Page 55 of The Viking in the Vault
A very large, terrifying warrior currently getting his ears scratched by an Ardaxian toddler.
“Uh-huh,” I say, watching as Fenrik rolls onto his back, letting a pair of Skoll twins with tiny antlers pat his stomach.
Ragnar sighs, rubbing his temples. “He was not like this before.”
I hide a smile.
Someone calls my name, and I look toward the restaurant we’re heading to. “Elena!” Cosmia waves from the entrance, her golden skin radiant in the glow of the lanterns, her delicate, gossamer-like wings fluttering in the crisp air.
Rishik stands beside her, bundled up in a high-collared coat, his reptilian features partially obscured by the rising steam from a nearby food stall. “Took you three long enough,” Rishik grumbles. “Ves told us to get a table an hour ago.”
Ves snorts. “We would have been here faster if these two weren’t canoodling in the exam room.”
I do not look at Ragnar. I don’t have to. My entire body is too aware of him, and I can practically feel the way Ves’s gaze flickers between us, sharp and obnoxiously perceptive.
“Shut up, Ves,” I mutter, pulling my coat tighter around myself like that will somehow shield me from this conversation.
We step up to the restaurant, the door sliding open with a rush of warm, spiced air. Cosmia’s eyes go straight to Ragnar.
“So, you’re the ancient Skoll,” she says, giving him an unapologetic once-over. “Gods, you’re huge.”
Ragnar tilts his head slightly, glancing between her and me, then to Rishik, who is much taller than Cosmia but still significantly smaller than him.
“This one is smaller than you,” he observes.
Rishik lets out a low hiss of amusement. “Very perceptive.”
I sigh. “Ragnar, these are my friends—Cosmia, Rishik, and Ves. Everyone, this is Ragnar.”
There’s a brief pause, as if everyone is letting the weight of it settle in—the fact that I’ve casually brought a four-thousand-year-old frozen warlord to dinner like this is normal.
Then Cosmia grins. Unapologetic. Bright. “You ever had Alamancian hotpot before? Because you’re about to.”
Ragnar frowns. “I do not know what that is.”
Ves claps him on the back, guiding him toward the door. “Don’t worry, big guy. We’ll educate you.”
The interior is warm and inviting, heavy wooden beams arching overhead, soft cushions lining the sunken dining tables. Fenrik, much to my surprise, behaves himself and curls up at Ragnar’s feet…and I think the Mlok hostess is just a little too nervous to say anything. A massive circular pot sits in the center of our table, bubbling with fragrant broth, surrounded by plates of thinly sliced meats, vegetables, and noodles.
Ragnar looks deeply suspicious.
“You cook it yourself?” he asks, frowning as Cosmia tosses a bundle of noodles into the broth.
“That’s kind of the whole point,” Ves says, already stacking their plate with an ambitious amount of food.
Ragnar makes a noncommittal grunt but takes the Mlok tongs Rishik hands him, shaped like two curved talons that can clamp together with the press of a lever.
Ragnar stares at it.
Then at Rishik.
Then back at the claw utensil.
His brows furrow. He turns it over in his hands, experimentally squeezing the lever so the talons snap shut.
“…Is this a weapon?” he asks.
Cosmia snorts into her drink.
