“Can’t I just spit on them?” I bite out. Ivar laughs, while Thrain’s arm clenches tighter around me. “You could,” Olaf says with a small smirk. “But they would have to mark you in turn.” “I will break the neck of the first man who even thinks of spitting on her,” Thrain growls. Olaf nods tiredly, waving a hand as though to dispel the issue.
