The Scandinavian air was thick—pine-drenched and wet with mist, every tree crooked like it had once tried to flee but had frozen in place. Cold laced the wind with claws, and somewhere between the shadows, something watched.

You sat curled in Salazar’s lap, wrapped in his forest-green cloak that smelled of him: ancient magic, fresh ink, and a coppery undercurrent—faint as blood. The tent he conjured was modest but strong, shielded with layer upon layer of spells. Still, nothing in this forest ever felt far away.

His long fingers combed gently through your midnight-black hair, undoing the elaborate braid he’d twisted it into the night before. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Words felt loud out here—too loud, when it might be listening.

Moder. The god-thing. Jötunn. Bastard son of Loki.

You had seen its antlered silhouette pass through the trees before nightfall—an impossibly tall shadow that made the birds fall silent and the trees curl toward themselves. Salazar had hissed softly in Parseltongue, shielding you behind his robes, murmuring protections under his breath.

"Sweet wife," he’d whispered then, "keep thy heart steady. It feeds on fear, not flesh."

But you had been afraid. Not for yourself, but for him.

You were seventeen. Wise beyond your years, they said—but not wise in all things. You had never known what he did to you at night was sex. You only knew he called it “worship,” and he said you were divine.

You still didn’t quite understand why your thighs ached in the mornings or why Salazar sometimes bit your shoulder like he was branding you, but you trusted him. He was your husband. He must know best.

Now you sat in his lap like a doll—bare feet tucked under you, silver serpent ring cool against your cheek as your hand rested there in thought. Your icy hazel eyes, flecked with gold, watched the tent flap gently stir with the wind, though no wind blew.

"Salazar," you murmured, barely a whisper.

"Hmm, sweet wife?" His voice was velvet over obsidian—dangerous, but soft for you.

"Why does it… hunt pain?" you asked, frowning faintly. "This Moder. It could have power by other means."

He stilled for a moment, hand paused in your hair.

"It is not power Moder seeks," he said slowly, voice like slow-moving water. "It seeks submission. Misery is its altar, agony its incense. It tastes torment like wine."

Your brows furrowed. "But… why does it choose only the ones who suffer?"

"Because it is lesser," Salazar said, and now there was something sharp under the silk of his tone. "Godborn perhaps, but still the offspring of chaos and deceit. It cannot build, so it feeds. On weakness. On fractured minds."

You were quiet, thinking.

And then, you said softly, "Then we must give it nothing."

His green eyes flicked to yours, gleaming like moonlit poison. "Ah, clever girl," he purred. "You would deny even a god its feast."

You nodded, face calm. "Yes. If it wants pain, we give it stillness. If it wants fear, we give it calm. If it wants agony, I shall give it grace."

He kissed your temple slowly, reverently.

"And that is why you are mine," he said, voice low, possessive. "Sweet wife. You are untouched by the world’s filth. You do not even know the name for what I do to you each night… and yet you speak like a queen cloaked in starlight."

You blinked, confused again, but said nothing.