Page 88 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Njall’s hands tightened behind his back as he forced his own body to bend.

“Be gone.” Oorlon waved a languid hand. “Don’t fail me.”

Njall spun, leaving before Haskir or Damlor could attempt conversation. Outwardly he kept his jaw set and his expression calm. Inwardly, another surge of anger rose.

As did panic.

Cursed goddesses, he would be away for nearly a week. A week. He could not leave the girl alone—and starving—in his quarters.

Chapter 42

Njall

Of all the souls bound to Selenar’s cold courtesies, there was only one Njall trusted. One who chose honesty over comfort and did not contort himself to suit the room.

Njall did more than trust him. He admired him.

The training yard rang with midday steel and the bark of commands. Sunlight spilled across frost-dusted sand, flashing along silver hilts and the movement of bodies. Pietre stood at the center of it all, sparring with a knot of fae soldiers.

“Pietre!” Njall called across the yard, louder than necessary.

There was no acknowledgment. Pietre slipped past his opponent’s guard and disarmed him in a single sweep. A ripple of groans moved through the watching Norrelians.

“Pietre!” Njall tried again.

This time Pietre’s face pinched in confusion before recognition followed. He clapped one of the defeated fae on the shoulder and jogged toward Njall.

“Training or courting admiration?” Njall laughed by way of greeting.

Pietre grinned through the sheen of sweat. “A bit of both, I suppose,” he said after catching his breath. “What brings you here? Hoping to demonstrate your own talents?”

Njall crossed his arms. “Thought I’d see how you were faring.”

“Oh,” Pietre said, rolling his shoulders, “just another glorious round of teaching fae how to hit each other harder, pretending it’s strategy.”

Njall huffed a laugh. “At least it keeps you honest.”

“Honest. Sore. And perpetually outnumbered.” Pietre grinned, then tilted his head. “You look as though you’ve been chewed up and sent back… Is everything all right?”

Njall’s smile faded. “Someone challenged me for Champion.”

Pietre’s iron-dark eyes widened.

“I won,” Njall said with a small shake of his head. “I’m Champion for a while still. But it’s the task Oorlon bestowed upon me that’s likely doing the damage.”

Pietre lifted a blond brow. “Another raid? Stealing humans with eyes like bruised fruit out of their beds at night?”

Njall glanced around the yard, then nodded toward a quieter corner.

A faint hum passed through the air as Njall drew a small current of Norrelian wind to veil their voices. He told Pietre everything: the audience with Oorlon, the truth of fae and human blood, the discovery of oraivane and the sinister purpose of Celestine Isle.

He omitted nothing, including his disgust.

When Njall finished, Pietre whistled under his breath. “So… that’s how we ended up like this. No tricks. No glow. And the colors in our eyes are what remains of your bloodlines?”

“That’s what he claims.”

Pietre gave a short laugh, more disbelief than humor. “That’s… absurd.”