Despite his god-like status among his people, Bilal was still profoundly, humiliatingly human.
A week after the inoculations, Bilal and Astrid were walking along the outer perimeter of the stone wall, inspecting the mortar. The Norwegian spring had brought the greenery back to life.
Suddenly, a thick, dark shape slithered out from a crack in the rocks directly over Bilal's boot.
It was a common European Adder—a viper. In Norse mythology, snakes were the ultimate symbol of fear and betrayal, linked to Jörmungandr, the World Serpent, and the pits where Kings were thrown to die.
But Bilal didn't care about Norse mythology. He just possessed a deeply ingrained, completely irrational 21st-century phobia of snakes.
The 105kg Warlord, the man who had physically picked up King Olaf by the throat, let out an undignified yelp.
He leaped backward with astonishing speed, tripping over his own massive feet, his heart hammering in pure, unadulterated panic.
Astrid stopped. She looked at the small viper, then looked at her towering husband, who was breathing heavily, his eyes wide with terror.
Without a word, Astrid calmly stepped forward and crushed the viper's head beneath the heel of her heavy leather boot.
She wiped her boot on the grass and turned to him, an incredibly wicked, amused smile spreading across her face.
"The Demon of the North," she mocked, stepping closer to him. "He kicks wolves to death. He builds walls of fire. But a little worm makes him jump like a startled rabbit?"
"It surprised me," Bilal grumbled, his dark skin flushing with embarrassment. "It's a reflex. They're unnatural."
Astrid laughed, a bright, beautiful sound. She stepped into his personal space and, without warning, drove her fist hard into his stomach.
BAM.
She was a 34-year-old Viking Queen who lifted rocks and managed an empire. She hit hard. The punch landed squarely in Bilal's gut.
A sharp spike of pain shot through his abdomen. He wasn't braced for it. He wanted to bend over and cough. "I am human, not made of iron," his mind screamed.
But the 16-year-old boy inside his brain—the toxic, prideful "brain rot" of a man who needed to look invincible—took over.
He forced his abdominal muscles to lock into a rigid wall of meat. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch. He looked down at her with a perfectly stoic, unbothered smirk to protect his aura.
"You wanna fight, my Queen?" Bilal teased, his voice dropping an octave as he casually brushed the spot she had punched. "Because you hit like a summer breeze."
Astrid rolled her eyes, but the affection in them was undeniable. She wrapped her arms around his waist.
"You are an idiot, Giant," she murmured against his chest. "But you are my idiot."