But he wrapped me in his arms when I stepped into the hallway, the scruff on his chin catching at my hair. Close against his chest, the soap-and-water scent of his skin and his steady, certain breathing softened the jagged edges of my anxiety. “God morgen,” he whispered.

Out by the stables, Torden set me on his palomino, Gullfaxi, before swinging into the saddle himself. With no reins to cling to, I clasped my hands tentatively around his waist. “Do you mind if I—?”

I felt the moment his heart began to thunder beneath my hands. “Of course not. Hold on to me.”

We rode to a skinny stretch of flat rock between the Lysefjord and the base of Mount Kjerag. I was speechless, awestruck; bound to the mountainside, the trunk of the great tree was half the length of a football field, its twisted roots each thick as the body of one of Alfödr’s horses. “Is all of this . . . ?”

“Yes.” Torden dismounted, then helped me down, his hands lingering a moment when he’d caught me around my waist. “Yggdrasil.” He led me along the narrow bank, the only sounds the water and the birds and, far off, the deep rumble of Alfödr’s drengs and thegns preparing for their morning run.

We are not supposed to be too private, he’d said. But here we were on the edge of the water, alone, far from his brothers and sister and my friends. My hands shook as we clambered across the roots that snaked into the fjord and settled into a wide fork.

Torden Asgard, fifth of Alfödr’s sons, the boy with his arm around my shoulders. Could I have known, reading his profile aboard the Beholder, how his very nearness would sear my skin, wreck my pulse, blur my focus?

“Torden, why am I here with you, and not one of your brothers?”

I’d blurted out the question without thinking.

“Would you rather be here with someone else?” he asked. He shifted away, his stare so raw and frayed at the edges that I wondered if he was remembering Aleksei’s warning not to let Fredrik too near me.

“No. It’s just—” I shook my head, mouth going dry as I clawed for words. Torden stretched out his legs, studied his pale, muscled hands, suddenly seeming far away.

Can I trust Torden with the truth?

He’d trusted me with his.

“I haven’t told you much about my home,” I began. “Yours is so different, I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

Torden’s eyes were wary. “What do you mean?”

“My father’s unwell, and my stepmother wishes I weren’t part of her family. All my suitors were first sons—boys in line for their own thrones.” I cleared my throat. “You were the only exception to that rule.”

Understanding dawned on his face. “And all my brothers are unmarried, so . . .”