Page 73 of The Ashborn

“Aye, I know of you, Broan Darsen. You’re awaited. This way, if it suits you,” she said, stepping aside for Broan and Ithril to enter.

The maiden led them through a hall and deep into the rocky formation of the mountain. Great flames kept the path well lit; a warm greeting compared to the jarl’s council room. When they reached an intricately carved door, the maiden opened it to reveal a dining hall, its walls dark and smooth, veined with silver and iron. A single, long table stretched the length of the room, crafted from rich, blackened wood and set low enough to feel grounded. The legs were carved in the likeness of roaring bears, paws resting atop bronze spheres.

Yrsa stood as Broan entered. She had changed into a brown dress, stitched with pale patterns near the hem. Her cloak draped over her shoulders, heavy with fur and edged in gold. Two Vikings flanked her, a man and a woman. “My ghost,” Yrsa said. “Ingrid. Lief. Stand for yer brother.”

The lad stood first. Fresh out of boyhood, Lief was shorter than the rest, with dark brown hair falling past his shoulders, tied back halfway. His deep brown eyes were steady and set him apart from Yrsa. His skin held a warm, sun-burnished tone. He wore thick furs layered over a well-worn leather tunic.

“This is Lief,” Yrsa said, her voice steady. “Yer brother. Watcher of the Mountain Walls. And this,” she pointed to the woman, now standing. She turned to Broan. “This is Ingrid. General of the Viking Warband.”

Now, this woman was formidable. Her deep, sea-colored eyes bore into Broan. She stood tall and confident, as if the world should have bent to her will. Her dark mahogany hair was long and shaved at one side, the other bound by braids etched with carved metal. Her arms were tattooed with sigils of the bear alongside ancient texts. She wore a scar on her face similar to their father’s. Broan rubbed his cheek, wondering if it was a rite of passage. Ingrid glanced at Broan before her gaze flicked to the Elvish woman behind him. “Didn’t know we opened our doors to pointy-eared strays.”

Yrsa tsked. “We’re hostin’ tonight, Ingrid. Mind yer tongue and show some manners. The Elvish are the ones who found him.”

Ingrid would be tough to crack. Perhaps a proper opponent for once. Lief, on the other hand, appeared to be more twig than blood and eager to be there. Broan grunted and nodded toward them. “This is Tightstrings.” Ithril cleared her throat. Broan smiled but didn’t correct himself.

“Sit yerselves down.” Yrsa waved her hand to the empty seats next to Lief and Ingrid.

Broan led Ithril to the seat closest to Ingrid and took his place next to Lief. Behind him, a large hearth flickered with flames from a sculpted bronze grate shaped like a bear’s gaping maw. Warmth radiated.

The door opened again shortly after Broan and Ithril sat. Jarl Harlik approached with focused intent. He glanced around the room, eyes falling to Broan as he approached his chair at the head of the table. “Yrsa,” Harlik nodded.

She returned the nod. “My Bear.”

A scowling exhale escaped from the jarl when he addressed the rest of the table, scanning Ingrid first, followed by Lief—where he lingered too long—then he glared at Broan. Finally, he found Ithril. “Who in the gods’ name invited her to dine?”

“She is my guest,” Broan said, standing from the table.

The jarl simply howled a laugh. “Yer a lover of elves.”

Broan couldn’t quite understand why that was a bad thing, respecting the army that strengthened his magic and pulled him from River Storm. Jarl Harlik thought it was a strong enough retort, though, as did Ingrid, who snorted. Broan only huffed and smiled. “Considering Ithril could strike you with her arrow before you even drew your battle axe, I’d say she’s skilled enough to gain my respect.”

Ithril shifted, her eyes smiling as she fought against her lips.

“I don’t care who you fuckin’ respect,” the jarl sneered as food trays were carried into the hall. The scent of roasted meat, smoked herbs, and mountain pine hung in the air. “You’ll do well to be careful, boy. Yer Elvish are no lovers of the Viking.”

Broan shared a glance with Ithril. She didn’t seem to respond to Harlik’s accusation, but she did admit to the relationship being strained before they got there. At the fault of whom, she never said. Broan curled his lip and then turned back to Harlik. He sat and said, “I’m fucking starving. Do we eat, or do we continue questioning who loves whom?”

Harlik scoffed and waved his hand. “Thora. Plate.”

The woman who had greeted Broan at the door stepped forward and curtsied to the jarl. “Aye, My Lord.” She reached across Broan and carved into the roast sitting on the table, garnished with herbs. “My pardon, Lord. I’ll tend yer plate once the jarl has his.”

As if that wasn’t about to go to Broan’s head. He grinned as he looked at Ithril. Ingrid stared at him from across the table, lips puffed in a sneer. “Why are you here?” she asked.

Lief leaned over, peering between the maiden, Thora’s, arms. “Best you pardon Ingrid. She’s sour company at the best of times.”

Yrsa placed her hand on Ingrid’s and squeezed, perhaps as a warning. Ingrid sucked inward and clicked her tongue against her teeth. Their mother turned toward the open table as Thora plated for everyone else. When she reached Ithril, her eyes shifted toward the jarl. He twitched his neck to dismiss her, and she stepped back.

Broan blinked. Did he ever come off as this uninviting to others? He stood and pushed his plate to Ithril, taking her empty one. He could plate for himself anyway. Letting others do it only reminded him of dinners at the castle in River Storm, and he’d been subject to enough of those.

“Broan.” Yrsa’s voice tickled against his ears, the way she said his name with the warmth of a mother. “Tonight, we honor yer return. Shall we speak no more of the Elvish?”

“Depends.” Broan set his plate down and folded his arms. “Can you be more respectful to the one in front of you?”

“Aye,” Yrsa said.

Lief nodded as well. Ingrid only grunted, and the jarl chewed his bits of meat. Broan sat again, giving a low, single nod to Ithril.

“Tell me,” the jarl said in between bites. “When they said you’d be meetin’ yer kin, what was yer first reaction?”