The boy was almost as cute as Bragi—another charmer, for sure—and the girl was slender but broad-shouldered, with blond hair braided into a halo around her head. A necklace sparkled against her pale skin, woven strands of cloth of gold dotted with amber stones that reflected the firelight. “Anya will be your companion while you remain here,” added Konge Alfödr, and she gave me a smile.

But I could only stare. The eastern Norden countries—including Anya and Fredrik’s kingdom of Varsinais-Suomi—had fallen to the Imperiya Yotne a decade earlier. Even its name was no more. As a terytoriya, Yotunkheym called it Finlyandiya.

So the tsarytsya did. With teeth like knives and spears and armies, she chewed up an independent nation and spat out something entirely different.

And here was one of the Imperiya’s sons, sitting at table with them. Disquiet was a deep, cold pool in my stomach.

What was he doing here?

Konge Alfödr cleared his throat. “Last, may I present to you my son Prins Torden.” As the red-haired boy rose, only the fireplaces continued to whisper.

The Asgard boys were an attractive group. They had clean jawlines and straight noses (except where they’d apparently been broken, and they couldn’t fault nature for that). Muscles that bespoke years of healthy eating and hard work filled out their button-up shirts and the rough pants tucked into their boots. But Torden stood out among them. He defied comparison.

Torden Asgard was handsome in a way entirely indelicate and unpolished—rough and ready and serious, deep-chested and thick-limbed and fair-skinned. Dark brown eyes burned above his snub nose, and a scruffy, red-gold beard lined his jaw. Sleeves rolled to his elbows revealed arms and hands as freckled as his face, and a tattoo inside his left wrist.

He was so good-looking it made me nervous. Just the sight of him made me hesitate to try to win his affections.

But I had to try. He was my best—my only—choice.

I fought the urge to fiddle with the hem of my cardigan as he sat back down with his brothers, gaze still fixed on me, guardedness mingled with something else I couldn’t quite read.

Trying to drum up some bravery, I glanced from Captain Lang to J.J. to Cobie. She nodded, eyes bracing.

“My father, the seneschal, sends his greetings and his gratitude for your welcome,” I called. “Allow me to introduce the crew of my ship, the Beholder.” The sailors dipped their heads or bowed as I gave their names. When I introduced Skop, he straightened, blushing and shaking himself out of a daze. I followed his gaze and found he’d been staring at Anya.

“Well met, and welcome,” said Konge Alfödr again. “Please, join us.”