The traveler’s lullaby Emi sang on the longship rose among several different factions of the caravan.

Kveða við min mórðir. Skip búask ok á morgun. Ek sigla til min folǫg…

Drums beat a tune by which they marched, ominous and powerful. More than a beat, it was a threat not to underestimate King Hundur and his forces.

The king and his queen, who kept her face hidden from the burn of the sunset, rode in a cabriolet with satin cushions. Seated across from Hundur was the princess. Yrsa was lovely. She waved shyly to people as they pulled nearer to the palace doors. She had dark hair, fine as spider’s silk, woven into a crown of braids around her head. Her skin was a deep brown, her eyes were warm and kind. Thane hinted once Princess Yrsa had a slight talent with blood craft, but was not as skilled as his mother.

Perhaps the touch of craft in the princess’s blood made this betrothal all the more advantageous for Damir and his proclivity to catch magic.

Small as the kingdom was, Myrdan warriors were formidable. Strong grips on craft-made bone blades, piercings through the center of their noses, and runes tattooed across their throats. Selena told me once that Myrdan ink was a mark for every Draven warrior they’d slaughtered.

King Hundur was a broad man with a lighter complexion than his daughter. Suspicion rimmed his gaze that cut through the crowd like jagged glass. At his side, the queen was petite and wore a look of unease. She held a linen cloth to her nose, as though the smell of so many bodies had long grown rancid.

Beneath the arch of the front entry to the palace, King Damir bore the weight of his dark crown, a fine sword with jagged bones shaped like serpents on the hilt lined his waist. The thick cloak he’d draped across his shoulders made him broader than was true.

I thought it might be intentional.

“Hundur, my friend.” Damir clapped his palms against the Myrdan king’s shoulders once the man was free of his coach. “Welcome. I trust your travels were uneventful.”

Hundur sniffed. “Cold and rocky.”

Damir chuckled and draped an arm around the shoulders of his fellow king. They staggered into the palace, chuckling through chatter with each other like the oldest of friends.

“Lyra.” Hilda dug her fingernails into my arm. “Lyra, gods, tell me…tell me I am not imagining it.”

I winced and gently eased my arm free of her grip, following her look of stun down the long line of travelers.

My heart stuttered when he caught sight of us in the same instant.

“Hil!” Gisli’s voice cracked and he barreled through the crowds, desperate to reach his wife. He wasn’t alone. Three young ones shrieked and giggled, following him close behind.

Edvin’s children.