Page 20 of The Viking in the Vault (Galactic Librarians #2)

RAGNAR

E lena is still here.

I wake to the first light of dawn spilling through the small window in the clinic, its pale snow-tinged glow illuminating the room in soft gold.

Elena breathes slow and calm in my arms, her head tucked against my chest. Her warmth grounds me in a way I’ve never felt before, steadying me in this unrecognizable world.

For the first time since waking, I feel at peace.

The moment doesn’t last.

The door creaks open, breaking the fragile stillness. My eyes snap open, catching the faint scent of someone unfamiliar—but there’s a trace of familiarity there, just enough to put me on edge. A Skoll female, if I’m not mistaken.

I sit up, tightening my hold on Elena instinctively. My gaze locks on the intruder: Davina Ferhalda.

The scholar I’d thought I could trust.

Elena stirs in my arms, blinking slowly as she wakes. She yawns softly, her head lifting just enough to glance in the direction of the door. The moment she registers Davina’s presence, her entire body stiffens. Her eyes widen, darting between Davina and me.

She bolts upright, pulling away from me in a rush.

I scowl, not satisfied with the sudden distance, and catch her wrist before she can fully escape. A low, dissatisfied growl rumbles from my chest as I pull her back, though I loosen my grip when she looks at me with a mix of surprise and embarrassment.

“What’s going on?” I grunt, my tone sharper than intended.

Davina raises her chin, her expression one of faint disapproval. “I’m here with news,” she says briskly, her voice clipped. “I just arrived from Mythara with some colleagues.”

“And?”

She huffs, clearly annoyed. “And we’ve cleared you—medically speaking—but there is still much to learn about your language. A whole dictionary, a translator algorithm to synthesize—and…”

She pauses.

I catch a strange scent in the air. My body tenses immediately.

It’s faint but unmistakable. Alien.

“…there’s someone who has arrived to help us with that,” Davina finishes, but her words barely register. My focus has already shifted, my senses sharpening.

“What is this?” I murmur, my voice low and edged with suspicion. My eyes narrow toward the door, where the scent is strongest. “Who did you?—”

Before Davina can answer, the door opens again.

And they walk in.

Skin and hair white as snow, a flowing cascade of purest alabaster. Eyes black as the void, gleaming like polished onyx.

A Borean.

I’m on my feet in an instant, squaring up to the door with my fists clenched and muscles coiled. My chest rises and falls in heavy, measured breaths as my gaze locks on the figure. The blood in my veins thrums with the heat of memories, battles fought, comrades lost.

The Boreans.

No.

I was told they were extinct. Wiped out by their own hubris and the enemies they made. Yet here stands one of them, as pale and unrelenting as the storms that once howled through the frostbound highlands of Kanin.

“Elena, stay back,” I say in Skoll, my voice a low growl as I fling a sheltering arm in front of her.

I hear Davina’s voice somewhere in the background, sharp and commanding. “Don’t panic,” she says, her words quick and urgent. “This is?—”

But I can’t hear the rest. Her voice is drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears, the pounding of my heartbeat. Centuries of enmity coil in my muscles, fueling the tension as I prepare for what’s to come.

And then I see his face.

The features are sharp, regal, unmistakably Borean. But there’s something else, something familiar. The way he holds himself—not like a warrior, but like a scholar. He’s dressed in civilian clothes similar to those popular among these modern folk, all black, a human female right behind him.

The realization slams into me like a thunderclap.

“It can’t be,” I whisper, my voice rough with disbelief.

The Borean stops just inside the room, his black eyes scanning me with a mixture of curiosity and caution. He cocks his head at the expression on my face, frowning.

I step forward and pull him into a one-armed embrace, laughing. “Yrsa has surely blessed us this day!” I chuckle. “Thorne Valtheris…is it really you?”

He looks more confused than anything else, the human female behind him watching us with an equally perplexed expression. Thorne lets out a surprised grunt as I put him down again, grinning.

“I truly thought the empire had killed you!” I tell him. “After we left M’mir…what a surprise.”

Thorne takes a step back, brushing his hands over his clothes to collect himself. His expression is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—caution.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he says slowly. “It’s been…a very long time. You know me, then?”

It hits me like a bucket of cold water.

He doesn’t know me.

My heart sinks, and I’m sure it shows on my face. The Thorne I knew was sharp, brilliant, with a mind that could outmaneuver any Borean politician. But the man before me is…different. He looks the same—as his kind often do—but there’s a weariness to him.

It occurs to me that, while I slept, he stayed awake.

Four thousand years.

“It’s me,” I say, thumping a fist against my chest. “Ragnar Stormborne. We built this very library together…fought side by side for Skoll independence. Surely you remember.”

Thorne’s brows furrow, and he tilts his head slightly, studying me as though piecing together a long-forgotten puzzle. The human woman behind him leans in, whispering something in his ear, and he nods absently.

“Ragnar Stormborne,” he repeats, testing the name like it’s a fragment of a dream. Then, slowly, his eyes widen. “Ah. Yes. M’mir. The liberation campaigns. You were…one of Tor’s scouts, weren’t you?”

I let out a bark of laughter, relief washing over me. “More like a thorn in the empire’s side, thanks to you. You gave us the strategies we needed to outmaneuver their forces—and the courage to believe we could win.”

He looks me over again, his sharp black eyes tracking the markings on my arms, the crown of my antlers. There’s something calculating in his gaze, but not unkind—just taking stock, as if I’m a relic he never expected to see again.

“That was a long time ago,” he says, the words slow, careful. Then he huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “A very long time ago.”

His voice is smoother than I remember, his tone carrying an odd cadence, casual but sharp-edged.

I remember Thorne as a brilliant tactician, a scholar who could outmaneuver Borean politicians with a single well-placed essay, but this version of him is…

different. A little rougher around the edges. More at ease in his own skin.

“Much has changed since then,” he adds, rubbing his jaw as he takes another long look at me, like he’s seeing a ghost. “And judging by your reaction, I take it nobody bothered to explain just how much.”

I grunt. “I’ve…gotten the general sense.”

“Right. So you woke up in a different century, lost everything you knew, and now the academics are poking at you like a museum exhibit.” He shrugs, a dry smirk tugging at his lips. “That tracks. Welcome to the future, Stormborne.”

I blink at him. “You sound…” I hesitate, trying to find the words.

“Like a man who’s been alive long enough to get over himself?” Thorne supplies helpfully. “Yeah, that happens after a few centuries. The whole ‘mysterious immortal wisdom’ thing gets old fast.”

I huff a laugh despite myself.

Some things about him haven’t changed.

“And you?” I ask, searching his face. “What happened to you, after M’mir?”

Thorne exhales sharply, running a hand through his too-white hair.

“Oh, you know. The empire crumbled, my people committed spectacular levels of self-destruction and war crimes, and I had the fun, soul-crushing privilege of watching it all happen in real time. Turns out, knowing you were on the wrong side of history doesn’t get any easier just because you wrote a few impassioned essays about it. ”

His voice is flippant, but there’s an edge to it, something bitter underneath the sarcasm. He meets my gaze, his usual sharpness softening just a fraction.

“I tried,” he says simply. “Not enough, obviously. But I tried.”

There’s nothing I can say to that. Nothing I should say. I let the words settle between us, unspoken but understood.

And then, because this world refuses to give me a moment’s peace, Thorne’s gaze flicks to Elena.

“And your companion?” he asks. “I fear we haven’t been introduced.”

Elena notices his attention and puts her hand out to him in greeting, smiling. I tamp down the urge to growl at Thorne–purely instinctive–as he shakes her hand and speaks to her in her language. I hear her name and a couple other words that are becoming familiar, but I can’t make out the rest.

Thorne looks back at me. “Your scent is on her,” he says in Ancient Skoll.

I square my shoulders, towering over him. “Well…she is mine.”

“I hate to inform you that things don’t exactly work that way anymore,” he says. “But I digress; you’d probably like to talk to her, hm?”

I narrow my eyes at Thorne, not appreciating the condescension in his voice, but I know he’s right about one thing—I do want to talk to her. More than anything.

Still, I cross my arms over my chest, standing my ground. “I have spoken to her.”

Thorne snorts. “Grunting possessively in her general direction doesn’t count, Stormborne.”

Elena watches us with growing exasperation, her eyes flicking between us like she’s trying to decide if she’s witnessing an ancient reunion or a territorial standoff.

I reach for her then, an instinctive need to reassure, to ground myself in her presence. But she steps slightly to the side, her arms crossing, her expression unreadable. My jaw tightens.

Thorne’s eyes flick between us before he clicks his tongue. “See? This is why we talk to people instead of just—” He waves a vague hand in my direction. “—looming over them and declaring them ours like we’re still living in some pre-spacefaring war band.”

I am living in a pre-spacefaring war band.

Or at least, I was. And the way he says it—like it’s something primitive, something wrong—grates against every instinct in my body.

I force myself to unclench my fists, though the tension in my shoulders refuses to ease.

Thorne watches me with that unreadable expression, one part amused, one part resigned, and wholly irritating.

Elena exhales sharply, rubbing at her temples like she’s developing a headache.

Then she starts blabbering–more to Thorne and his female than to me.

The words pour from her mouth, sharp and clipped, as she gestures between us, to the door, to herself–even to Davina, still lingering at the entrance.

I know none of them. They roll off her tongue too fast, too smooth, meaningless syllables that might as well be birdsong for all the sense they make to me.

She huffs, waves a hand in frustration, then speaks again, her voice rising slightly as if more words will make me understand.

I don’t.

And it frustrates me more than I care to admit.

Thorne raises an eyebrow, nodding along. Then he sighs and switches to her tongue, rolling his shoulders like this is all some great burden on him. His female chimes in as well, glancing from me to Elena.

I grit my teeth as the three of them exchange more words—too fast, too much—and I catch my name in the mix. I straighten immediately, glaring between them. “What are you saying?” I demand in Ancient Skoll, my voice low and sharp.

Thorne finally turns back to me, exasperated.

“She was asking if we can work faster on a solution for your little communication problem,” he says in Ancient Skoll, dry as dust. “To which I, being the benevolent soul that I am, informed her that we’re working on a translator, and that you might finally be able to talk to her instead of just looming and growling like a grumpy skarnhound. ”

I let out a low growl at that, more out of frustration than anything else, but Thorne just smirks like he enjoys needling me. Meanwhile, his female is speaking to her, and it irks me that I still have no idea what they’re saying.

“Is it alright if my mate takes your fenvarra to lunch?” Thorne asks, eyes sliding from them to me.

I tense immediately. The word mate—his mate—rings in my ears, a claim spoken so easily, so casually. There is no question of it, no uncertainty. Mate. As if it were that simple.

I exhale through my nose, glancing at Elena.

She’s watching us with open curiosity, her eyes flicking between me and the Borean’s female—Page, I think.

She’s smiling, gesturing toward the door as she speaks, and Elena, despite her obvious frustration at being caught between languages, seems to understand something of the offer.

Her shoulders relax, her lips quirk at the edges.

She trusts them.

And that, above all else, makes my decision for me.

I don’t like it. Not one bit. But I nod. Once.

Thorne smirks slightly—just enough to make my fists itch—but he doesn’t push his luck.

He murmurs something in his mate’s tongue, and Page claps her hands together before motioning for Elena to follow her.

Elena hesitates at the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder.

Her expression is unreadable, but something about the way she looks at me—like she’s leaving something unsaid—sends a tightness through my chest.

Then, with a small wave, she’s gone.

Thorne exhales, watching her go before turning back to me. “She’ll be fine,” he says. “Page has a way of making people feel at ease.”

I huff but say nothing, rolling my shoulders as I try to rid myself of the tension clinging to me like frost.

“So,” Thorne says, settling onto a chair. “Let’s see how much of this translator project we can knock out before she gets back, yeah?”

I exhale sharply and lower myself onto the opposite chair, bracing myself for what’s to come.

I will learn their words. I will speak to her.

And when she returns, I will finally tell Elena what she means to me.