Queen Helga turned from the balcony, but a glimmer of color on the far wall caught her eye.
Her wedding portrait.
She stared at it—the painted likeness of herself and Heimdal, young and solemn beneath their crowns. The artist had captured his strength, his stoic composure, but not the truth that Helga could never forget: the absence of love from his eyes.
It was funny that they were married for long. But he never kissed her on the lips even when they were intimate.
Then she remembered the first time he kissed her. The weight of his gaze was heavy with grief rather than desire. Even in their most intimate moments, she had felt the weight of his sorrow pressing heavier than his body, as though Astrid lay between them still.
She had thought time would heal him, that her devotion and cunning would eventually drive Astrid from his heart.
