I stood beside my table, staring at the disheveled and exasperated Knut as he fiddled with his empty cup like it might confess secrets if swirled correctly. I placed my hands on my hips and waited for him to grasp the ancient and complicated concept of asking for more drink. His mind, however, appeared to be wandering through several distant fjords without him.

I sighed long and deep, then kicked the leg of his chair.

“Now what.”

He grunted. Of course he did.

“Tell me, Knut, with all your titles and dramatic entrances, what is weighing on you this evening? You only darken my doorway when something festers. You are forbidden from sitting here and drinking my liquor in silence. Speak, or I will put the bottle away and replace it with water.”

That got his attention.

“I had a dream,” he began, staring into his empty cup as though it were a prophetic well. “Maybe a vision. About uniting the Njords. Forming a new clan.”

From the hearth, Dong Quixote perked up immediately. “A dream?” he declared. “Excellent. We love dreams. Last time I had one, I was crowned King of the Goats. Very persuasive animals.”

Damascus Steel didn’t look up from sharpening a blade. “Prophetic dreams often follow indigestion.”

Cass A’Nueva gasped softly. “A man torn between destiny and doubt. Continue. I am emotionally available.”

Knut ignored them with admirable discipline. He continued to swirl the final half-sip in his cup as if completing the task I had set for him through interpretive performance. With a huff, I uncorked the bottle and refilled it.

“Go on.”

“Well,” he said, rubbing his brow, “I don’t know if it was fantasy or prophecy. I don’t know what to do. I could call for a thing. Not an Allthing. Something smaller.”

“A Smallthing?” I said before I could stop myself.

Knut’s head snapped up as though I had just named his firstborn child.

Dong leapt to his feet. “Yes! A Smallthing! Intimate! Cozy! Less risk of assassination!”

“It would technically still be a thing,” Damascus murmured. “Scale does not change the consequence.”

Cass clasped his hands dramatically. “The Smallthing. A fragile beginning. A trembling spark in the dark. Oh, I can already see the invitations”

“You will not be writing invitations,” I cut in.

Knut leaned forward now, alive in a way he had not been since entering my house.

“Yes. A smaller gathering. Trusted voices. Local Njords. We speak first. See if there is support.”

Dong raised a finger. “If there is food, support increases by at least forty percent.”

“Forty-two,” Damascus corrected without looking up.

Cass tilted his head. “Will there be a theme?”

“No,” Knut and I said at the same time.

Knut turned back to me, suddenly looking less like a brooding war-chief and more like a man about to ask for a dangerous favor.

“I would need a neutral place,” he said carefully. “Somewhere steady. Somewhere people will come without suspecting a trap.”

Dong slowly looked around my home.

Damascus stopped sharpening.

Cass smiled like a cat.

I narrowed my eyes. “Absolutely not.”

Knut continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “And drink. Good drink. Enough to soften edges but not dull minds.”

I folded my arms. “You are describing my bar and my liquor with alarming precision.”

He met my gaze directly now. “Host it. For me. On my name.”

Dong clutched his chest. “A political saloon.”

Damascus nodded once. “A calculated risk.”

Cass whispered, “History will remember your bar.”

“I will remember the mess,” I said sharply.

Knut leaned back, exhaling. “I’ll cover the cost. All of it. The drink, maybe even food. I’ll bring what’s needed. But it must be at your bar. You are known enough. No one would suspect you of scheming.”

Dong coughed loudly. “Bold assumption.”

Damascus added, “Suspicion is Nephele’s most charming quality.”

Cass smiled at me. “You do look magnificent while intimidating men.”

I ignored all three.

“You want me,” I said slowly, “to host a political gathering of ambitious Njords at my bar, pour them my liquor, and pretend I’m not listening to every dangerous word spoken?”

Knut did not hesitate. “Yes.”

There was a pause.

Dong leaned toward me. “Think of the drama.”

Damascus: “Think of the leverage.”

Cass: “Think of the poetry.”

I looked back at Knut, who suddenly looked almost hopeful. Which was far more unsettling than his usual brooding.

“And the drink,” he added carefully, “will be on me.”

I stared at him.

“You will provide the barrels.”

“Yes.”

“You will clean the aftermath.”

A hesitation.

Dong cleared his throat. “Say yes to that.”

“Yes,” Knut said firmly.

“You will take responsibility if your Smallthing becomes a Medium Catastrophe.”

Dong nodded solemnly. “Reasonable clause.”

Damascus: “Very reasonable.”

Cass: “Add it to the invitations”

“There are no invitations,” I snapped.

Silence fell.

Finally, I uncrossed my arms.

“You may have your Smallthing,” I said. “But if even one of your hopeful clan decides to flip my table in the name of unity, I will personally unite their skull with the floor. I will see that Aurelia is available to pour drinks if I’m not”

Dong beamed. “She’s in.”

Damascus gave a satisfied hum.

Cass looked misty-eyed. “A gathering of destiny, fueled by borrowed wine and reluctant hospitality.”

Knut allowed himself the smallest, rarest smile.

“I’ll send word,” he said.

“And Knut?”

He paused at the door.

“If this turns into an Allthing,” I said evenly, “I’m charging at least ten times more.”

Dong whispered reverently, “A true stateswoman.”

Damascus corrected him. “A true opportunist.”

Cass placed a hand over his heart. “A legend in the making.”

I corked the bottle.

The storm outside may have ended.

Apparently, a new one was scheduling itself inside my house.