A week.
An entire gods-damned week and nobody has explained a damn thing to me.
Nothing.
Not a whisper of what happened in that study, or why the castle suddenly feels like it’s holding its breath—waiting, tense, like even the walls are listening.
And I’m done with it.
Loki’s been flouncing around like a love-struck fool, trying to learn how to write poetic letters for the girl we’re apparently fated to marry—Selene. He’s been talking about giving her a birthday gift next week, like some heartfelt offering will undo centuries of silence. As if she even wants us.
I don’t get it.
We’ve known about her all this time. We’ve known the prophecy, the weight, the expectations. So why the sudden rush to start caring now? What makes her coming of age the magical switch that makes her real to
