached a massive oaken door, guarded by two shieldmaidens. The Vanir allowed women in their ranks. Another reason Bergelmir considered them inferior to the Jotnar .

“The prince regent’s private chambers,” Frekegar said, making an inviting gesture.

Hakon’s chest tightened with the familiar giddiness that came over him before battle. His fingers tingled with the urge to pull out the knives hidden under his coat, but not yet. He watched the double doors opening as if by magic. The chamber behind was flooded with sunlight, looking out over the harbor and the fjord. A round table covered with maps dominated the room and there, bent over an intricate model of the Nine Worlds, he stood. Hakon’s step nearly faltered.

“Did the princess already arrive? Oh —”

Curious green eyes fell on Hakon, and for a second he could’ve sworn the boy saw right through his disguise.

Hakon’s heart was pounding. Was this supposed to be the prince regent? He had grown a few inches since they had last seen each other, and his shoulders and chest had bulked up over the past few years, but it was undoubtedly the boy who had thwarted their raid. There was no mistaking that face in all the Nine Worlds. But Hakon wasn’t here to slay a random boy. Where was Prince Rune?

“Welcome to Vanaheim… Princess Anya.”

The boy bowed respectfully, and Hakon’s heart sank. Perhaps this marriage wouldn’t have been so bad for Anya after all. Who knew which horrible suitor Bergelmir would choose for her next? And here was Hakon, robbing Anya of the opportunity to marry a dashing young prince. But it was too late for such regrets now. He’d chosen this path, the strings of his fate aligning accordingly.

Inclining his head in return to the boy’s greeting, Hakon weighed his options. He could attack the Vanr right here while everyone was still oblivious to the threat Hakon posed, but he would have to be fast. The boy wore no armor, so maybe Hakon could land a deadly blow. Subtly shifting closer to his game, Hakon readied himself for attack.

Mirroring Hakon’s movement, the boy watched him with curiosity. Against his will, Hakon was fascinated by his confident posture, the way he never took his eyes off him. The boy from a few years ago had grown into a warrior, and he was as alert as a leader should be in a situation like this.

“My lady is tired,” Gudrun tried again. “Our journey was strenuous. Can’t we retreat for a moment, so she can rest and get presentable for the wedding ceremony?”

Not-Prince-Rune stepped closer still, his eyes raking over Hakon’s body. His intense focus made an excited shiver run down Hakon’s back.

“Your ward looks more than presentable. Bergelmir has indeed sent us Jotunheim’s most precious jewel.”

Pretty words. Hakon had to grant him that. Only instead of Hakon’s beautiful sister—the real jewel of Jotunheim—the Vanir had gotten an assassin disguised as a woman. And spouting this obvious nonsense about his alleged beauty had a cruelty all its own.

“What do you say to a shared meal before the wedding? You must be hungry,” the boy said. His friendliness disquieted Hakon.

Shaking his head, Hakon tried not to fidget. By the Norns, he’d expected the ruler of Vanaheim to be a weak sorcerer, an easy kill. He wasn’t prepared to wait for an opportunity when he was finally alone with his prey; when the Vanr let his guard down enough to allow a deadly strike. How was Hakon supposed to stay undetected for so long? He couldn’t talk, his voice would give him away immediately. And a meal would mean lifting his veil, and clean-shaven or not, he wouldn’t pass as a woman for one second in that case.

“No?” Stepping closer, the prince tried to catch Hakon’s gaze.

“If you won’t give my lady a moment to collect herself, we should get the handfasting ceremony over with quickly,” Gudrun interrupted. “We’ve traveled far. Princess Anya is exhausted.”

The boy smirked at Hakon, his features lighting up with mischief. It was a good look on him.

“I’ve just the idea. Why don’t we start with the bathing ceremony?”

“Bathing?” Gudrun gasped. “No. It’s not customary in Jotunheim to—”

Taking Hakon’s hand, the prince locked eyes with him. He was so close. Still, Hakon knew he wouldn’t have enough time to draw his blade and deliver a precise cut. There were too many guards around them, too many opportunities for the prince to parry or twist away. But Hel , standing this close, the Vanr must realize that Hakon wasn’t his promised princess.

“I don’t expect you to undress in front of an audience or prance around in the bath for the whole court to watch you. How about we complete the ceremony in private? Just you and me?”

“My prince—” Frekegar interrupted, obviously not fond of the idea.

“Agreed,” Hakon squeaked, voice pitched high with nerves. This was his chance. If they were alone, he could make sure Vanaheim’s ruler died.

“Good.” The prince sounded so pleased. It was as if he couldn’t wait to get his bride-to-be alone and into the bath with him.

Anger bubbled up in Hakon’s chest. So that’s how it was. This Vanr bastard couldn’t wait to get his hands on a scared girl of barely sixteen summers! Hakon couldn’t wait to teach him a deadly lesson.

Smiling, the Vanr gently pulled Hakon towards the door leading deeper into the royal chambers.

“Follow me, Princess.”