Page 41 of The Viking in the Vault (Galactic Librarians #2)

ELENA

T he fire burns low and blue at its center as it warms the whole cavern, Ragnar’s clan gathering around it. They— we— are here to do two things.

Mourn for their dead…and celebrate Ragnar’s mating.

I’m not really sure exactly what that means yet, but I’m confident it’s going to be weird. Okay, not weird—I think I’ve had to drastically change my definition of weird since I started this thing with Ragnar—but it might be…uncomfortable, I guess?

We’ll figure it out.

We gather in a wide ring, Ragnar holding me tight at his side, the other Skoll looking at me with curiosity.

Back when they went into the ice, the Skoll hadn’t even met humans yet; I’m fully alien to them, small and antler-less, with skin and eyes a different color than they’re used to.

Strangely enough, they look at me with less hostility than some humans with different skin colors do.

But that’s beside the point.

Axl stands beside the fire, the de facto leader of the group, holding something wrapped in leather.

They kneel and begin to unwrap the object, and I realize that it’s an axe: the blade chipped and worn, the hilt smooth from years of use…

but the inlaid stones still glimmer. I recognize the pattern as a prominent constellation for the Skoll: Yrsa’s Cradle.

“This was hers,” Axl says. “Forged when Syf took the oath to save Kanin. It served her through war, through exile, and with it, she slayed many a Borean warrior.” They pause. “Now it will serve her once more.”

From a pouch at their side, Axl draws something small and iridescent—a shard of crystal, I think, though it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen. Axl draws closer to the fire, then throws the axe into its center, then the crystal—and when they drop it in, a sound bursts from the hearth.

Not a crackle, not a roar, not the shrill sound one might expect from metal cracking and melting…but a note.

Clear and high, like a bell.

The fire surges blue-white, then violet, then green.

Sparks erupt and spiral upward, swirling around the axe.

The gemstones catch the light and flare, and then, slowly, they begin to melt…

not like metal, but like starlight unraveling.

Threads of color dance upward in twisting ribbons of cerulean, gold, and rose.

Someone across the circle starts to sing, repeating Ancient Skoll words in a rhythmic, melodic verse. Others join in, unstructured, making up their own harmonies. Not all are great singers, but they sing all the same.

I hum along with them…and Ragnar holds me tighter as he starts to sing in a beautiful, deep voice. His voice sends a shiver down my spine—not polished or practiced, but rich with mourning.

The last addition to the song? The skarnhounds, Fenrik among them. They start to howl along with the singing, woven between the voices. The sound rises into the arching dome of the glacier, echoing back in waves that make my eyes sting.

This isn’t just for Syf. It’s for all of them…for Eivan, still missing, for the long-dead warriors of Kanin. For the old world they lost.

And I sing along for my world, too—a world I’m still trying to save.

The song fades after what feels like a long time, leaving the space thick with memory. Some of the crew are crying, talking quietly with each other, sharing stories about the dead and missing.

Then Axl clears their throat. “To mourn is to honor. But it is not the end.”

They look at me, then at Ragnar.

“When we grieve, we live,” they say. “Life does not wait for the pain to pass. The life of a warrior is to walk beside grief, to sharpen joy against the blade of what we’ve lost.”

Around the fire, heads nod. Someone puts their fist to their chest, another shouts in agreement.

I nod along, suddenly feeling like I’m in church and very much out of place.

Ragnar turns toward me and takes my hands in his, all eyes trained on me. I stare up at him, and I’m sure my eyes are about as big as dinner plates as he kneels in front of me.

“Fenvarra,” he starts?—

—just as I say, “uh, if you’re about to propose?—”

We both stop talking and I blush, laughing softly and averting my gaze. Ragnar gently takes my chin in his fingers and tilts my face back to his.

“I do not know what it is you think I would propose,” he says. “But…I wish to introduce you to my clan as my one true mate.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. I think…yeah, I think this is basically an Ancient Skoll proposal, though I’m not sure what it entails and I really don’t like having all these eyes on me. It’s worse than a flash mob, even. A million times worse than a flash mob.

But I’m fully confident when I nod my head, focusing on his eyes instead of the ones watching us.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yes, I want that.”

Ragnar stands and lifts my hands, turning us both toward the fire. “To honor our dead…to continue to live and to live well…I wish to offer your Vethari tokens from my hoard,” he says. “To show her that she is of this clan, of this crew…our family.”

More Skoll nod and beat their fists against their chests as if this is the most normal thing in the world. Fenrik licks my elbow, whining softly.

“Axl,” Ragnar says, “did we recover any of my belongings from the Stormcaller…and is there a dwelling where I can take my mate?”

My face blushes bright red, because I’m not sure if ‘take my mate’ means just taking me somewhere or taking me biblically. Meanwhile, Axl doesn’t seem scandalized by the phrasing at all. They just nod and gesture to one of the crates near the fire.

“Your hoard was cry-locked in the captain’s quarters,” they say. “We salvaged it a few days ago for fear the ship would sink into the ocean…and yes, there is a tent for you, if you wish for privacy.”

The crowd hums in anticipation, a few Skoll offering murmured blessings. I am, at this point, vibrating with embarrassment—but also weirdly flattered.

Because they’re making space for me…for me , an alien they’ve never met before, purely on Ragnar’s word.

Ragnar doesn’t move right away. He just looks at me for a long moment, the firelight dancing in the deep gold of his eyes. His fingers tighten around mine—not in a way that hurts, but in a way that anchors. Claims.

“You have been welcomed,” he murmurs, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “But now I must seal it. I must show them…that you are mine.”

My breath catches, a whole array of instinctive reactions rising in me at once—shock, arousal, nerves, delight. I manage a half-laugh, half-exhale, searching his face.

“You mean…like now?”

A slow smile curls across his lips. “Yes. Now.”

He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. “Let them feast,” he says. “Let them rejoice.”

Then, quieter—richer: “You will come with me to the dwelling. And I will make you my mate in full.”

He doesn't wait for a response—not that I could give him one with my pulse thudding like this. Instead, he releases my hand just long enough to scoop the crate from the ground, tucking it under one arm, and offers the other to me.

The Skoll part like a tide as we pass through them, their voices lifting in joy, their howls echoing like a benediction behind us.

And I go with him—into the night, into the dark, into whatever this strange, glowing future might hold. Because I’m not a spiritual person, I never have been…but this?

This feels sacred.