Return to the Kingdom of Íseldur, where enemies become lovers and dark secrets hide around each corner, in the sequel to the Viking-inspired romantic fantasy In the aftermath of a harrowing journey, Silla Nordvig’s dreams of a simple life have been shattered. Beaten, betrayed, and reeling from the revelation of her true name, she flees Kopa with Reynir Galtung, the ruthless leader of the Bloodaxe Crew. But when they''re forced into hiding together, Silla soon discovers that Rey has been keeping secrets of his own. Stuck in a shield-home with the murderous man she thought she knew, Silla forms a new plan: master the magic flowing through her veins to save her sister. But before she can do that, Silla must face her most formidable opponent yet--her own inner demons. Saga Volsik has nothing to lose. They’ve murdered her family. Stolen her throne. And now they expect her to marry their son, but not if she can dismantle Queen Signe’s plans first. The only problem? The handsome Zagadkian dignitary who knows far too many of her secrets. Silla and Saga will need to find the strength to step into their destiny and stop chaos from sweeping across the land. Meanwhile, dark threads continue to weave themselves through Íseldur as magic long thought dead begins to wake.

Autorentext

Demi Winters is the author of romantic fantasy books featuring softer female leads, grumpy heroes, and immersive worlds. A lover of all things fairy-tale, fantasy, and romance, Winters lives in British Columbia, Canada, with her husband and two kids. When she’s not busy brainstorming fantastical worlds and morally gray love interests, Demi Winters loves reading and cooking.

Leseprobe
CHAPTER 1

Two days west of Kopa

Silla Nordvig had once vowed no force in this world could draw her to the true north of Íseldur, but clearly she’d underestimated the gods’ twisted sense of humor. Because here she was, on a horse with Axe Eyes, heading for that very place.

The canyon’s black walls climbed up on either side of them as Horse walked beside a flat-­bedded river. Nature had made a valid attempt to reclaim the space, moss and greenery carpeting the riverbanks and exposed ledges. But black volcanic stone dominated, the sheer canyon walls stark and raw in their beauty.

They’d ridden through the canyon for two full days now. The sun rose and set, the world moving on as though it hadn’t been smashed to pieces. But with each passing day, Silla’s spirits sank lower. It was starting to settle in—­there would be no Kopa.

Instead, there was Kalasgarde.

Silla exhaled. Rey claimed to know people in Kalasgarde who could help her hide from the queen and Klaernar. He thought it would be safe for her. But Silla knew better than to hope; her foolish heart had been bruised too many times. The truth was, there was no place safe for her. Not now that she knew her true name.

Eisa Volsik.

Heir of King Ivar’s sworn enemy. Hunted by Queen Signe for her mysterious, wicked plans. Political pawn to those in power. Easy reward for those who were not. The name brought nothing but misery. Chest tightening, Silla clamped her hands around the saddle horn until her knuckles grew white.

Not her. Not her. Not her.

Silla drew in a long breath. Exhaled it slowly.

Kopa had been Matthias’s decision, and Kalasgarde was Rey’s. As the days wore on, the idea of choosing for herself grew in Silla’s mind. Perhaps there were better options for her than the northern wilds of this kingdom. A southbound ship leaving Íseldur had a pleasing feel to it. She could go to the Southern Continent or Karthia, perhaps. Anywhere she could fade into obscurity.

For the time being, Silla had resigned herself to Rey’s plan. Istré for now. It was easier not to decide for herself. A relief, if she was being honest. But between the black walls of the canyon, Silla had nothing but time to think. To remember their names.

Ilías Svik. Matthias Nordvig. Skeggagrim.

Good men, all dead because of her. Perhaps living was her punishment. To wake each morning with the anguish of their blood on her hands, with the ache of Jonas’s betrayal etched into her soul, knowing that Metta was in the Klaernar’s prison, suffering at the hands of her captors.

Certainly, Silla bore the bruises of Kopa—­a beating so thorough that her eye had swelled up and her ribs ached with each slight movement. Even so, she couldn’t help but think she deserved far worse.

They rounded a bend, the canyon widening. The lower levels of the wall had eroded away in one spot, leaving a thin black spire topped with a wider rock.

“They call it Hábrók’s Hammer,” said Rey from behind her. “We will camp here tonight. There is an overhang there to shelter under. Plenty of grass for Horse . . .” Her mind drifted to the rumble of his voice along her back. It was impossible to keep their distance while on horseback, and in her exhaustion, she’d given up trying. Though she’d never admit it to anyone but herself, his presence behind her—­a solid wall of warrior—­was reassuring.

“Silla?”

She shook her head, trying to disperse the haze clouding her mind. Rey had dismounted and was staring at the small crescent-­shaped scar at the corner of her eye.

Stop staring at it! she wanted to scream. This scar was her damnation. It had allowed those men near Skarstad to identify her; it had gotten her father killed. Silla turned her head, dismounting from Horse.

Over the past days spent traveling together, she and Rey had settled into a routine of sorts. Mindlessly, Silla removed Horse’s saddle and brushed her down, while Rey pulled supplies from the saddlesack and set up camp. By the time Horse’s coat gleamed and she’d wandered to a lush patch of grass, Rey had a fire roaring. As it happened, he was remarkably adept at kindling a fire, even from the wettest wood.

She sank onto the grass. Pulled at an errant thread dangling from her cuff. It was Rey’s tunic, as were the breeches belted around her waist. His clothing swam on her, but it didn’t matter. She’d burned the red dress Valf had put her in. If only she could burn the memories of his hand, clutching her neck while the other went to his belt.

Scream, dear. I do so enjoy it.

Rey’s voice diverted her thoughts. “Tomorrow we’ll travel past a village. I’ll stop and have a falcon sent north to the warriors who will fetch you.” He paused, eyeing her. “And we shall reach Istré after dark.”

Silla’s temples throbbed at the mere thought of Istré. Days now, it had been the two of them plodding through this canyon. Here, she’d settled into a numb existence. Not quite safe, yet not quite in danger: It was an in-­between. But the words village and people had her survival instincts on edge, making her pulse beat erratically.

A weighted silence hung in the air, and Silla knew Rey was choosing his words. “You must eat more tonight, Silla.” He pulled a few strips of dried elk from his bag and offered them to her.

Silla stared at his outstretched hand. The thought of food made her stomach roil, and the thought of Kalasgarde was like an anchor tied to her, pulling her down, down, down. She felt lost and so very tired. Not just her body, but her bones.

Her soul.

But she took the dried elk all the same. Forced herself to bite into it. What she wouldn’t give for her skjöld leaves, to fly away from everything for a moment or two. Would there be an apothecary in Istré? Silla had lost all her belongings, sóla…