A Queen for the Frost Giant (Legends of Rahasia Book 0)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Knarr folk have set about burning the aftermath of the battle, the debris and twisted faces of the Masked Men who stole from children and terrorized the villagers for so long. All of it, the nightmares going up in smoke. Lord Octavia stands at the head of it, her lips set in a grim line of satisfaction. The feasting ended on a somber note of the dead from the battle, the Knarr citizens who now rest in Valhöll, to sit at benches of gold, drink from overflowing cups, and eat heartily and never know hunger or a fear of death again.

"We'll send supplies from Ymir to repair your fishing boats and anything lost in the battle." My voice echoes past the celebrants, the artisans and mechanics rising from the ashes of battle to bring Knarr back to life. Lord Octavia wears thick furs, towering like a bear over her people, giving orders and quite at home as the head of it all.

"You're welcome back anytime, there's no need for political bribery or special favors." Lord Octavia replies, clasping her hand to my shoulder. "You did enough with the battle."

"Please," I lower my head a little at that, staring up at her beneath my lashes. Humbled, perhaps something more in my voice than I intended, "it's my honor as much as yours."

She nods, turning back, a coy smile on both our lips. "My home is open." She tells me.

My grin only widens as I return to my party, all gathered beneath Fell. "As is my keep."

When I get back to the Ymir band, Fell's returned to his regular size. The giant's sitting on the backs of his knees and letting children climb over his knuckles, scramble up his bootlaces. His ice armor shines despite the gray light, reflecting the whole world in its surface.

I follow his gaze, past the water to where the land rises again, ending in a sharp, rocky cliff that dips into the sea. The wreckage of the Masked Men's charred ships, the flotsam and debris and tattered sails, float against the surface. Already sinking, claimed by Father Ardo.

"What do you see?" I ask him, narrowly dodging a little girl, Sif, as she climbs bravely to the edge of Fell's wrists. He remains perfectly still for them, only his eyes roaming.

"I'm observing the boats." He says.

"Já," answers Quinn, leaning against her shield, switched out as a gift from Octavia for one that reaches above her waist. "You made firewood of the Masked Men's ships, Cassia. We're proud of you."

"A fire for a fiery personality." Lord Kazmer smiles at me as he sharpens his scimitar.

I smile vaguely back, twisting Zoya's dagger at my hip.

"No," Fell intones, shaking his head ever so slightly. Alf falls off the giant's thumb, wincing slightly. "These boats have dragons upon them."

The dragon-headed boats of Cloelia Crispus Regina...

We pause, all three of us mortals sharing a glance. "Impossible," Quinn shakes her head, "they must be rotted away to nothing after all these years."

"We broke them apart to build the city of Ymir," I reply, "or so the stories go."

Fell waits patiently for Alf and Sif to gather their playmates and go back to the basket-weaving and salted fish, maybe to steal a pastry or two later. When the children are clear, he gets to his feet, shielding his eyes from the snow-glare. "I feel them in the ice. I can see them clearly." He turns to me, his eyes the same, even if he now towers to the size of monstrous proportions. "Perhaps not all the boats made it to land. Perhaps some strayed too far out in the water. Perhaps they were meant to stay there and never stop traveling."