“The hangings are worked with the names of the dead and their deeds, so our past is always before us,” Torden said. “And we wear the words that matter most. Here, and here.” He tapped his heart and pulled down his glove, so close to my side I caught the smell of his soap as he moved. I glanced at the symbol like an angular letter R tattooed over his pulse, thinking of the ink on his chest beneath his shirt.

My shoulders tensed at the memory of how close I’d been to that tattoo this afternoon.

Too soon.

Anya’s expression gentled, seeing I was stalled. “Do you keep many books in Potomac?” she asked helpfully.

But my mind didn’t go back to Arbor Hall. Suddenly, in my head, I was in Winchester’s library, with more volumes than I could read in a lifetime and a boy reading Beowulf aloud to me before a fire in a tiny, shabby attic room.

I nodded tightly. I was warm in the memory, but its recollection burned.

“Ah, but how do your storytellers compare to ours?” Bragi flashed a brilliant smile.

“Storytellers?” I sat up straight.

“Yes,” said Bragi. “Reading is solitary. But a storyteller, everyone can enjoy together.”

“Bragi’s not a bad storyteller,” said Anya.

“Not as good as you.” Bragi fixed her with an admiring stare. Anya cleared her throat and looked away.

Skop rubbed the back of his broad neck, eyes darting between them. “What kind of stories?”

“Our skálds tell the kind that are . . . mostly true,” Torden said. “Wars, great hunts, survival. Some love stories, too.” He smiled at me, dropping his voice as Alfödr rose from his seat. “I suppose we will see what Ragnvald has for us tonight.” But Torden’s smile froze when Aleksei entered the hall.

He wore military dress like his brothers, but his uniform was Imperiya gray.

I nearly dropped my fork, staring as if a ghost stood in the foyer outside the hall. Alfödr was at his side quicker than seemed possible.

They were too far away to overhear, but there was no mistaking the fire in the king’s gaze, his fury as he hauled Aleksei back through Valaskjálf’s great doors. The king pointed down the hall, shook a finger in his son’s face, then strode back inside.

At my side, Torden rubbed his temples and exchanged a glance with Hermódr. Both boys were silent.

His choice of clothing was probably a joke.

But part of me—a tiny part, speaking only in whispers—wondered if the uniform was some sort of message to me.

I’d failed to read the omens back in Potomac. Here, again, I had no idea what this one could mean.

Jaw tight, Aleksei brushed himself off and cast a backward glance at his father before heading down the corridor. But the king was already greeting his guests.