Page 48 of The Viking in the Vault
“Lots of cozy sweaters and coats,” I laugh. “And tea. Hot chocolate. Warm fires.”
“You almost make it sound appealing,” she snorts.
I shrug. “Didn’t get to see much snow where I grew up, so I’ve learned to make the most of it.”
Page rubs her hands together like she can will warmth back into them. “I don’t care how much tea you have—this is some bullshit.”
I laugh, pulling my pink puffer coat a little tighter around me as we start walking down the bustling street. “I take it you’re not a winter person?”
“Winter’s fine. This?” She gestures vaguely at the icy-blue sky, at the towering frost-crusted buildings and the winding streets dusted with fresh snow. “This is hell frozen over. I grew up in Boston. I know cold. But at least there, you get used to it. This place?” She shakes her head. “Nah. This is like the wind wants to kill you.”
I grin. “It is a little harsh.”
Page eyes me like I just said the sky is a little blue. “Where’d you grow up?”
“Florida.”
Now she really laughs. “No fucking way. And you’re okay with this?”
“Hey,” I shake my head. “Better than deadly hurricanes, right?”
Page groans as we push through the next gust of wind. “I don’t know, I’d take my chances with a hurricane over this ice planet bullshit.”
I laugh, my breath curling in the frigid air. The streets of Snowveil are bustling despite the cold, a mix of species weaving through the narrow pathways lined with softly glowing signage. Steam rises from street vendor stalls selling hot broth and roasted root vegetables, and the scent of something spicy drifts through the air, mingling with the ever-present crispness of ice.
Up ahead, the coffee shop comes into view—a cozy little place nestled between a Nyeri’i tech shop and a Skoll forge, the latter radiating heat even from across the street. The sign above the door is an elegant swirl of Skoll runes that my new translator downloads quickly, promising strong drinks and fresh pastries. The warm glow spilling from the windows is downright inviting after the trek through the icy streets.
Page practically bolts for the door.
The moment we step inside, a wave of warmth washes over me, chasing the chill from my fingers and toes. The interior is exactly what I hoped for—soft lighting, heavy wooden beams, thick Skoll furs draped over the seating. A massive hearth blazes at the far end of the room, its flames flickering behind a protective glass panel, casting golden light against the stonework.
I exhale, stretching my fingers as the heat seeps back into them. Cozy barely covers it.
Page sighs dramatically. “Oh, thank fuck.”
I shake my head as we approach the counter, where a Skoll barista with curling antlers and a deep, rolling voice greets us. The place smells like roasted coffee, cinnamon, and something floral—maybe Nyeri’i spices.
“What do you want?” Page asks. “I’m buying.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Please,” she says. “You deserve to be treated. Sounds like you’ve had quite the ordeal, and…well, trust me, I get it.”
I chew on my lip, looking up at the menu. “Okay…ooh, that looks good—a sugarpetal latte with extra marshmallows, please.”
She smiles. “Figured.”
She orders for both of us, then we wait in silence for our drinks and two pastries. Once we’ve got our stuff, I follow her to a corner booth near the hearth, sighing in relief as I sink into the soft, fur-lined seat. The fire crackles gently behind its barrier, adding to the low, pleasant hum of conversation and clinking dishes.
Page takes a long sip of her coffee, watching me over the rim of her cup. “So.”
I pause mid-sip. “So?”
She smirks. “You’re dying to ask about Thorne.”
I cough, nearly choking on my coffee. “I—what?—?”
“Oh, please.” Page leans in, bracing her elbows on the table. “Ragnar wakes up from a four-thousand-year nap and immediately wants to claim you? And you’re sitting across from the only human who has even remotely been through something similar?” She spreads her hands. “Go on. Ask.”
