"We need to prepare for war because the Forsaken have an army,” she says. “What we've faced is nothing compared to what's coming." Her gaze lands on everyone before coming back to me. “I don’t know when they’re coming, but they are coming.”

The room falls silent, the gravity of her statement settling over us. Anticipation thrums through every warrior at the table, coiling like a spring. We haven’t felt anything like it in three hundred years, but it’s so familiar I nearly smile.

War.

This is something we know. Something we were born for. Our blood, sweat, and tears soak more battlefields than the Forsaken can even comprehend. If they think we’ll die easy, they’re wrong.

“Ýmirs frosteistna, let them come,” Malachi growls, gently pounding a fist on the table. “They’ll die where they stand.”

Chapter Twelve

Adriel

“Take the day,” Damrion suggests as everyone lingers in the kitchen, trying to process everything Abigail has told us. “We’ll regroup tomorrow to start planning our defenses.”

Malachi shoots out of the room like a meteor, off to check on his Valkyrie. Stephan filters out next, his brows furrowed as he glances back at Abigail. I think he may have more to process than anyone. A human bound to a Valkyrie. It’s been a long time.

Dax and Rissa go next, followed by Tori and Reaper. The silence they leave behind is deafening. I feel Abigail’s worry pressing down on us, threatening to crush us. She’s so afraid that she’ll fall.

I’m afraid for her and for everything she may still yet face. But I am not afraid of her falling to the Dark. I know deep down, Damrion isn’t either. He’s terrified for what she may face. He’s terrified of losing her. But Abigail is strong. They can’t snuff out her Light. They can’t drown it in darkness. No matter how hard they try, they’ll never succeed.

That version of the future will never come to pass. So long as Damrion and I draw breath, we won’t allow it. The Norns sent us to guard her soul. We won’t fail.

I press my lips to her temple and rise from the table to find her something to eat. Gods knows the last the time she had anything. We need to take better care of her, especially now.

Damrion holds her close, wrapping her in his strength. His hands run through her vibrant red hair. He murmurs to her—Fae words of love and strength, of courage and devotion. My heart swells with pride as I watch him care for her.

The Fae who hid behind his walls, afraid to let us in is long gone. This Fae—our Fae—is steadfast in his devotion, unwavering in his love. He may not have forgiven himself entirely yet, but he knows his soul is worthy. He knows he is worthy.

“Here, bittesmå ljós. Eat,” I murmur, placing the plate in front of her. It’s heaped high with eggs, sausage, and toast—enough for all three of us.

She doesn’t speak as we eat, Damrion and I taking turns feeding her from our hands. She’s lost in her own thoughts. So are we. But the act of feeding her—of sharing this moment with Damrion as we care for her—is tinged with sweetness.

When the plate is nearly empty, she notices us watching her intently. Neither of us look away or try to hide it.

The hint of a smile tugs the corners of her lips up. "Are you two overseeing my food intake now, too?" she asks.

"Ja," I growl. "We’re monitoring every bite, little seer. You don't eat enough."

Her smile grows, the shadows fading from her eyes as she continues eating. Each bite feels like a victory, a small triumph against the Dark.

When she's finished, she arches a brow at me, as if daring me to find fault with her progress. I simply grunt in response and carry the empty plate to the sink, satisfied that Damrion and I have provided for our mate.

As I cross back to them, Damrion stands, lifting her into his arms. “Come, ást-meer. Time to rest,” he murmurs.

Her body molds to his, protests falling from her lips. “I don’t want to rest, Damrion.” Her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “I want to see Eitr. It feels like it’s been a lifetime since I was here last. I want to see the damage.”

"Later, Abigail,” he says, his voice firm but gentle. Damrion has never been good at denying her much of anything when she pleads. He’s always been wrapped around her finger in that way.

And so have I. She’s always been a breath of fresh air flowing through Eitr, bringing Light and laughter and vibrancy to it. It’s impossible to tell her no when her smile makes saying yes so rewarding.

But the damage to the village is extensive. Seeing it will only break her heart. That’s the last thing she needs right now.

So Damrion stands firm, refusing to relent despite the adorable pout on her face. He carries her upstairs, with her grumbling the entire way. I follow behind, fighting a smile.

She doesn’t like to be told no.

As soon as the door closes behind us, she’s squirming in his arms, demanding that he put her down.

He relents with a sigh, reluctantly placing her on her feet. She immediately spins to face us, hands on her hips, head tilted back. I eye her warily, all too familiar with that look on her face.

Damrion tries to usher her toward the bed, but she evades him, ducking under his arm with a defiant smirk.

"You two can rest if you're tired," she says, pulling her shirt off over her head. It dangles from her fingertips for a moment before falling to the floor at her feet. "I'm going to shower."

Faen. She’s a temptress.

She strides that way, her hips swaying dangerously as she shimmies out of her pants. They slide down her thick thighs, pooling at her feet. She steps out of them, tossing a smirk at us over her shoulder before she disappears into the bathroom.

Damrion and I share a look.

"She needs rest," I say.

"Ja." His hands flex at his sides as if itching to take control of the situation.

The sound of the shower starting reaches us, and our already shaky resolve shatters. We break like straw men. We stalk that way, shedding our shirts as we move. By the time we step into the bathroom, we’re already stripping out of our pants, too.

Abigail is already under the water. It cascades over her curvy body, slicking her hair and skin. My cock throb at the sight.

"Changed your mind about resting?" she smirks as I yank the shower door open, mischief and desire sparkling in her eyes.

"Seems we have," I growl, stepping into the shower and pulling her close.

Damrion is right behind me, crowding her from the other side.

My lips crash against hers in a fierce, possessive kiss. She moans, pressing her body to mine. Damrion places his lips against the side of her throat, his hand sliding between her legs.

She gasps, reaching for my cock.

“Adriel,” she breathes against my lips, her other hand closing around Damrion. She strokes us, commands us, owns us.

Faen. She isn’t a temptress. She’s a goddess.

"Make her come, Damrion,” I groan, dropping to my knees at her feet.

"Ja,” he growls, guiding her leg up over my shoulder.

I trace the line where her thigh meets her pussy, spreading her open to me. My tongue dips into her folds, dancing against her clit.