Page 46 of The Viking in the Vault
“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.
