Page 7 of The Viking in the Vault
Something…irresistible.
Unease prickles along my spine.
The scent tugs at me, a pull so strong it’s almost magnetic. It’s as if it’s calling to me, whispering in a language I don’t understand but feel compelled to follow. My instincts scream at me to move, to find it, to claim it—but I force myself to stay grounded. This could be a trap. The Boreans are cunning, and they know how to play with a Skoll’s senses.
But…no. This doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels…right.
I shake my head, growling softly to clear my thoughts.
Even if it’s a trap, I have no other paths forward. I may as well follow the scent…and fight for my life, if that’s what it comes to.
I crouch low, my blade ready, and gesture for Fenrik to follow as I move toward the source of the scent. The faint crackle of broken equipment echoes through the space, and the ground beneath my fur-lined boots is slick with frost. I step carefully, my muscles coiled and ready to spring at the slightest sign of danger.
The scent grows stronger with every step, and my pulse quickens. My body feels too hot, my skin too tight, and it takes everything in me to focus on the task at hand. This is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s not just a smell—it’s a presence, something that resonates deep within me, stirring primal instincts. If I didn’t know any better…no, it couldn’t be.
My people rarely find their fenvarra–their fated one–and to find them here would be too strange a twist of fate.
Though perhaps Yrsa sent me here for a reason.
I reach the edge of the chamber and pause, pressing my back against the cold wall as I peer around the corner. The corridor beyond is brighter than the one I woke up in, overhead lights flickering sporadically. High above me, I can see the faint light of an aurora in the sky…which must mean there’s an exit somewhere nearby. The scent is stronger here, nearly overpowering, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from growling.
Fenrik brushes against my leg, his ears perked and his tail wagging so hard I can hear it swishing.. He doesn’t seem alarmed–more excited. And if it is my fenvarra, my loyal skarnhound would be able to scent that connection.
Are they in danger? Afraid?
I have to help them.
“Stay close,” I murmur, my voice low and rough.
The corridor stretches ahead, lined with what look like storage chambers. Some doors are ajar, revealing rows of cylinders filled with ice and glowing softly. Others are sealed shut, their access panels flickering with damage. The air is colder here, the frost thick on the walls and floor, and my breath fogs in front of me as I move forward.
The scent tugs at me, urging me to move faster, but I keep my steps measured and deliberate. If there’s something—or someone—here, I won’t let my guard down. Not until I know what I’m dealing with.
And then I hear it.
A faint sound, barely audible over the hum of the facility. It’s soft and rhythmic…breathing. My head snaps toward it, locking onto the sound as I move closer, my heart pounding in my chest. The scent grows stronger, almost unbearable now, and every instinct in me screams that I’m close.
I round another corner and freeze.
There, half-buried in a pile of rubble, is a figure–small, fragile, and unmistakably alive. The scent radiates from them in waves, wrapping around me, consuming me. My breath catches in my throat as I take a step closer, looking them over.
…a female.
A species I’ve never seen before.
Her skin is light brown, her dark hair bound into a thick braid and dusted with frost, and her chest rises and falls with shallow, labored breaths. Blood smears one side of her face, and her clothes–bizarre and thick and colorful–are torn in places, revealing scrapes and bruises. She’s unconscious, her head resting at an awkward angle against the rubble. I look above and see a broken pathway of twisted metal.
She fell. She’s hurt.
I stare at her, my mind racing. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t exist here. And yet…she does.
The scent—her scent—wraps around me, sinking into my skin and filling my lungs. It’s her. She’s the source. And there’s no mistaking what that means.
Fenvarra.
The word echoes through my mind, fierce and unyielding.
This woman—this stranger—is my fenvarra.
