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Epilogue Two

VIDAR

Five Years Later

There are few things more terrifying than the wrath of an ancient god.

I have discovered one of them.

The wrath of his four-year-old daughter.

“Papa!”

I look up from the rosebush I’m pruning in the courtyard of our historic Saint Street home.

My daughter stands beside her pink picnic blanket, tiny fists clenched, auburn curls bouncing around her flushed cheeks.

Her piercing magenta eyes flash with crimson.

An unfortunate inheritance.

“Yes, little warrior?”

“We have a problem!”

I set down my pruning shears.

“A serious one?”

“Very serious!”

I approach.

She points an accusing finger toward the ground.

“They stole my cookie!”

I examine the offending creatures.

A colony of ants marches triumphantly across the stones, carrying the remains of a chocolate chip cookie.

I nod gravely.

“A grave offense.”

My daughter plants her hands on her hips.

“I want revenge!”

Ah.

There it is.

My legacy.

I glance toward the house.

Wren stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking entirely too amused.