,,there was no promise, guarantee or hope And yet I felt compell

{We are writers, my love. We don't cry. We bleed on paper.}

[agustssuga]

WHERE ARE ALL THE GOOD EDWARD CULLEN X READER FICS

[sihtricsafin]

another one for the keeping up with uhtred's pretty boys series

taglist: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @neonhairspray @legitalicat @foxyanon @ladyinred2248 @thenameswinter99

[jynx-raven]

[theinkbleeds]

Taylor Swift, mad woman

[beyralxoxo]

{DESTINY AND BLOOD-KINGDOM: SIHTRIC KJARTANSSON}

IV: the seer

SUMMARY: The crew returns to the Burh with Skade, Alfred insists on seeing her while Yggdrasil knows it is a bad idea. Later on they are met with Bloodhair and some of Yggdrasil's past is brought forward much to her hatred towards herself and what she has to endure.

PAIRING: Sihtric Kjartansson x Yggdrasil Ivarsdottir (OC)

WORD COUNT: 5,6 K

WARNINGS: swearing-mentions of pain-mentions of hitting someone with force-mild panic attack from Yggdrasil-bringing up past

The night in the Burh had settled in, thick with the weight of plans and decisions that hung in the air like an omen. The fire crackled softly, casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. Yggdrasil sat beside Finan, her mind far from the warmth of the flames. Aethelwold, Alfred, and Edward were gathered at the table, with Beocca quietly observing. Alfred sat in the center, as always, the king in control—his eyes sharp, his mind calculating.

Finan poured a cup of mead for himself before swiftly handing it to Yggdrasil. The coolness of the metal in her hand was a small comfort, and she took it with a soft murmur of thanks. Her gaze met Finan's for just a moment, and she saw the way his eyes softened as he took his own drink. She couldn't help but appreciate the small moments of peace between them, fleeting as they were.

But there was no peace in the room now.

Uhtred stood tall in the center, his posture radiating strength and frustration. The tension in his muscles was palpable as he listened to Alfred speak.

"Uhtred, we have been discussing strategy," Alfred began, his voice calm but holding an undertone of finality. "And I have decided we shall remain here, within the Burh and wait."

Uhtred's brow furrowed, his face a mix of confusion and disbelief. "Wait?" His voice was low, the challenge in it unmistakable. "Wait for what?"

Alfred's gaze never wavered. "For Bloodhair to attack."

Uhtred's head tilted slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing as he considered the words. "Why would he attack?" The question came out in disbelief, like he couldn't fathom such a foolish plan.

Edward, sitting to Alfred's right, looked at Uhtred as though he were explaining something simple. "Is that not what Danes do, Uhtred?" His voice held a mix of confusion and irritation. "They cannot help themselves."

Yggdrasil, ever calm and composed, let out a soft hum as she turned her gaze toward Edward. "Edward," she spoke slowly, her voice smooth and almost hypnotic, "Danes are known for waiting. They strike when the time is right. They are masters of strategy. Yes, they are greedy, but they also know their stakes." She met Alfred's eyes, holding his gaze as if to challenge him. "They will not waste men on foolish attacks."

Alfred glanced at Yggdrasil, his interest piqued. Then he looked back at Uhtred, his words slicing through the air like a blade. "Why should he not attack? I am here."

Uhtred's lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes remained steady. "You are here, and so too is your guard," he said, his voice calm but firm. "But why would he throw men against the walls of a Burh when Winchester's riches are unprotected?"

Edward frowned, clearly troubled by Uhtred's reasoning. "Would he really do that?"

Beocca, ever the voice of reason, looked down at the map before him, his eyes thoughtful. "He doesn't have a large army to hold Winchester."

Uhtred crossed his arms over his chest, his posture unwavering. "What if Haesten has joined him?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Athelwold, who had been quiet up until now, finally leaned forward with an arrogance that made Yggdrasil's skin crawl. "You're saying we should've stayed home?" His voice dripped with a smugness that only made the tension heavier.

Sigebriht, who had been lingering in the background, stepped forward, his voice cutting through the room like a sharp blade. "If you believe the advantages of the Burh to be dismissed, Lord, then you shall have an alternative."

Uhtred turned toward him, his expression cool. "I do not know you," he said flatly.

Sigebriht stood taller now, his chin raised in quiet defiance. "I am Sigebriht, son of Sigelf," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of his name. "It is my villages that the heathens burn. My father built these walls."

Uhtred gave a small nod of acknowledgment. "And he built them well, Sigebriht," he said, his voice almost approving. "That's why Bloodhair will not attack."

Yggdrasil, who had been silent until now, spoke with a quiet certainty. "He will not want to lose men, lord," she said, her words laced with wisdom. She turned to Alfred, her gaze unwavering. "Not even to kill a king"

Alfred raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "So you say?" His voice was more of a challenge than a question.

Uhtred stepped closer, his presence imposing. "He will wait for us to starve, or he will pass," he said, his tone hardening. "He will not attack, Lord. But we must move, and that is my advice."

Beocca, his brow furrowed in concern, tried to reason with the king. "If Winchester is vulnerable, Lord—"

But Alfred silenced him with a quick motion, turning his gaze to Uhtred with an almost dangerous calm. "This woman that you've taken, why is she here?" he asked, his voice smooth, like a knife poised at the throat.

Uhtred faltered for a moment, his usual confidence slipping for just a second. "She has value," he replied, his voice guarded, yet oddly unsure.

Yggdrasil shook her head at that, though no one else seemed to notice the small gesture. Alfred's eyes narrowed slightly as he processed Uhtred's words. "And Sigurd will want her back. I refuse to call him Bloodhair."

Yggdrasil smiled softly to herself at that, her lips curling in silent amusement at the way Alfred said the name. 

Uhtred nodded solemnly, his eyes meeting Alfred's. "Yes, he will want her back," he agreed, his voice low.

Aethelwold, of course, couldn't keep his mouth shut. He leaned in slightly, his voice thick with insincerity. "She is what to him? A wife? A lover?"

Uhtred pursed his lips, visibly irritated by Aethelwold's words, but he didn't allow it to show. "She's a...seer. A sorceress."

Aethelwold's grin twisted, his eyes narrowing as he turned to Yggdrasil. "It seems there are more of your kind out there, Lady Yggdrasil."

Yggdrasil's jaw clenched. Finan's fingers curled into fists beside her, his anger barely contained. But Yggdrasil remained calm, her gaze hardening as she met Aethelwold's mocking look. She didn't allow the words to sting her, not in front of them all.

With a breath, she smiled, a fake sweetness in her voice. "A seer and my kind are two different types of people, Aethelwold. See, for a man born into royalty, you're not much read, are you?"

Aethelwold blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sharpness of her words, but his smile remained, albeit more guarded now.

Alfred, who had been quiet for a moment, hummed thoughtfully at the mention of "sorceress." His gaze turned to Edward, his voice suddenly cold and calculating. "The simple mind of a Dane believes in signs, Edward. If a bird flew from their camp to ours, they would see it as a sign and follow. They would march into battle all because a seer caught a glimpse of a bird."

Uhtred leaned in slightly, his voice almost conspiratorial. "Yes, Lord. It can happen that way."

Alfred nodded, his mind clearly working through the possibilities. "Then it follows that without his seer, there can be no signs. Sigurd is blind. There can be no battle."

Yggdrasil's voice cut through the tension, her words carefully measured. "You are both right... and wrong, Lord."

Alfred's command sliced through the tension in the room like a dagger. "We wait." His voice left no room for argument, and Uhtred's weary sigh was all the response he could muster. The air in the room thickened with uncertainty, but Alfred's decision was final.

The king rose, the other noblemen following suit. "Now... I wish to look at her."

Yggdrasil exchanged a glance with Finan and Uhtred—both of them clearly baffled by Alfred's request. The absurdity of it settled like a stone in her stomach. It was an intrusion, and it was making her skin crawl.

Yggdrasil felt her pulse quicken as Alfred turned back to Uhtred, his gaze unyielding. "Skade."

Without a word, Yggdrasil stood, Finan beside her, his brow furrowed in confusion. She could feel the weight of the king's decision hanging over them, but there was no time for explanations. With a quick glance at Finan, she made her way toward the exit.

The cold air hit her like a slap, and she wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, walking briskly. Her frustration simmered just beneath the surface. Everything was becoming a mess.

When she arrived at the fire pit, Sihtric and Osferth stood by the flames, their shadows flickering like ghosts in the light. Sihtric's brow furrowed when he saw her approach, the concern in his eyes so visible, it made her chest tighten.

"What's going on, Lady?" Sihtric's voice was soft, but his worry was clear.

Finan, ever the joker, leaned in close, lowering his voice to share a secret. "Alfred said he wants to hump the witch. No word of a lie."

Yggdrasil shot him an incredulous look. "From your mouth, it sounds like it." Her words were biting, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes despite herself.

Finan grinned, his usual cocky smirk never faltering. "Oye, little sister, I never lie."

But Yggdrasil's attention was on Sihtric now. He was still looking at her with that same softness, his gaze gentle but full of concern. There was something in the way he watched her that made her feel like the world outside the Burh had faded away.

"Lady," Sihtric said, his voice low and hesitant, the way he said her title sent a flutter through her chest. "Shall I fetch you some ale? For—the cold, I mean."

His voice was so sincere, so gentle, that Yggdrasil's heart skipped a beat. She smiled, a softness creeping into her features as she looked at him.

"There's no need, Sihtric. Thank you," she replied, her tone warm.

Sihtric didn't move right away, his eyes lingering on her just a second longer, as if he was trying to figure out if there was more he could do. He swallowed, visibly shifting on his feet, then nodded, his voice a soft murmur, barely above a whisper.

"Of course, Lady. I'll be right here if you need anything... anything at all." He stood straighter, like he was waiting for her to give him another task, anything to keep him in her presence just a little longer.

Yggdrasil's smile deepened, the warmth in her chest growing, and she couldn't help but feel an unexpected sense of comfort in the way he looked at her. It was like he was always waiting, always willing to offer whatever he could, just to keep her safe or comfortable.

"You're too kind, Sihtric." Her words were soft, genuine. He had this way of making her feel like she mattered, like she wasn't just some stranger caught up in this war.

Sihtric's cheeks flushed ever so slightly, and he averted his eyes for a moment, clearing his throat. "I just want to be of use, Lady" he said, his voice even quieter, as though he wasn't entirely sure how to respond.

Yggdrasil chuckled softly, the sound light and melodic. "You're more than kind."

Sihtric looked back at her then, his expression a mix of uncertainty and something deeper—something that made Yggdrasil's heart beat a little faster. She knew he was trying, always trying, but it was clear that he wanted to do more. She could see it in the way his eyes never fully left her, as though he was waiting for permission to offer more.

"I—if you need anything else, Lady, you just... just let me know," he stammered, his tone filled with earnestness. There was a tenderness in his voice that caught Yggdrasil off guard. It was almost as though he was trying to express everything he felt in one simple statement, and yet it felt like there was so much more beneath the surface.

Yggdrasil's heart skipped another beat. She had never been the type to rely on others, but there was something in Sihtric's unwavering devotion that made it hard not to. His kindness, his loyalty—it made her feel seen in a way she hadn't expected.

"I will, Sihtric," she replied, her voice low, almost shy. It was a promise, soft but certain. She could feel the weight of it, and in that moment, she realized that perhaps, for the first time in a long while, she wasn't alone.

Finan, who had been watching the interaction with an exaggeratedly bored expression, finally rolled his eyes. "Oh, for the love of the god," he muttered under his breath. "You two are a bloody pair."

Yggdrasil glanced at him with a playful smirk. "Mind your own business, Finan."

Sihtric, still a little flustered, grinned shyly, his eyes twinkling with a warmth that made her heart flutter. "We'll be right here if you need us, Lady."

Yggdrasil smiled at him again, her heart inexplicably lighter. "I know."

Yggdrasil watched as Alfred and Uhtred emerged from the darkness of Skade's prison, their expressions unreadable. But before she could even begin to gauge what had transpired between them, a piercing, shrill cry shattered the night air.

"Bloodhaaaair!"

The name echoed across the Burh, raw and desperate, like a wounded animal howling for its master. Skade's screams rang out, relentless and frenzied, sending shivers down spines.

Yggdrasil let out a slow breath, wincing at the pathetic display. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if physically recoiling from the sheer annoyance of it.

And, of course, Uhtred—in his infinite wisdom—had decided that if Skade insisted on calling for Bloodhair, they might as well make use of it.

So now, there she was—standing atop the palisade, where the guards stood, her voice even louder, her cries even more unbearable.

Yggdrasil's patience was hanging by a thread.

Sihtric, standing beside her, clenched his jaw before turning to Uhtred, who had now lazily leaned against a wooden pole, looking utterly unbothered.

"When can we bind her mouth shut?" Sihtric asked, his voice tight with irritation.

Yggdrasil's lips curled into a slow, amused smile.

"Sihtric, do it now. I need it," she murmured, a pleading edge to her tone, her fingers massaging her temples.

Sihtric, ever loyal, nodded immediately and turned to leave, ready to follow her command—until Uhtred's voice cut through the air.

"You will do no such thing."

Sihtric froze mid-step, his body tense. "But—" He looked at Yggdrasil, seeking confirmation, his dark eyes filled with hesitation.

Uhtred shot him a sharp warning glare, and just like that, Sihtric stopped in place, his head lowering slightly.

Yggdrasil narrowed her eyes at her brother, her irritation clear as she threw him a mock death glare. Uhtred, the coward, dodged it with ease, looking away with a smirk.

Sihtric, still looking to Yggdrasil for direction, hesitated before finally stepping back beside her, as if making sure she truly wanted him to stay put. She gave him a small nod, and he instantly relaxed.

Uhtred, completely unfazed, only glanced toward the palisade where Skade's wails continued to ring through the night.

"Let her sing," he said dismissively.

Osferth, who had been silent all this time, finally let out a small, incredulous chuckle. "That is not singing."

Yggdrasil smirked, amused by Osferth's remark as she crouched slightly closer to the fire, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

Finan sighed heavily before resting his head against her shoulder, making himself comfortable.

For a moment, there was peace—just the crackling of the fire, the distant sounds of the camp, the presence of those she trusted around her.

And then, of course, Aethelwold had to ruin it.

He sauntered toward them, his usual air of self-importance wrapped around him like an expensive cloak. He was unbothered by the way both Yggdrasil and Finan immediately fixed him with glares of pure loathing.

"Here's a bit of loose talk for you," Aethelwold began, his grin smug and knowing. "Sigebriht, son of whoever, would very much like to rip the innards from young Edward's belly. Would you like to know why?"

Yggdrasil narrowed her eyes, her patience already at its limit. "No. Go away."

Aethelwold ignored her completely, his grin widening.

"I'll tell you anyway," he said, his voice dripping with mock delight. "Edward—the non-bastard son of Alfred—" he gestured toward Osferth with a lazy hand, "has whelped twins on the girl Sigebriht once loved."

A heavy silence fell over the group.

Osferth's jaw tensed, his hands curling into fists at the pointed insult.

Yggdrasil's expression darkened instantly, her body shifting slightly as if restraining the urge to physically remove Aethelwold from her sight. "You bastard faced cunt" she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "Do you ever shut up?"

Aethelwold merely grinned wider, unfazed by her venom. "I only speak the truth, dear Yggdrasil. A rare thing among us nobles."

Osferth, who had been silent, finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. "And does Sigebriht still love this girl?"

Aethelwold's smirk faltered for the briefest moment.

He didn't answer.

And in that pause, Yggdrasil knew—this wasn't about love at all. It was about pride, about wounded egos, about men who could not bear to lose.

She let out a slow breath, her gaze locked onto Aethelwold's, unyielding. "You enjoy stirring the pot, don't you?"

Aethelwold simply smirked again, his silence louder than words.

Yggdrasil rolled her eyes, turning back toward the fire as if dismissing his very existence.

"Pathetic," she muttered under her breath.

Yggdrasil let out an exasperated sigh before pushing herself up from where she sat, unintentionally jostling Finan in the process. The poor man let out a disgruntled groan, blinking up at her in confusion.

"What the hell, woman?" he grumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

She ignored him, her attention already shifting elsewhere. Her patience had officially worn thin, and she had no intention of sitting through even one more second of Skade's wailing or Aethelwold's incessant shittalking.

Her sharp gaze landed on the insufferable man in question, and she jabbed a pointed finger in his direction. "I am going to my room. I've had enough of that woman's shrieking and your bullshit, Aethelwold."

Aethelwold, ever the smug bastard, only smirked at her, as if reveling in her irritation.

She rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, ready to walk away, but then—almost as an afterthought—she hesitated. Glancing back over her shoulder, she softened just a fraction.

"Goodnight."

There was a chorus of responses—

Finan muttered something under his breath that was caught between a grumbled goodnight and a barely veiled threat.

Uhtred simply nodded, offering a lazy wave of dismissal.

Osferth, ever the polite one, responded with a quiet, "Goodnight, Lady Yggdrasil."

And then there was Sihtric.

He shifted on his feet, almost as if he wasn't sure whether to say something or keep his mouth shut. His lips parted—closed—then parted again. "N—Night good—" he stammered before quickly correcting himself. "I mean—goodnight, Lady."

Yggdrasil paused mid-step, turning slightly toward him.

There was something about the way he said it—so earnest, so utterly flustered, his voice laced with an almost boyish nervousness—that made warmth bloom in her chest.

A slow, amused smile tugged at her lips, and she let out a soft, breathy chuckle.

Sihtric's ears burned at the sound.

Still smiling to herself, Yggdrasil finally walked away, leaving behind a very flustered and slightly lovesick Sihtric, who was now pointedly staring at the ground like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

That night, Yggdrasil lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling with a flustered smile tugging at her lips.

One thought ran through her mind.

What was that feeling?

The warmth in her chest, the way her heart fluttered at the smallest gesture, the way Sihtric's voice—so soft, so reverent when he called her Lady—made something deep within her stir.

She turned onto her side, clutching the furs closer, her face burning at the memory of him stumbling over his words.

Gods. What is happening to me?

But morning came quickly, stealing away the quiet confusion of the night.

This time, Finan wasn't the one to wake her—strangely, she had already been awake with the first light of dawn.

She braided her hair with swift, practiced fingers, donned her armor, and stepped out into the biting cold air, feeling an odd sense of restlessness settle over her.

She searched for her brother, expecting to find him deep in discussion with the men. But to her growing annoyance—he was nowhere to be seen.

She caught sight of Finan and wasted no time. "Where is Uhtred?"

The Irishman cringed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "In the witch's lair—giving her water."

Yggdrasil stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, her lips parted. "I'm sorry—he's what?"

Finan nodded, as if to confirm that yes, he had just said what she thought he did.

Her eyes darkened, disbelief laced in her voice. "My brother is a fool—gods help me." She muttered under her breath, shaking her head in frustration.

And then—

"LORD! IT'S BLOODHAIR! HE HAS HOSTAGES!"

Sihtric's urgent voice rang through the air, snapping them all to attention.

Yggdrasil exchanged a quick glance with Finan before instinct took over, and the two of them bolted—rushing to the top of the palisade, their breath visible in the cold morning air. Uthred after them as he heard the call.

Below them—

Her jaw clenched.

That cunt.

Bloodhair stood at the front, gripping a poor woman by her hair before shoving her forward like she was nothing more than a ragdoll. His men followed his example, yanking terrified prisoners ahead with cruel hands.

Yggdrasil's blood boiled.

She could feel the simmering rage rising within her, white-hot and unrelenting.

She barely registered Uhtred moving beside her, leaning in close. "Silla, we go."

She exhaled sharply through her nose, nodding once before following him down. She didn't need to ask where—they both knew.

The witch.

Her stomach turned, but she pushed the feeling aside, turning instead to Osferth. "Osferth, be ready to open the gates."

Then to Finan—"You're coming with us."

The Irishman nodded without hesitation.

From the distance, the hurried sound of footsteps—Alfred, accompanied by Beocca, Sigebriht, and Edward, all arriving with urgency etched into their expressions.

Alfred's voice cut through the tension. "Uhtred, who is it?"

Uhtred barely looked at him as he answered. "Bloodhair, Lord. He has hostages."

Alfred's face darkened. "He wishes to negotiate."

Yggdrasil tilted her head slightly, her mind racing. "Possibly."

But her gut told her otherwise.

This wasn't a negotiation.

This was a threat.

And gods help him—if he thought for even a second that they would cower—he was gravely mistaken.

The tension in the air was suffocating.

Uhtred stormed toward the gates, his grip unrelenting on Skade's arm as he dragged her along. Finan flanked him on one side, Yggdrasil on the other, her expression unreadable—calm, calculated, but her every step was brimming with quiet fury.

The moment they stepped out of the palisade, Uhtred's voice rang through the air.

"Earl Sigurd!"

Bloodhair stood at the head of his men, his presence as imposing as ever, but it was his eyes—hungry, feral—that fixated on Skade the moment he saw her.

Like a predator watching its prey.

But Uhtred was not one to be outdone. He did not falter. Instead, his voice came like a blade—sharp, cutting.

"Kill one more hostage, and I will let every man here see her nakedness. And then?" He paused, his voice dropping into something cold. "I will split her guts for them to watch."

Skade let out a breathless, almost delighted laugh at his threat. She turned her head slightly, eyes locking onto Bloodhair's, her lips curling in something sickly sweet.

"Do it, Lord," she urged. "We will see each other in the next life."

Yggdrasil had heard enough.

Her lips parted, and when she spoke, her voice was steady, unwavering, edged with something dangerously mocking.

"You are outnumbered, Sigurd," she called out, her piercing gaze locked onto the warlord. "Why make a spectacle of yourself when the outcome is already written? You are a fool if you think this will end in your favor."

Bloodhair's nostrils flared.

The man was too proud, too arrogant to be reasoned with.

And Skade—Skade knew it.

She turned her head to Uhtred, eyes blazing with defiance, and before anyone could stop her—

"BLOODHAIR, ATTACK!"

Her voice sliced through the air like a dagger, a siren's call, wild and reckless.

Uhtred's patience snapped.

Without hesitation, he ripped her back by her hair, forcing her to stumble, and Yggdrasil could see the silent conversation that passed between them in that moment. A warning. A command.

Stay quiet.

But Yggdrasil had no patience for the witch's games.

Skade's screams still rang in her ears, her wails filling the air like a foul omen. Yggdrasil had spent enough of her life surrounded by the mad and the desperate. She would not let this wretch drive them all into ruin.

Her movements were swift, effortless.

In one fluid motion, she reached back, gripping one of her two thick braids—the weight of the silver adornments at the ends heavy in her hand—and swung.

The impact was brutal.

The silver decorations struck Skade's ribs with a resounding crack, forcing a gasp of pain from the woman's lips. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the ground, her breath coming in ragged pants.

For the first time—Skade was silent.

Yggdrasil exhaled, eyes dark as she stared down at her. Then, with a quiet, deadly tone, she whispered,

"Scream again, witch, and I will make sure your next breath is your last."

Silence.

And then—

A slow smirk crept onto Yggdrasil's lips as she lifted her gaze, meeting Bloodhair's enraged expression.

"Is this the seer you so desperately worship, Sigurd?" she taunted, tilting her head mockingly. "The one writhing in the dirt like a wounded animal?"

She could see the fury darkening his features, the way his grip tightened around his sword.

Good.

Let him seethe.

Let him burn.

Uhtred stood firm, his smirk sharp as a blade, eyes glinting with a predator's amusement.

"I have in mind to kill her," he taunted, letting his voice ring loud enough for Bloodhair's men to hear. "If I tire of her."

Skade coughed, breathless from pain, but even then, her defiance was venomous.

"He cannot, Lord!" she shrieked, voice hoarse. "He's cursed!"

Yggdrasil had heard enough.

A low, guttural hiss escaped her lips, her body tensing like a beast ready to strike. The air around her shifted, cold, sharp—dangerous.

Her fangs bared for just a fraction of a moment.

Skade froze.

For the first time since they had dragged her out, the witch did not mock, did not sneer. She looked down, shoulders stiff.

Yggdrasil saw it then.

Fear.

A slow, knowing smirk curled onto her lips.

So, even the mad witch knows when to cower.

Uhtred, unbothered by Skade's theatrics, shoved her forward, making her crumple onto the dirt. Without hesitation, he brought his boot down hard—a brutal kick to her ribs.

Skade screamed.

"Bloodhair!" she wailed, desperate. "Kill them all!"

Bloodhair's rage was palpable. He took a step forward, his voice a snarl. "You will not harm her again!"

Uhtred glanced at Yggdrasil, their silent understanding immediate.

She took Skade by the arms, rough, unrelenting, her grip like iron. The witch struggled, but Yggdrasil held her firm, keeping her locked in place. The woman could do nothing more than stand still and breathe.

Uhtred turned back to Bloodhair, voice steady, almost mocking.

"The price has risen." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "You will spare the hostages. Free them. Send them across the Burh."

Bloodhair's jaw clenched.

He stepped closer, his entire presence vibrating with fury. "What I will do," he spat, "is feed you your own cock. Release her."

Uhtred simply nodded to himself, pursing his lips as if considering. Then, with casual indifference, he said,

"Yggdrasil?"

She hummed, still gripping Skade's arms.

"You can kill her."

And just like that—Skade screamed.

Not in pain.

Not in anger.

In pure, unrelenting terror.

Yggdrasil's eyes shifted—her irises turning golden, glowing, burning like molten fire.

The power thrummed through her veins, an ancient force awakening at her brother's command. Her presence darkened, the very air around her turning thick, suffocating. The ground seemed to hum beneath her feet.

Skade wailed, body writhing against Yggdrasil's hold, as if her very soul was being crushed under an unseen force. Her voice cracked with hysteria, pain laced in every breath.

Bloodhair paled.

Just for a second.

A tiny crack in his mask.

But Yggdrasil saw it.

"Don't."

His voice was quiet now, stripped of arrogance.

Uhtred met his gaze, unyielding, merciless. "You have until sunset to free the hostages," he declared. "Or your witch will die."

The weight of the words settled over them like an unspoken promise.

Then, just as suddenly as it began—Yggdrasil stopped.

The glow in her eyes dimmed, the suffocating air dissipating. Skade collapsed like a lifeless ragdoll, gasping, shaking, a shadow of the woman who had stood proud only moments before.

Uhtred yanked her back up, dragging her toward the gates with a brutal grip. Finan and Osferth followed, never once looking back.

But Yggdrasil?

She did turn back.

Because Bloodhair's voice rang one last time.

"The daughter of Ivar the Boneless will forever be a monster!"

The words hung in the air like a curse, like an omen.

Yggdrasil stilled.

And then, slowly, she turned—golden eyes flashing once more, her gaze cold yet behind it there was hidden the little girl she was the first time someone called her that.

"You should pray, Sigurd," she murmured, her voice low, lethal. "That I won't meet you in battle"

Then, without another word, she followed her brother through the gates.

The gates slammed shut behind them.

Yggdrasil let out a slow, trembling breath as the witch was dragged back to her prison. Her back met the rough wood of the palisade wall, and she rested her head against it, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment.

The battle was far from over.

Her hands—shaking.

She opened her eyes and stared down at them, watching the way her fingers trembled as if something inside her was breaking. She clenched them into fists, nails digging into her palms.

No one could know.

No one would know.

This power, this curse, it was killing her slowly.

And yet, she would tell no soul.

Inside the chambers, Alfred stood uneasy, fingers twitching over the wooden table before him.

Uhtred strode in, Yggdrasil beside him, their presence commanding as the firelight flickered across their faces.

"We need to change our strategy, Lord," Uhtred stated, voice edged with urgency. "We cannot wait for him to attack because he will not. Her value is greater than I first thought. He will wait for as long as it takes."

Yggdrasil gave a sharp nod, her golden eyes narrowing. "He knows she is power, and power is worth more than blood. But if we wait, we play into his hands. He will not grow weaker—only more desperate."

Alfred's gaze flickered toward her, unreadable. "Aethelred and the Mercians will be close."

"They will be seen," Yggdrasil confirmed.

Uhtred began pacing, mind working fast. "But we must stop them on the road. I can send Finan to do just that, and then we must join them. We must choose the place for battle."

Yggdrasil stepped beside Finan, her voice steady despite the exhaustion creeping into her bones. "But we must act quickly, Lord. While his blood still runs."

Alfred nodded.

And yet, Yggdrasil barely heard him anymore.

She could feel it—the slow, gnawing drain creeping into her limbs, whispering at the edge of her mind. The weight of her own power was suffocating her, burning her from the inside out.

If she stood here any longer, she feared her legs might give out.

She needed rest.

Gods, she needed it.

But the moment she turned to leave, a voice—his voice—made her halt.

"Lady Yggdrasil."

Her shoulders stiffened. A sigh of pure frustration left her lips before she even turned around.

"What do you want, Aethelwold."

A smirk curled onto his lips, oily, knowing. "Oh, nothing much," he mused, stepping closer. "Just wanted to say how... impressive it was to see your abilities in person."

Her stomach twisted.

She knew where this was going.

"It seems the apple does not fall far from the tree, now does it?"

Yggdrasil froze.

Aethelwold saw it—the flicker in her eyes, the brief moment of hesitation, of fear.

And so, he pressed forward. "You are your father's daughter, Yggdrasil."

Her breath hitched. No.

Not that.

She fought to keep her expression stone-cold, but her eyes—**her traitorous, betraying eyes—**said otherwise.

Aethelwold chuckled darkly, his voice low, taunting. "Blood of a beast will always prevail, will it not? And no matter how hard you try to hide it... Yggdrasil, you are a tool made for killing. A monster."

Her heart pounded.

No.

Her fists clenched so tightly, her nails cut into her palms. Tears threatened to burn her eyes, but she refused. Refused to break in front of him.

"You don't know me," she whispered, voice trembling, barely holding together.

Aethelwold smirked. "Oh, but your eyes betray you, Yggdrasil."

Her breath shattered.

She turned sharply, storming away, her chest aching with a feeling she couldn't name.

No. No, no, no.

I am not a monster. I am not a monster.

But the words felt hollow.

A shadow moved behind her.

Sihtric.

She barely noticed him following until his voice—soft, concerned, terrified for her—broke through the noise in her head.

"Lady? Has something happened?"

She didn't stop walking.

"Sihtric, go tend to your duties. I do not need help now." Her voice was strained, shaking at the edges.

But Sihtric didn't budge.

"Lady, I-I heard..."

She stopped.

Her entire body went still.

The word rang in her mind. Lady.

How could she be a lady when she was nothing more than a monster?

Slowly, she turned around.

Her eyes were wet.

"Sihtric," she whispered, voice breaking, "when I said you were too good for me, I meant it with my whole heart."

His world shattered.

Pain. That was all he could feel as he watched her—this woman who was stronger than any warrior he had ever known—stand before him with tears in her eyes.

"Lady, I do not understand—"

"You heard what he said, Sihtric," she cut in, her voice sharp and broken all at once. "You heard him."

Sihtric clenched his jaw. His hands itched to reach for her, to wipe away those tears, to destroy anyone who dared put them there.

"Sihtric..." she whispered, inhaling shakily. "I am my father's daughter. I am a tool for killing, as he said it... and he's not wrong."

Her lips trembled.

"You treat me as if I were someone better than that. Why? You barely know me."

Sihtric's chest ached.

He wanted to scream, to argue, to tell her she was so much more than what that bastard Aethelwold spewed.

But instead, he only stepped closer, eyes soft, pleading.

"I know enough, Lady"

Yggdrasil's breath caught in her throat.

"I know you are fierce, and loyal, and good," Sihtric said, his voice low, raw with emotion. "I know that when you fight, you do not fight for power or for blood—you fight for those you love."

She looked away, her throat burning.

"And I know," he murmured, softer now, "that whatever poison he planted in your mind—it is a lie."

Silence.

Yggdrasil swallowed thickly, her body trembling, so desperate to believe him.

But the shadows of her past loomed over her like a curse.

She turned away. "Go, Sihtric."

And then she was gone, disappearing into the cold halls, leaving Sihtric standing there, staring after her with a heaviness in his heart.

He had endured many wounds throughout his life, but seeing her tears?, was the words wound of all.

Because for all her strength, for all her fire—she didn't see what he saw.

And gods, he would make her see it.

[beyralxoxo]

{DESTINY AND BLOOD-KINGDOM: SIHTRIC KJARTANSSON}

IV: the seer

SUMMARY: The crew returns to the Burh with Skade, Alfred insists on seeing her while Yggdrasil knows it is a bad idea. Later on they are met with Bloodhair and some of Yggdrasil's past is brought forward much to her hatred towards herself and what she has to endure.

PAIRING: Sihtric Kjartansson x Yggdrasil Ivarsdottir (OC)

WORD COUNT: 5,6 K

WARNINGS: swearing-mentions of pain-mentions of hitting someone with force-mild panic attack from Yggdrasil-bringing up past

The night in the Burh had settled in, thick with the weight of plans and decisions that hung in the air like an omen. The fire crackled softly, casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. Yggdrasil sat beside Finan, her mind far from the warmth of the flames. Aethelwold, Alfred, and Edward were gathered at the table, with Beocca quietly observing. Alfred sat in the center, as always, the king in control—his eyes sharp, his mind calculating.

Finan poured a cup of mead for himself before swiftly handing it to Yggdrasil. The coolness of the metal in her hand was a small comfort, and she took it with a soft murmur of thanks. Her gaze met Finan's for just a moment, and she saw the way his eyes softened as he took his own drink. She couldn't help but appreciate the small moments of peace between them, fleeting as they were.

But there was no peace in the room now.

Uhtred stood tall in the center, his posture radiating strength and frustration. The tension in his muscles was palpable as he listened to Alfred speak.

"Uhtred, we have been discussing strategy," Alfred began, his voice calm but holding an undertone of finality. "And I have decided we shall remain here, within the Burh and wait."

Uhtred's brow furrowed, his face a mix of confusion and disbelief. "Wait?" His voice was low, the challenge in it unmistakable. "Wait for what?"

Alfred's gaze never wavered. "For Bloodhair to attack."

Uhtred's head tilted slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing as he considered the words. "Why would he attack?" The question came out in disbelief, like he couldn't fathom such a foolish plan.

Edward, sitting to Alfred's right, looked at Uhtred as though he were explaining something simple. "Is that not what Danes do, Uhtred?" His voice held a mix of confusion and irritation. "They cannot help themselves."

Yggdrasil, ever calm and composed, let out a soft hum as she turned her gaze toward Edward. "Edward," she spoke slowly, her voice smooth and almost hypnotic, "Danes are known for waiting. They strike when the time is right. They are masters of strategy. Yes, they are greedy, but they also know their stakes." She met Alfred's eyes, holding his gaze as if to challenge him. "They will not waste men on foolish attacks."

Alfred glanced at Yggdrasil, his interest piqued. Then he looked back at Uhtred, his words slicing through the air like a blade. "Why should he not attack? I am here."

Uhtred's lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes remained steady. "You are here, and so too is your guard," he said, his voice calm but firm. "But why would he throw men against the walls of a Burh when Winchester's riches are unprotected?"

Edward frowned, clearly troubled by Uhtred's reasoning. "Would he really do that?"

Beocca, ever the voice of reason, looked down at the map before him, his eyes thoughtful. "He doesn't have a large army to hold Winchester."

Uhtred crossed his arms over his chest, his posture unwavering. "What if Haesten has joined him?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Athelwold, who had been quiet up until now, finally leaned forward with an arrogance that made Yggdrasil's skin crawl. "You're saying we should've stayed home?" His voice dripped with a smugness that only made the tension heavier.

Sigebriht, who had been lingering in the background, stepped forward, his voice cutting through the room like a sharp blade. "If you believe the advantages of the Burh to be dismissed, Lord, then you shall have an alternative."

Uhtred turned toward him, his expression cool. "I do not know you," he said flatly.

Sigebriht stood taller now, his chin raised in quiet defiance. "I am Sigebriht, son of Sigelf," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of his name. "It is my villages that the heathens burn. My father built these walls."

Uhtred gave a small nod of acknowledgment. "And he built them well, Sigebriht," he said, his voice almost approving. "That's why Bloodhair will not attack."

Yggdrasil, who had been silent until now, spoke with a quiet certainty. "He will not want to lose men, lord," she said, her words laced with wisdom. She turned to Alfred, her gaze unwavering. "Not even to kill a king"

Alfred raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "So you say?" His voice was more of a challenge than a question.

Uhtred stepped closer, his presence imposing. "He will wait for us to starve, or he will pass," he said, his tone hardening. "He will not attack, Lord. But we must move, and that is my advice."

Beocca, his brow furrowed in concern, tried to reason with the king. "If Winchester is vulnerable, Lord—"

But Alfred silenced him with a quick motion, turning his gaze to Uhtred with an almost dangerous calm. "This woman that you've taken, why is she here?" he asked, his voice smooth, like a knife poised at the throat.

Uhtred faltered for a moment, his usual confidence slipping for just a second. "She has value," he replied, his voice guarded, yet oddly unsure.

Yggdrasil shook her head at that, though no one else seemed to notice the small gesture. Alfred's eyes narrowed slightly as he processed Uhtred's words. "And Sigurd will want her back. I refuse to call him Bloodhair."

Yggdrasil smiled softly to herself at that, her lips curling in silent amusement at the way Alfred said the name. 

Uhtred nodded solemnly, his eyes meeting Alfred's. "Yes, he will want her back," he agreed, his voice low.

Aethelwold, of course, couldn't keep his mouth shut. He leaned in slightly, his voice thick with insincerity. "She is what to him? A wife? A lover?"

Uhtred pursed his lips, visibly irritated by Aethelwold's words, but he didn't allow it to show. "She's a...seer. A sorceress."

Aethelwold's grin twisted, his eyes narrowing as he turned to Yggdrasil. "It seems there are more of your kind out there, Lady Yggdrasil."

Yggdrasil's jaw clenched. Finan's fingers curled into fists beside her, his anger barely contained. But Yggdrasil remained calm, her gaze hardening as she met Aethelwold's mocking look. She didn't allow the words to sting her, not in front of them all.

With a breath, she smiled, a fake sweetness in her voice. "A seer and my kind are two different types of people, Aethelwold. See, for a man born into royalty, you're not much read, are you?"

Aethelwold blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sharpness of her words, but his smile remained, albeit more guarded now.

Alfred, who had been quiet for a moment, hummed thoughtfully at the mention of "sorceress." His gaze turned to Edward, his voice suddenly cold and calculating. "The simple mind of a Dane believes in signs, Edward. If a bird flew from their camp to ours, they would see it as a sign and follow. They would march into battle all because a seer caught a glimpse of a bird."

Uhtred leaned in slightly, his voice almost conspiratorial. "Yes, Lord. It can happen that way."

Alfred nodded, his mind clearly working through the possibilities. "Then it follows that without his seer, there can be no signs. Sigurd is blind. There can be no battle."

Yggdrasil's voice cut through the tension, her words carefully measured. "You are both right... and wrong, Lord."

Alfred's command sliced through the tension in the room like a dagger. "We wait." His voice left no room for argument, and Uhtred's weary sigh was all the response he could muster. The air in the room thickened with uncertainty, but Alfred's decision was final.

The king rose, the other noblemen following suit. "Now... I wish to look at her."

Yggdrasil exchanged a glance with Finan and Uhtred—both of them clearly baffled by Alfred's request. The absurdity of it settled like a stone in her stomach. It was an intrusion, and it was making her skin crawl.

Yggdrasil felt her pulse quicken as Alfred turned back to Uhtred, his gaze unyielding. "Skade."

Without a word, Yggdrasil stood, Finan beside her, his brow furrowed in confusion. She could feel the weight of the king's decision hanging over them, but there was no time for explanations. With a quick glance at Finan, she made her way toward the exit.

The cold air hit her like a slap, and she wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, walking briskly. Her frustration simmered just beneath the surface. Everything was becoming a mess.

When she arrived at the fire pit, Sihtric and Osferth stood by the flames, their shadows flickering like ghosts in the light. Sihtric's brow furrowed when he saw her approach, the concern in his eyes so visible, it made her chest tighten.

"What's going on, Lady?" Sihtric's voice was soft, but his worry was clear.

Finan, ever the joker, leaned in close, lowering his voice to share a secret. "Alfred said he wants to hump the witch. No word of a lie."

Yggdrasil shot him an incredulous look. "From your mouth, it sounds like it." Her words were biting, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes despite herself.

Finan grinned, his usual cocky smirk never faltering. "Oye, little sister, I never lie."

But Yggdrasil's attention was on Sihtric now. He was still looking at her with that same softness, his gaze gentle but full of concern. There was something in the way he watched her that made her feel like the world outside the Burh had faded away.

"Lady," Sihtric said, his voice low and hesitant, the way he said her title sent a flutter through her chest. "Shall I fetch you some ale? For—the cold, I mean."

His voice was so sincere, so gentle, that Yggdrasil's heart skipped a beat. She smiled, a softness creeping into her features as she looked at him.

"There's no need, Sihtric. Thank you," she replied, her tone warm.

Sihtric didn't move right away, his eyes lingering on her just a second longer, as if he was trying to figure out if there was more he could do. He swallowed, visibly shifting on his feet, then nodded, his voice a soft murmur, barely above a whisper.

"Of course, Lady. I'll be right here if you need anything... anything at all." He stood straighter, like he was waiting for her to give him another task, anything to keep him in her presence just a little longer.

Yggdrasil's smile deepened, the warmth in her chest growing, and she couldn't help but feel an unexpected sense of comfort in the way he looked at her. It was like he was always waiting, always willing to offer whatever he could, just to keep her safe or comfortable.

"You're too kind, Sihtric." Her words were soft, genuine. He had this way of making her feel like she mattered, like she wasn't just some stranger caught up in this war.

Sihtric's cheeks flushed ever so slightly, and he averted his eyes for a moment, clearing his throat. "I just want to be of use, Lady" he said, his voice even quieter, as though he wasn't entirely sure how to respond.

Yggdrasil chuckled softly, the sound light and melodic. "You're more than kind."

Sihtric looked back at her then, his expression a mix of uncertainty and something deeper—something that made Yggdrasil's heart beat a little faster. She knew he was trying, always trying, but it was clear that he wanted to do more. She could see it in the way his eyes never fully left her, as though he was waiting for permission to offer more.

"I—if you need anything else, Lady, you just... just let me know," he stammered, his tone filled with earnestness. There was a tenderness in his voice that caught Yggdrasil off guard. It was almost as though he was trying to express everything he felt in one simple statement, and yet it felt like there was so much more beneath the surface.

Yggdrasil's heart skipped another beat. She had never been the type to rely on others, but there was something in Sihtric's unwavering devotion that made it hard not to. His kindness, his loyalty—it made her feel seen in a way she hadn't expected.

"I will, Sihtric," she replied, her voice low, almost shy. It was a promise, soft but certain. She could feel the weight of it, and in that moment, she realized that perhaps, for the first time in a long while, she wasn't alone.

Finan, who had been watching the interaction with an exaggeratedly bored expression, finally rolled his eyes. "Oh, for the love of the god," he muttered under his breath. "You two are a bloody pair."

Yggdrasil glanced at him with a playful smirk. "Mind your own business, Finan."

Sihtric, still a little flustered, grinned shyly, his eyes twinkling with a warmth that made her heart flutter. "We'll be right here if you need us, Lady."

Yggdrasil smiled at him again, her heart inexplicably lighter. "I know."

Yggdrasil watched as Alfred and Uhtred emerged from the darkness of Skade's prison, their expressions unreadable. But before she could even begin to gauge what had transpired between them, a piercing, shrill cry shattered the night air.

"Bloodhaaaair!"

The name echoed across the Burh, raw and desperate, like a wounded animal howling for its master. Skade's screams rang out, relentless and frenzied, sending shivers down spines.

Yggdrasil let out a slow breath, wincing at the pathetic display. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if physically recoiling from the sheer annoyance of it.

And, of course, Uhtred—in his infinite wisdom—had decided that if Skade insisted on calling for Bloodhair, they might as well make use of it.

So now, there she was—standing atop the palisade, where the guards stood, her voice even louder, her cries even more unbearable.

Yggdrasil's patience was hanging by a thread.

Sihtric, standing beside her, clenched his jaw before turning to Uhtred, who had now lazily leaned against a wooden pole, looking utterly unbothered.

"When can we bind her mouth shut?" Sihtric asked, his voice tight with irritation.

Yggdrasil's lips curled into a slow, amused smile.

"Sihtric, do it now. I need it," she murmured, a pleading edge to her tone, her fingers massaging her temples.

Sihtric, ever loyal, nodded immediately and turned to leave, ready to follow her command—until Uhtred's voice cut through the air.

"You will do no such thing."

Sihtric froze mid-step, his body tense. "But—" He looked at Yggdrasil, seeking confirmation, his dark eyes filled with hesitation.

Uhtred shot him a sharp warning glare, and just like that, Sihtric stopped in place, his head lowering slightly.

Yggdrasil narrowed her eyes at her brother, her irritation clear as she threw him a mock death glare. Uhtred, the coward, dodged it with ease, looking away with a smirk.

Sihtric, still looking to Yggdrasil for direction, hesitated before finally stepping back beside her, as if making sure she truly wanted him to stay put. She gave him a small nod, and he instantly relaxed.

Uhtred, completely unfazed, only glanced toward the palisade where Skade's wails continued to ring through the night.

"Let her sing," he said dismissively.

Osferth, who had been silent all this time, finally let out a small, incredulous chuckle. "That is not singing."

Yggdrasil smirked, amused by Osferth's remark as she crouched slightly closer to the fire, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

Finan sighed heavily before resting his head against her shoulder, making himself comfortable.

For a moment, there was peace—just the crackling of the fire, the distant sounds of the camp, the presence of those she trusted around her.

And then, of course, Aethelwold had to ruin it.

He sauntered toward them, his usual air of self-importance wrapped around him like an expensive cloak. He was unbothered by the way both Yggdrasil and Finan immediately fixed him with glares of pure loathing.

"Here's a bit of loose talk for you," Aethelwold began, his grin smug and knowing. "Sigebriht, son of whoever, would very much like to rip the innards from young Edward's belly. Would you like to know why?"

Yggdrasil narrowed her eyes, her patience already at its limit. "No. Go away."

Aethelwold ignored her completely, his grin widening.

"I'll tell you anyway," he said, his voice dripping with mock delight. "Edward—the non-bastard son of Alfred—" he gestured toward Osferth with a lazy hand, "has whelped twins on the girl Sigebriht once loved."

A heavy silence fell over the group.

Osferth's jaw tensed, his hands curling into fists at the pointed insult.

Yggdrasil's expression darkened instantly, her body shifting slightly as if restraining the urge to physically remove Aethelwold from her sight. "You bastard faced cunt" she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "Do you ever shut up?"

Aethelwold merely grinned wider, unfazed by her venom. "I only speak the truth, dear Yggdrasil. A rare thing among us nobles."

Osferth, who had been silent, finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. "And does Sigebriht still love this girl?"

Aethelwold's smirk faltered for the briefest moment.

He didn't answer.

And in that pause, Yggdrasil knew—this wasn't about love at all. It was about pride, about wounded egos, about men who could not bear to lose.

She let out a slow breath, her gaze locked onto Aethelwold's, unyielding. "You enjoy stirring the pot, don't you?"

Aethelwold simply smirked again, his silence louder than words.

Yggdrasil rolled her eyes, turning back toward the fire as if dismissing his very existence.

"Pathetic," she muttered under her breath.

Yggdrasil let out an exasperated sigh before pushing herself up from where she sat, unintentionally jostling Finan in the process. The poor man let out a disgruntled groan, blinking up at her in confusion.

"What the hell, woman?" he grumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

She ignored him, her attention already shifting elsewhere. Her patience had officially worn thin, and she had no intention of sitting through even one more second of Skade's wailing or Aethelwold's incessant shittalking.

Her sharp gaze landed on the insufferable man in question, and she jabbed a pointed finger in his direction. "I am going to my room. I've had enough of that woman's shrieking and your bullshit, Aethelwold."

Aethelwold, ever the smug bastard, only smirked at her, as if reveling in her irritation.

She rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, ready to walk away, but then—almost as an afterthought—she hesitated. Glancing back over her shoulder, she softened just a fraction.

"Goodnight."

There was a chorus of responses—

Finan muttered something under his breath that was caught between a grumbled goodnight and a barely veiled threat.

Uhtred simply nodded, offering a lazy wave of dismissal.

Osferth, ever the polite one, responded with a quiet, "Goodnight, Lady Yggdrasil."

And then there was Sihtric.

He shifted on his feet, almost as if he wasn't sure whether to say something or keep his mouth shut. His lips parted—closed—then parted again. "N—Night good—" he stammered before quickly correcting himself. "I mean—goodnight, Lady."

Yggdrasil paused mid-step, turning slightly toward him.

There was something about the way he said it—so earnest, so utterly flustered, his voice laced with an almost boyish nervousness—that made warmth bloom in her chest.

A slow, amused smile tugged at her lips, and she let out a soft, breathy chuckle.

Sihtric's ears burned at the sound.

Still smiling to herself, Yggdrasil finally walked away, leaving behind a very flustered and slightly lovesick Sihtric, who was now pointedly staring at the ground like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

That night, Yggdrasil lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling with a flustered smile tugging at her lips.

One thought ran through her mind.

What was that feeling?

The warmth in her chest, the way her heart fluttered at the smallest gesture, the way Sihtric's voice—so soft, so reverent when he called her Lady—made something deep within her stir.

She turned onto her side, clutching the furs closer, her face burning at the memory of him stumbling over his words.

Gods. What is happening to me?

But morning came quickly, stealing away the quiet confusion of the night.

This time, Finan wasn't the one to wake her—strangely, she had already been awake with the first light of dawn.

She braided her hair with swift, practiced fingers, donned her armor, and stepped out into the biting cold air, feeling an odd sense of restlessness settle over her.

She searched for her brother, expecting to find him deep in discussion with the men. But to her growing annoyance—he was nowhere to be seen.

She caught sight of Finan and wasted no time. "Where is Uhtred?"

The Irishman cringed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "In the witch's lair—giving her water."

Yggdrasil stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, her lips parted. "I'm sorry—he's what?"

Finan nodded, as if to confirm that yes, he had just said what she thought he did.

Her eyes darkened, disbelief laced in her voice. "My brother is a fool—gods help me." She muttered under her breath, shaking her head in frustration.

And then—

"LORD! IT'S BLOODHAIR! HE HAS HOSTAGES!"

Sihtric's urgent voice rang through the air, snapping them all to attention.

Yggdrasil exchanged a quick glance with Finan before instinct took over, and the two of them bolted—rushing to the top of the palisade, their breath visible in the cold morning air. Uthred after them as he heard the call.

Below them—

Her jaw clenched.

That cunt.

Bloodhair stood at the front, gripping a poor woman by her hair before shoving her forward like she was nothing more than a ragdoll. His men followed his example, yanking terrified prisoners ahead with cruel hands.

Yggdrasil's blood boiled.

She could feel the simmering rage rising within her, white-hot and unrelenting.

She barely registered Uhtred moving beside her, leaning in close. "Silla, we go."

She exhaled sharply through her nose, nodding once before following him down. She didn't need to ask where—they both knew.

The witch.

Her stomach turned, but she pushed the feeling aside, turning instead to Osferth. "Osferth, be ready to open the gates."

Then to Finan—"You're coming with us."

The Irishman nodded without hesitation.

From the distance, the hurried sound of footsteps—Alfred, accompanied by Beocca, Sigebriht, and Edward, all arriving with urgency etched into their expressions.

Alfred's voice cut through the tension. "Uhtred, who is it?"

Uhtred barely looked at him as he answered. "Bloodhair, Lord. He has hostages."

Alfred's face darkened. "He wishes to negotiate."

Yggdrasil tilted her head slightly, her mind racing. "Possibly."

But her gut told her otherwise.

This wasn't a negotiation.

This was a threat.

And gods help him—if he thought for even a second that they would cower—he was gravely mistaken.

The tension in the air was suffocating.

Uhtred stormed toward the gates, his grip unrelenting on Skade's arm as he dragged her along. Finan flanked him on one side, Yggdrasil on the other, her expression unreadable—calm, calculated, but her every step was brimming with quiet fury.

The moment they stepped out of the palisade, Uhtred's voice rang through the air.

"Earl Sigurd!"

Bloodhair stood at the head of his men, his presence as imposing as ever, but it was his eyes—hungry, feral—that fixated on Skade the moment he saw her.

Like a predator watching its prey.

But Uhtred was not one to be outdone. He did not falter. Instead, his voice came like a blade—sharp, cutting.

"Kill one more hostage, and I will let every man here see her nakedness. And then?" He paused, his voice dropping into something cold. "I will split her guts for them to watch."

Skade let out a breathless, almost delighted laugh at his threat. She turned her head slightly, eyes locking onto Bloodhair's, her lips curling in something sickly sweet.

"Do it, Lord," she urged. "We will see each other in the next life."

Yggdrasil had heard enough.

Her lips parted, and when she spoke, her voice was steady, unwavering, edged with something dangerously mocking.

"You are outnumbered, Sigurd," she called out, her piercing gaze locked onto the warlord. "Why make a spectacle of yourself when the outcome is already written? You are a fool if you think this will end in your favor."

Bloodhair's nostrils flared.

The man was too proud, too arrogant to be reasoned with.

And Skade—Skade knew it.

She turned her head to Uhtred, eyes blazing with defiance, and before anyone could stop her—

"BLOODHAIR, ATTACK!"

Her voice sliced through the air like a dagger, a siren's call, wild and reckless.

Uhtred's patience snapped.

Without hesitation, he ripped her back by her hair, forcing her to stumble, and Yggdrasil could see the silent conversation that passed between them in that moment. A warning. A command.

Stay quiet.

But Yggdrasil had no patience for the witch's games.

Skade's screams still rang in her ears, her wails filling the air like a foul omen. Yggdrasil had spent enough of her life surrounded by the mad and the desperate. She would not let this wretch drive them all into ruin.

Her movements were swift, effortless.

In one fluid motion, she reached back, gripping one of her two thick braids—the weight of the silver adornments at the ends heavy in her hand—and swung.

The impact was brutal.

The silver decorations struck Skade's ribs with a resounding crack, forcing a gasp of pain from the woman's lips. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the ground, her breath coming in ragged pants.

For the first time—Skade was silent.

Yggdrasil exhaled, eyes dark as she stared down at her. Then, with a quiet, deadly tone, she whispered,

"Scream again, witch, and I will make sure your next breath is your last."

Silence.

And then—

A slow smirk crept onto Yggdrasil's lips as she lifted her gaze, meeting Bloodhair's enraged expression.

"Is this the seer you so desperately worship, Sigurd?" she taunted, tilting her head mockingly. "The one writhing in the dirt like a wounded animal?"

She could see the fury darkening his features, the way his grip tightened around his sword.

Good.

Let him seethe.

Let him burn.

Uhtred stood firm, his smirk sharp as a blade, eyes glinting with a predator's amusement.

"I have in mind to kill her," he taunted, letting his voice ring loud enough for Bloodhair's men to hear. "If I tire of her."

Skade coughed, breathless from pain, but even then, her defiance was venomous.

"He cannot, Lord!" she shrieked, voice hoarse. "He's cursed!"

Yggdrasil had heard enough.

A low, guttural hiss escaped her lips, her body tensing like a beast ready to strike. The air around her shifted, cold, sharp—dangerous.

Her fangs bared for just a fraction of a moment.

Skade froze.

For the first time since they had dragged her out, the witch did not mock, did not sneer. She looked down, shoulders stiff.

Yggdrasil saw it then.

Fear.

A slow, knowing smirk curled onto her lips.

So, even the mad witch knows when to cower.

Uhtred, unbothered by Skade's theatrics, shoved her forward, making her crumple onto the dirt. Without hesitation, he brought his boot down hard—a brutal kick to her ribs.

Skade screamed.

"Bloodhair!" she wailed, desperate. "Kill them all!"

Bloodhair's rage was palpable. He took a step forward, his voice a snarl. "You will not harm her again!"

Uhtred glanced at Yggdrasil, their silent understanding immediate.

She took Skade by the arms, rough, unrelenting, her grip like iron. The witch struggled, but Yggdrasil held her firm, keeping her locked in place. The woman could do nothing more than stand still and breathe.

Uhtred turned back to Bloodhair, voice steady, almost mocking.

"The price has risen." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "You will spare the hostages. Free them. Send them across the Burh."

Bloodhair's jaw clenched.

He stepped closer, his entire presence vibrating with fury. "What I will do," he spat, "is feed you your own cock. Release her."

Uhtred simply nodded to himself, pursing his lips as if considering. Then, with casual indifference, he said,

"Yggdrasil?"

She hummed, still gripping Skade's arms.

"You can kill her."

And just like that—Skade screamed.

Not in pain.

Not in anger.

In pure, unrelenting terror.

Yggdrasil's eyes shifted—her irises turning golden, glowing, burning like molten fire.

The power thrummed through her veins, an ancient force awakening at her brother's command. Her presence darkened, the very air around her turning thick, suffocating. The ground seemed to hum beneath her feet.

Skade wailed, body writhing against Yggdrasil's hold, as if her very soul was being crushed under an unseen force. Her voice cracked with hysteria, pain laced in every breath.

Bloodhair paled.

Just for a second.

A tiny crack in his mask.

But Yggdrasil saw it.

"Don't."

His voice was quiet now, stripped of arrogance.

Uhtred met his gaze, unyielding, merciless. "You have until sunset to free the hostages," he declared. "Or your witch will die."

The weight of the words settled over them like an unspoken promise.

Then, just as suddenly as it began—Yggdrasil stopped.

The glow in her eyes dimmed, the suffocating air dissipating. Skade collapsed like a lifeless ragdoll, gasping, shaking, a shadow of the woman who had stood proud only moments before.

Uhtred yanked her back up, dragging her toward the gates with a brutal grip. Finan and Osferth followed, never once looking back.

But Yggdrasil?

She did turn back.

Because Bloodhair's voice rang one last time.

"The daughter of Ivar the Boneless will forever be a monster!"

The words hung in the air like a curse, like an omen.

Yggdrasil stilled.

And then, slowly, she turned—golden eyes flashing once more, her gaze cold yet behind it there was hidden the little girl she was the first time someone called her that.

"You should pray, Sigurd," she murmured, her voice low, lethal. "That I won't meet you in battle"

Then, without another word, she followed her brother through the gates.

The gates slammed shut behind them.

Yggdrasil let out a slow, trembling breath as the witch was dragged back to her prison. Her back met the rough wood of the palisade wall, and she rested her head against it, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment.

The battle was far from over.

Her hands—shaking.

She opened her eyes and stared down at them, watching the way her fingers trembled as if something inside her was breaking. She clenched them into fists, nails digging into her palms.

No one could know.

No one would know.

This power, this curse, it was killing her slowly.

And yet, she would tell no soul.

Inside the chambers, Alfred stood uneasy, fingers twitching over the wooden table before him.

Uhtred strode in, Yggdrasil beside him, their presence commanding as the firelight flickered across their faces.

"We need to change our strategy, Lord," Uhtred stated, voice edged with urgency. "We cannot wait for him to attack because he will not. Her value is greater than I first thought. He will wait for as long as it takes."

Yggdrasil gave a sharp nod, her golden eyes narrowing. "He knows she is power, and power is worth more than blood. But if we wait, we play into his hands. He will not grow weaker—only more desperate."

Alfred's gaze flickered toward her, unreadable. "Aethelred and the Mercians will be close."

"They will be seen," Yggdrasil confirmed.

Uhtred began pacing, mind working fast. "But we must stop them on the road. I can send Finan to do just that, and then we must join them. We must choose the place for battle."

Yggdrasil stepped beside Finan, her voice steady despite the exhaustion creeping into her bones. "But we must act quickly, Lord. While his blood still runs."

Alfred nodded.

And yet, Yggdrasil barely heard him anymore.

She could feel it—the slow, gnawing drain creeping into her limbs, whispering at the edge of her mind. The weight of her own power was suffocating her, burning her from the inside out.

If she stood here any longer, she feared her legs might give out.

She needed rest.

Gods, she needed it.

But the moment she turned to leave, a voice—his voice—made her halt.

"Lady Yggdrasil."

Her shoulders stiffened. A sigh of pure frustration left her lips before she even turned around.

"What do you want, Aethelwold."

A smirk curled onto his lips, oily, knowing. "Oh, nothing much," he mused, stepping closer. "Just wanted to say how... impressive it was to see your abilities in person."

Her stomach twisted.

She knew where this was going.

"It seems the apple does not fall far from the tree, now does it?"

Yggdrasil froze.

Aethelwold saw it—the flicker in her eyes, the brief moment of hesitation, of fear.

And so, he pressed forward. "You are your father's daughter, Yggdrasil."

Her breath hitched. No.

Not that.

She fought to keep her expression stone-cold, but her eyes—**her traitorous, betraying eyes—**said otherwise.

Aethelwold chuckled darkly, his voice low, taunting. "Blood of a beast will always prevail, will it not? And no matter how hard you try to hide it... Yggdrasil, you are a tool made for killing. A monster."

Her heart pounded.

No.

Her fists clenched so tightly, her nails cut into her palms. Tears threatened to burn her eyes, but she refused. Refused to break in front of him.

"You don't know me," she whispered, voice trembling, barely holding together.

Aethelwold smirked. "Oh, but your eyes betray you, Yggdrasil."

Her breath shattered.

She turned sharply, storming away, her chest aching with a feeling she couldn't name.

No. No, no, no.

I am not a monster. I am not a monster.

But the words felt hollow.

A shadow moved behind her.

Sihtric.

She barely noticed him following until his voice—soft, concerned, terrified for her—broke through the noise in her head.

"Lady? Has something happened?"

She didn't stop walking.

"Sihtric, go tend to your duties. I do not need help now." Her voice was strained, shaking at the edges.

But Sihtric didn't budge.

"Lady, I-I heard..."

She stopped.

Her entire body went still.

The word rang in her mind. Lady.

How could she be a lady when she was nothing more than a monster?

Slowly, she turned around.

Her eyes were wet.

"Sihtric," she whispered, voice breaking, "when I said you were too good for me, I meant it with my whole heart."

His world shattered.

Pain. That was all he could feel as he watched her—this woman who was stronger than any warrior he had ever known—stand before him with tears in her eyes.

"Lady, I do not understand—"

"You heard what he said, Sihtric," she cut in, her voice sharp and broken all at once. "You heard him."

Sihtric clenched his jaw. His hands itched to reach for her, to wipe away those tears, to destroy anyone who dared put them there.

"Sihtric..." she whispered, inhaling shakily. "I am my father's daughter. I am a tool for killing, as he said it... and he's not wrong."

Her lips trembled.

"You treat me as if I were someone better than that. Why? You barely know me."

Sihtric's chest ached.

He wanted to scream, to argue, to tell her she was so much more than what that bastard Aethelwold spewed.

But instead, he only stepped closer, eyes soft, pleading.

"I know enough, Lady"

Yggdrasil's breath caught in her throat.

"I know you are fierce, and loyal, and good," Sihtric said, his voice low, raw with emotion. "I know that when you fight, you do not fight for power or for blood—you fight for those you love."

She looked away, her throat burning.

"And I know," he murmured, softer now, "that whatever poison he planted in your mind—it is a lie."

Silence.

Yggdrasil swallowed thickly, her body trembling, so desperate to believe him.

But the shadows of her past loomed over her like a curse.

She turned away. "Go, Sihtric."

And then she was gone, disappearing into the cold halls, leaving Sihtric standing there, staring after her with a heaviness in his heart.

He had endured many wounds throughout his life, but seeing her tears?, was the words wound of all.

Because for all her strength, for all her fire—she didn't see what he saw.

And gods, he would make her see it.

[beyralxoxo]

{DESTINY AND BLOOD-KINGDOM: SIHTRIC KJARTANSSON}

III: smite

SUMMARY: Sihtric wants to know more about Yggdrasil to which Finan tells him something about her he will never forget, Uthred, alongside Yggdrasil and his crew are made to follow Bloodhair. They find Skade, but the flicker of fear in Uthred's eyes makes Yggdrasil worry.

PAIRING: Sihtric Kjartansson x Yggdrasil Ivarsdottir (OC)

WORD COUNT: 6,5 K

WARNINGS: mentions of death-blood-organs-mention of awful death-curses-swearing-drinking

The fire crackled, its warmth wrapping the room in a soft embrace. Yggdrasil sat, a small smile on her lips, as Stiorra, her niece, rested peacefully in her lap. The little girl's eyelids fluttered, the rhythmic sound of Yggdrasil's voice soothing her into a deep, contented sleep. Yggdrasil's fingers gently brushed through Stiorra's hair as she finished reading, the soft crackle of the flames the only sound left in the room.

Across from her, Uhtred and Gisela exchanged quiet glances, their smiles soft, like a secret shared between them. Their eyes lingered on the scene before them, a family bound by love and fragile moments of peace. Young Uhtred, oblivious to the quiet beauty of it all, was too busy causing chaos, pestering Osferth, who looked like he might lose his patience at any moment. But Osferth endured, his expression a mix of amusement and irritation.

Uhtred's gaze softened as it drifted back to Gisela, the woman who had his heart. She stood, her belly swollen with their child, and walked toward him. Without a word, he reached out, his hand gently pressing against her belly, as though feeling the life growing inside of her.

But Gisela, with her sharp eyes and knowing heart, wasn't fooled by the calm. She saw the tension in him, the way his shoulders had stiffened ever so slightly, the way his eyes flickered to the door.

"You're leaving," she said, her voice thick with quiet understanding. It wasn't a question; it was a statement. She knew him too well.

Uhtred sighed, his hand still resting on her belly, as if grounding himself.

"It's just a quick task," he said, his words heavy, filled with the weight of duty. "I've made arrangements. If I'm not back in time... Hild will be here for the labor."

Gisela didn't need to hear more. Her chest tightened, but she masked it with a soft kiss, pressing her lips to his with the quiet intensity of a promise. The kiss was simple, but it spoke volumes. She pulled back slowly, her eyes searching his, as if memorizing the shape of him, the feel of him, as if trying to hold on to something she couldn't quite grasp.

Yggdrasil, still holding Stiorra in her arms, glanced down and realized the child had already fallen asleep. Her smile softened as she gently brushed a strand of hair from Stiorra's forehead and tucked her into bed. The little girl stirred slightly but remained asleep, completely at ease.

Once the child was settled, Yggdrasil stepped away, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. She turned toward the door, but there, in the dim light of the hallway, stood Gisela, her eyes full of quiet fear.

"Silla?" Gisela's voice was barely above a whisper, like a prayer, a plea.

Yggdrasil met her gaze, her heart immediately sinking at the quiet desperation in her sister-in-law's eyes.

"Promise me..." Gisela's words were shaky, like she wasn't sure if she could even ask, but her fear was undeniable. "Promise me that nothing bad will happen to my husband while he's away."

Yggdrasil's heart clenched, her expression softening. She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to gently take Gisela's, her thumb brushing the back of her hand in a soothing, steadying motion.

"Gisela," Yggdrasil whispered, her voice calm but filled with the weight of unspoken truths. "You have to promise me that nothing will happen to you." She paused, her eyes locking onto Gisela's, the words hanging between them. "If anything happens to you, Uhtred will feel it, and we both know it."

Gisela's eyes closed, and she exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her body trembled with the weight of the truth. She nodded slowly, her lips trembling as she whispered her own promise.

"I promise."

Without another word, Gisela pulled Yggdrasil into her arms. It wasn't just a hug; it was a plea, a desperate need to hold on to something, to find strength in the woman who was as much a sister as she was a warrior.

Yggdrasil held her tightly, her arms around Gisela's fragile form, her heart aching with the burden of their shared love for Uhtred. She whispered softly, as though sealing the promise with her breath.

"I'll protect him, Gisela. I'll protect both of you."

Gisela nodded, her face buried in Yggdrasil's shoulder, the quiet sobs she tried to stifle betraying the fear she couldn't hide. They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms, the unspoken promise hanging heavy in the air between them.

And even though they both knew the world was uncertain, and Uhtred's path would be filled with danger, in that moment, all they had was the fragile hope that somehow, together, they could protect the ones they loved.

They pulled away after a while, the weight of the moment settling between them. Yggdrasil gently wiped away Gisela's tears with a soft smile, her voice carrying a teasing note.

"Now, now, no need for tears," she said, her tone light and playful as if to cut through the tension. "If Uhtred saw those tears, that fool wouldn't know whether to hug you or run."

Gisela's lips curled into a reluctant smile, and she nodded, feeling lighter. "You're right," she murmured, trying to shake the melancholy off. With one last look at Yggdrasil, Gisela turned to go, knowing the next task awaited her. But, of course, Yggdrasil wasn't about to let her go alone—not with a child on the way. She followed, keeping a protective eye on her.

Meanwhile, across the room, Finan and Sihtric were sitting at the table, throwing back mead as though they'd forgotten the world existed beyond the fire. Osferth was tucked in his corner, nose buried deep in his book, completely detached from the chaos. Uhtred had retreated to his bed, no doubt reflecting on the things to come, leaving the others to their business.

Finan took a long swig of his drink, but Sihtric looked like he was about to combust with... something. There was tension in his posture, the kind that comes with a deep inner turmoil, though for the life of him, Finan couldn't figure out what it was.

"Finan," Sihtric muttered, almost shyly.

Finan glanced over, raising an eyebrow. "What now?"

Sihtric hesitated, looking like he might swallow his own tongue before finally blurting it out. "What do you know about Lady Yggdrasil?"

Finan blinked, thoroughly confused. "Know about what?"

Sihtric looked around, making sure no one else was listening, before leaning in like he was about to share a state secret. "About Lady Yggdrasil." He said the name with an awkward, almost nervous hesitation.

The corners of Finan's mouth twitched as a grin tried to break through. "What?, what do I know about her?" he asked, his voice full of disbelief. He leaned back, crossing his arms, already catching on. "What's got you all hot and bothered?"

Sihtric's face flushed a deeper shade of red. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'm just... asking," he muttered, his voice growing weaker by the second. "We'll be fighting alongside each other soon, right? It's good to know who you're fighting with. That's all."

A single, explosive laugh rang out from the corner of the room—Osferth, who had apparently been silently observing the entire exchange. His laughter was a bright contrast to the awkwardness in Sihtric's voice.

"Ah, no. Not falling for that, Sihtric," Osferth called, grinning like a cat who'd just eaten the canary. "Fighting alongside her, huh? Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that."

Sihtric's face turned a new shade of crimson, and he shot Osferth a murderous look. "Osferth shush your mouth" he snapped, but the defensiveness in his tone made it clear he wasn't fooling anyone.

Finan couldn't hold back any longer. His deep, throaty laugh filled the room. "Sihtric, you big idiot," he chuckled, slapping him on the back. "You're about as subtle as a stone through a window."

Sihtric groaned, looking like he might just curl up and die right there on the spot. "I am not—" he began, but the words caught in his throat. "I'm not falling for her!"

Finan raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Not falling for her? Really? Because that sure sounds like something a man who's falling for someone would say."

Sihtric shook his head vigorously. "She's a lady," he insisted, his voice growing more exasperated as though repeating the word would make his feelings magically disappear. "She's a LADY, Finan. She's not... she's not like that. She's proper."

Osferth, who had been watching the exchange in amusement, snorted. "Proper? You mean, you're terrified of her because she knows how to read and act like a lady while you're over here fumbling with your own words?" he mocked, winking as he flipped a page in his book.

Sihtric shot him a glare, feeling his pride take a hit. "No, that's not it," he muttered, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

Finan rolled his eyes dramatically. "Come on, Sihtric," he said, leaning in with an exaggerated whisper. "We all know you've been staring at her like a hungry wolf watching a deer. You're more whipped than Osferth with his holy prayers."

Osferth, not missing a beat, looked up from his book and glared at Finan. "I am not whipped," he said indignantly. "I'm just a man of faith."

Finan snorted. "A man of faith, right. Faith in your ability to turn every blessed moment into a sermon."

Sihtric, meanwhile, looked like he was ready to crawl into a hole and never come out. "I'm not falling for her!" he growled, though the blush on his face said otherwise.

Finan leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his face. "Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Keep telling yourself that. We've all got eyes, Sihtric. Even Osferth can see it."

Sihtric opened his mouth to argue but found nothing to say. He let out a frustrated groan, slumping forward onto the table, his face a flaming red.

Finan leaned over and patted him on the back with mock sympathy. "It's okay, lad. We all fall for the lady warriors eventually. It's just how it goes."

Osferth chuckled softly, shaking his head. "This is going to be interesting," he said, returning to his book.

Sihtric buried his face in his hands. "I swear, I'm not."

Finan just smirked, enjoying every moment of his friend's misery. "We'll see, Sihtric. We'll see."

Sihtric's patience was stretched so thin, he could feel it snapping with every passing second, yet there he was, staring at Finan, whose grin was maddening—like a wolf who had just cornered its prey. And Sihtric? He was the prey, caught in the snare of a conversation he never wanted to have.

"You still haven't answered my question," Sihtric growled, his words laced with frustration.

Finan, like a child with a secret, poked at Sihtric's cheek playfully, as if trying to coax something out of him. "Oye, you look awful red there, Sihtric," he teased, his eyes dancing with mischief. "You sure you're not sick? That's not a fever, is it?"

Sihtric swatted the hand away, but his cheeks burned like they were on fire. "Finan," he grumbled, but the sound lacked the weight it usually carried. There was no malice in it, just a vulnerability he wasn't ready to face.

Finan chuckled, that teasing laugh that only served to make Sihtric feel smaller, as if the entire room was watching him get tangled in his own thoughts. "Fine, fine," he relented, taking a deliberate sip of mead, savoring the taste like a man about to say the biggest secret. "She was taken in by Earl Ragnar, just like Uhtred was."

Sihtric's brow furrowed in confusion. "She's not Ragnar's daughter?" The words felt foreign, wrong on his tongue, but they left his lips anyway, as he tried to piece together what Finan was telling him.

Finan shook his head slowly, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Nah. She wasn't born to him. She was taken in."

Sihtric blinked, trying to process, but his mind was struggling to grasp the truth. "Then... who—?" His question trailed off as he caught Finan's gaze, one that was far too knowing, far too filled with the kind of mischief that had nothing to do with battle plans and everything to do with this unspoken understanding between them.

"She's from Norway. From Kattegat." Finan's voice was a low murmur, like a breeze carrying a secret across a silent night. "That's where she's from."

Sihtric's confusion deepened. "What?" The word was a quiet whisper, like a prayer in the dark. He had never expected this, had never imagined this truth could exist in the world. "But... I thought she was a Dane."

Finan leaned in, eyes twinkling with delight at the chaos he was creating. "Not a Dane," he said softly, savoring the moment. "But the blood in her veins? It's a force to be reckoned with."

Sihtric felt his heart hammering in his chest as he tried to process the words, but nothing seemed to fit together. He was trying to make sense of a puzzle that was far too complex for him to solve. He couldn't—he couldn't—but it was too late.

"She's... she's from Kattegat?" he repeated, the realization starting to dawn on him like the slow rise of the sun.

Then came the final blow, the revelation that cracked his entire world open, shattering all the walls he'd carefully built around his heart. "Aye," Finan murmured, his voice thick with meaning. "She's Ivar the Boneless' daughter."

Sihtric's world stopped. The room fell away, and all he could hear was the deafening silence that followed the weight of those words. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he didn't know whether to run or stay. The name Ivar the Boneless echoed in his ears like a curse, something dark and terrible, something he'd only ever heard of in nightmares.

"W-What?" Sihtric's voice trembled, the word slipping from his lips before he could stop it. His gaze was wide, his body stiff, and the world had shifted beneath him like the ground was suddenly unsteady.

Finan let out a low chuckle, as though he were enjoying every second of Sihtric's panic. "What? You didn't see it? Look at her—doesn't she remind you of him?"

Sihtric's heart slammed against his ribs. He felt it in every inch of his being—the heat, the tightness in his chest, the rush of adrenaline that told him something was wrong. "She does not," he snapped, his words sharp, but his voice betrayed him. It was soft, too soft, as if even he could feel the truth sinking into his bones.

"Ivar the Boneless is a nightmare." The words left his mouth with a kind of finality, but he couldn't bring himself to feel the anger he'd intended. Instead, it felt like the universe had made a cruel joke of him—this was the woman he had somehow found himself falling for.

"And Yggdrasil..." he swallowed hard, forcing the words out, his throat tight, his chest heavy. "She's... she's heaven on earth." His voice cracked as he said it, but he couldn't deny it. She was the fire and the storm. She was the calm after the battle, the war within herself, the beauty that didn't need to be tamed.

Finan's grin widened, and for a moment, Sihtric could have sworn he saw something almost... sadistic in his friend's eyes. "Aye," Finan murmured. "She is heaven on earth. But you—" he paused, eyes glinting with mischief. "You already knew that, didn't you?"

Sihtric's heart stuttered, the truth pressing in on him like a suffocating weight. He didn't want to admit it. He couldn't. But in that moment, surrounded by his comrades, with the fire crackling in the corner of the room, he couldn't hide from it any longer.

"I—I haven't fallen for her," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

But deep inside, his heart knew better. Gods help him. He had fallen. And there was no escape. She had him.

The moment Yggdrasil stepped through the doorway, the room seemed to shift. The three men at the table froze like deer caught in the moonlight, their faces guilty of some unspoken conspiracy. Yggdrasil couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, her gaze flicking between them with amusement.

"Oye, little sister, we've just been talkin' about ya," Finan said, his voice laced with mischief.

Sihtric whipped around like a startled cat, his face turning an alarming shade of red as he quickly scrambled to deny it. "No-no, we have not, lady, I swear," he stammered, his eyes darting nervously, as if he was trying to outrun the truth. He looked away, trying—and failing—to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

Yggdrasil's smile deepened, her gaze steady and teasing as she lowered herself into the chair at the table. "Talkin' behind my back now, are we?" Her voice was playful but sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk.

Finan, ever the charmer, threw his hands up in dramatic surrender, the grin on his face wide enough to stretch to the heavens. "I wouldn't dare, little sister, you know me," he said, his voice as innocent as a lamb caught in the act of devouring a chicken.

Yggdrasil shook her head, her eyes glinting with amusement."mhm" she hummed. But there was a subtle change in her expression, a shift from teasing to something more serious. "We have to be ready. Tomorrow, we march."

The mood in the room sobered, the reality of the situation settling in. The teasing fell away like the wind that sweeps the leaves from the trees in autumn. Finan, with a knowing look in his eyes, tilted his head. "Bloodhair?"

Yggdrasil nodded once, her eyes hardening with the weight of what was to come. "Bloodhair." Her voice was steady, calm, and deadly.

She stood then, stretching her arms over her head, the simple motion sent a ripple of tension through the room as the men watched her. And Sihtric—poor, hopeless Sihtric—watched with a burning intensity he couldn't seem to control.

Gods help him. She has tattoos on her hips.

His eyes followed the smooth curve of her skin as she stretched, the ink marking the soft flesh of her hips, curling in intricate designs that spoke of battles fought and histories written in blood. He felt his heart hammer in his chest, and his throat went dry. Every part of him screamed to look away, but he couldn't. It was as though his body had betrayed him, bound by an invisible thread to the very woman who had him falling apart at the seams.

The tattoo. The tattoos.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, a flurry of conflicting thoughts running through his mind. How had he gotten to this point? he barely knows her, How had he fallen so deeply into this chaos of desire and frustration? It was madness. Pure, sweet madness.

Finan, catching the direction of his gaze, snickered under his breath, but Sihtric could barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. All he could focus on was Yggdrasil, standing tall and confident, a warrior in her own right, as if the very air around her hummed with power.

She lowered her arms, looking at all of them. "All of you boys better be ready at dawn," she said, her tone now one of command, sharp and unwavering.

Finan shot her a teasing glance, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Aye, ready as we'll ever be, little sister," he said with a grin.

Osferth, his face already pale and worn from the long journey, nodded with a soft groan. "I'm already feelin' the pain in my backside from all that horseback riding," he muttered, his voice full of complaint.

But Sihtric? Sihtric was still caught in a trance, staring at the curve of Yggdrasil's exposed skin as if it held the answers to all of life's riddles. The tattoos. Gods, the tattoos.

And even though every part of him wanted to deny it, to run from the feelings that had taken root deep in his chest, the truth was clear: he was utterly, hopelessly, and irrevocably whipped for Yggdrasil.

He just didn't know what to do about it.

The morning air was crisp, the scent of damp earth rising as hooves crushed the frost-kissed ground beneath them. They had left Wessex behind, but the weight of what lay ahead clung to them like an unshaken shadow.

Yggdrasil rode with ease, her fingers grazing Heimdall's mane absentmindedly, the warhorse moving as though he were an extension of her own body.

Finan, of course, would not let such devotion go unmocked.

"Oye, little sister," he called, his Irish lilt thick with amusement. "When exactly did you find the time to tend to that beast so much? Or does he just love you more than the rest of us?"

Yggdrasil didn't so much as glance at him, only lifting a brow as she kept her gaze forward. "He knows who treats him well."

Finan placed a hand over his heart dramatically. "And here I thought you treated all of us well. But I see how it is. Betrayed by a horse."

She sighed, shaking her head, and Finan chuckled as they pressed on.

The group rode in steady formation—Uhtred at the front, his presence unwavering. Yggdrasil rode beside him, Finan just to her right. A bit behind them, Sihtric and Osferth rode in tandem, their ears tuned in to the conversation whether they meant to listen or not.

Then, Uhtred's voice cut through the stillness, low but firm.

"Silla."

She knew that tone. That was the voice of a man bracing for an argument.

"We both know the seer Haesten spoke of could be dangerous."

Yggdrasil exhaled sharply through her nose, already shaking her head before he finished. "She's not dangerous," she countered without hesitation. "It's the fear people have of her that makes her powerful. That's all."

Finan hummed thoughtfully before breaking into a smirk. "Aye, besides, Lord, you've got a nymph ridin' beside you, eh?"

He waggled his brows at Yggdrasil, and she merely pressed her lips together, shaking her head fondly.

Uhtred chuckled at the exchange, but when his gaze flickered back to her, his amusement faded.

"Silla, I do not want you straining yourself."

The shift in the air was immediate. The warmth, the teasing—it all drained away like rain down stone.

Yggdrasil turned to him, her expression unreadable, but there was something in her eyes. Something that wavered between defiance and weariness.

"Uthred, whether I strain myself or not, the pain is still there."

Uhtred tsked, his grip on the reins tightening. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't take care of yourself."

Silence stretched between them.

Even Finan, who could find humor in the bleakest of times, found himself watching the conversation with a furrowed brow. He had seen Yggdrasil bleed and still wield a sword. He had seen her stand when lesser men would have stayed on their knees. But there was a difference between healing and surviving. And he wasn't so sure she knew that difference.

She let out a breath, softer this time, as though already tired of the conversation. "Uthred, I've been of good health for a while now. What healed... healed."

There was something about the way she said it—like a door being shut, like a wound being covered before anyone could look too closely.

Finan cast a glance at Sihtric, but the younger man's gaze was fixed forward, his jaw tight, his grip firm on the reins. He hadn't spoken, but he had listened.

And deep down, he knew—

Yggdrasil may have healed.

But she had not stopped hurting.

The sun hung high and merciless over Alton, the heat pressing down on them like an omen. The village sprawled before them in eerie silence, nothing but charred ruins and the distant cries of the wind disturbing the stillness. The stench of burnt wood and blood clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

It was the same as every other place war had touched. The same hollowed-out homes, the same shattered remnants of lives once lived. A graveyard of memories that would never be reclaimed.

Finan had managed to drag a man from the ruins—thin as a corpse, his skin ashen, his eyes holding the kind of emptiness that only survivors carried. He stank of fear and desperation, his voice rasping as he spoke of things no man should ever witness.

He knew where Skade was.

And she wasn't alone.

By the time the man stumbled away toward the remnants of his family, Uhtred was already planning, already moving pieces of the game in his mind.

Yggdrasil exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for the briefest moment, as if that could keep the weight of Skade from pressing into her chest.

But it was too late.

She could feel her already.

That slow, creeping sickness in the air, curling around her bones like a warning. Skade was close, her presence a stain against the very fabric of existence. The feeling slithered through her veins, cold and cruel, and Yggdrasil clenched her fists until her knuckles went white.

The sooner Skade was dead, the better.

They crouched behind the remains of what had once been a monastery, the broken stone barely enough to shield them. Just ahead, the enemy's camp lay waiting. She could see the entrance, see the guards pacing in lazy circles, oblivious to the death that was already at their doorstep.

Uhtred glanced at her, his gaze steady, unreadable—but she understood.

A silent promise passed between them.

She nodded once, her grip on her sword tightening.

The men moved, readying their weapons, the sound of steel meeting steel a quiet, familiar rhythm. First Uhtred. Then Finan.

And then—

Yggdrasil reached for her sword, lightly tapping it against Sihtric's blade.

The moment it happened, something in him shifted.

His reaction was almost imperceptible, just a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but she caught it. The way his lips parted slightly, as if there were words there that he didn't know how to say. The way his fingers flexed around his weapon, as if trying to steady himself.

For a moment, his gaze lingered—soft, searching.

And gods, she felt it. And didn't know how to react

That pull. That quiet, unspoken something hanging in the air between them.

She let the smallest of smiles grace her lips, fleeting, barely noticeable—before slipping into the ruins.

And Sihtric—

Sihtric stared at the empty space where she had just been, his heart hammering against his ribs as if trying to claw its way free.

Gods help him.

She had smiled at him.

Finan, ever perceptive, smirked. "You alright there, Sihtric? You look like you just got struck by God  himself."

Sihtric wrenched his gaze away, scowling. "Shut up, Finan."

But Finan only chuckled, shaking his head as if he had seen this all before.

The plan was simple: cause a distraction, lure the guards out, and spill their blood before they even realized what was happening.

Unfortunately, that meant throwing Osferth into the fire.

The poor bastard was shoved forward, stumbling into the open like a newborn fawn. Yggdrasil bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as he attempted to appear imposing—though his stiff movements and darting eyes betrayed him completely.

One of the guards scoffed. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Osferth swallowed. "I would like you all to surrender."

Silence.

Then—

Laughter.

Loud, mocking, cruel.

Yggdrasil was barely holding it together. She pressed a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she tried—and failed—to contain her amusement.

One of the guards sneered. "Surrender? And why would we do that?"

Osferth straightened, clearing his throat. "Because I will smite you."

A pause.

Then—

"...What is smite?"

Osferth looked downright offended. "It's a word, isn't it? From the Holy Book! It means slay. Or kill. I will kill you."

The laughter only doubled, some of the guards doubling over, clutching their sides.

"Oh, you'll smite all of us, will you?"

Osferth nodded solemnly. "Yes. Most of you. Some of you might run, hopefully. I—I have a sword. A very sharp sword. But I'd prefer if you surrendered."

It was too much.

Yggdrasil pressed her forehead against the stone, her entire body shaking. She would have collapsed from laughter had Uhtred's voice not cut through the day like a blade.

"Now."

The screams erupted.

Three men fell before they even understood they were dying. The remaining guards barely had time to unsheathe their weapons before steel clashed against steel, the air thick with the scent of blood.

Yggdrasil moved like a ghost through the battlefield, her sword an extension of her very being. Every strike was precise, every movement deadly. She danced between blades, untouched, unshaken, lost in the beautiful, violent rhythm of war.

And Sihtric—

Sihtric fought like a man possessed, but his gaze flickered to her more than it should have.

He saw the way she moved. The way the sun kissed her skin, the way her hair whipped around her like a halo of chaos.

The way her lips curled, a quiet, satisfied hum escaping her as she tore through the enemy without hesitation.

Gods have mercy.

She was lethal.

And she was beautiful.

By the time the last body hit the ground, Yggdrasil was already sheathing her sword, stepping away from the carnage as though it had never touched her.

Osferth, miraculously untouched, gawked at her. "H-how—how did you do that, lady?"

She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Do what, Osferth?"

He flailed his hands at the bodies surrounding them.

She grinned. "Magic."

But the night wasn't over.

The doors to the monastery groaned as they opened, the thick, putrid scent of death spilling out like a living thing.

Uhtred inhaled slowly, staring into the darkness beyond. "Haesten says she's of the devil."

Finan wiped the sweat from his brow, unimpressed. "Then maybe we bar the doors and burn the place down."

Yggdrasil smirked. "Then we wouldn't get to see if she's any better than the last rabid dogs we've put down."

Uhtred exhaled sharply. "To Bloodhair, she is priceless."

Yggdrasil rolled her shoulders, loosening the tension in her muscles. "Does that make me want to kill her less?"

Finan, still catching his breath, stood beside Uhtred, shaking his head as if already agreeing before a word was even spoken. Yggdrasil smirked, motioning toward him with a shrug.

"See?" she said. But Uhtred wasn't in the mood for amusement.

With a long, slow exhale, Uhtred stepped forward, gripping the iron handles before shoving the heavy doors open. The stench hit them instantly—thick, rancid, suffocating. It clawed its way into their throats, burning, festering.

There was no escaping it now.

Yggdrasil stepped in first, unflinching. Uhtred followed, his footsteps heavy with purpose, and the others trailed behind in a steady, silent line. Inside, the shadows stretched long across the stone floor, shifting with the faint light from the high windows.

The silence was oppressive.

There was no life here.

Only the dead.

The stench of blood and decay thickened, clinging to the walls, sinking into the very bones of the place. It was in the air, in the stone, in the hollow echoes of their footsteps.

And then they saw them.

Two monks—one strung up against the wall, his body twisted in grotesque mockery of Christ's crucifixion. The other lay sprawled on the cold floor, his chest torn open, ribs cracked wide like broken arrows, blood pooling in a dark, glistening lake around him.

And in the center of it all—her.

Skade.

She stood cloaked in shadow, draped in crimson, her fingers curled tightly around something slick and glistening. A heart. Freshly torn from its owner, still warm, blood dripping between her fingers in slow, deliberate streams.

Her lips curled into something resembling a smile, but her eyes—cold and calculating—held no warmth.

The man beside her stood at attention, his head bowed like a hound awaiting orders. Weak. Pathetic. A dog with no bite.

Skade turned the heart in her hands, letting the blood splatter against the stone floor. Yggdrasil didn't flinch. She held Skade's gaze, unblinking, watching as something flickered in her eyes. Recognition? Amusement?

She didn't care.

Uhtred spoke first, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You are Skade?"

The man beside her tensed, but Uhtred didn't spare him a glance.

Skade tilted her head, her smile deepening, slow and poisonous. "I knew it was you."

Yggdrasil let out a quiet breath. The woman was predictable—self-important, convinced she held dominion over things she didn't understand. She was already tired of her games.

Uhtred, however, was not one for wasted words, as the man near her began being uneasy Uthred turned to him. "You will do nothing," he said, voice steady, absolute. "Except go to your lord and tell him that Uhtred of Bebbanburg has his witch."

Her lips twitched, amusement flickering behind her dark gaze. She was toying with them, playing her game.

"I knew it was you," she repeated, voice smooth as silk laced with poison.

Yggdrasil rolled her eyes. How tiresome.

Uhtred didn't waver. "There will be a ransom to pay."

Skade gave a quiet, wicked laugh, tilting her head in that way she always did—like she knew something they didn't. Her eyes gleamed, sharp as a dagger's edge.

"No," she murmured turning to the man. "You will go to my lord, and you will tell him that from this moment forth, Uhtred of Bebbanburg is cursed."

Yggdrasil didn't move. Didn't even blink. She'd heard worse. A curse meant nothing.

Skade's grip on the heart tightened. Blood seeped through her fingers, trailing down her wrist, falling in slow, deliberate drops onto the cold stone beneath her feet. She raised it higher, her voice a whisper thick with malice.

"The witch holds his heart in her hands," she crooned. "And she will squeeze it until it shatters."

The heart slipped from her grasp, hitting the floor with a sickening, wet thud. It rolled once before settling in the pool of blood, motionless.

Yggdrasil exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. She had let Skade talk long enough.

Taking a single step forward, she tilted her head, her voice calm, quiet, and cutting. "You can throw all the curses you want, Skade. Whisper all the threats you like. But as long as I'm here, you're nothing more than a cunt of a witch."

A flicker. A crack in the mask.

For the briefest of moments, something shifted in Skade's expression. It was small, nearly imperceptible—but Yggdrasil saw it. That moment of realization. The moment she understood she had underestimated her.

Skade stepped forward, reaching for her, fingers curling like claws.

It was a mistake.

The moment her hand breached the space between them, the golden light surged. It ignited in Yggdrasil's chest, roaring through her like fire, ancient and unrelenting. Her eyes burned bright, and the moment Skade touched her, she choked on a breathless gasp.

Pain ripped through her. She staggered back, her body seizing, her knees buckling beneath her. Her hands trembled, clutching at her chest as if trying to snuff out the agony flooding through her veins.

Yggdrasil watched her struggle, her expression cold, unmoved.

"Don't try," she murmured.

Skade trembled, her body shuddering with every ragged breath. But still, she refused to surrender, her lips curling into a bitter, hateful smile.

"It is you who are my prisoner, Uhtred."

Uhtred remained still, his gaze unreadable, calculating. But there was no trap here. No trickery left to be played. She was spent. Drained.

"Seize her," Uhtred ordered.

Sihtric moved without hesitation, grabbing Skade roughly, yanking her arms behind her back as she hissed in pain. Her wrists were bound tight, the ropes biting into her skin.

Even bound, she did not stop fighting. She lifted her chin, her voice low, filled with venom.

"You belong to me."

Yggdrasil chuckled darkly. She stepped close, looking down at Skade with cold amusement.

"No, Skade. You belong to nothing now."

Uhtred's patience was at its end. His voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Silla. Bind her mouth."

Yggdrasil didn't hesitate. She tore a strip of cloth from Skade's own robe, shoving it roughly between her teeth, tying it tight behind her head. She could scream all she liked, spit curses and threats—but they would never reach them.

"Cover her eyes," Uhtred added.

Yggdrasil caught the brief flicker of unease in her brother's eyes. Finan saw it too, though he said nothing. They all felt it—the weight of something unseen, pressing against them like an oncoming storm. But no one spoke of it. Not yet.

They took Skade, bound and silent, and placed her on a horse. Two guards flanked her, their grips firm, their expressions unreadable.

Yggdrasil rode alongside Finan, Osferth, and Sihtric, the road stretching long ahead. For the first time in hours, she allowed herself to exhale, closing her eyes for a fleeting moment as the sun warmed her skin.

A brief respite.

One she knew would not last.

By the time they reached the Burh of Ascengum, exhaustion clung to Yggdrasil like a heavy cloak. The long ride had left her body aching, her thoughts clouded with fatigue, but there was relief in seeing the towering gates at last.

As they passed through, the creak of iron and the murmur of voices filled the air. Yggdrasil swung her leg over Heimdall's side and slid to the ground, biting back a wince as her muscles protested the sudden movement. She ran a hand down Heimdall's mane, her touch soft, murmuring a quiet thanks to the beast that had carried her all this way.

She had barely taken a step before she collided with something solid.

Someone.

A firm chest.

Her breath caught as she stumbled slightly, looking up—only to find herself inches away from Sihtric.

Oh.

The world seemed to stutter for a moment, as if time itself had tripped over its own feet.

His eyes—deep, dark, impossibly steady—locked onto hers, widening slightly in surprise.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then, all at once, Sihtric stepped back, his hand twitching at his side like he had to physically stop himself from reaching for her. He swallowed hard, his voice softer than she had ever heard it.

"I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat quickly, glancing away before forcing the words out. "I shall take your horse to the stables, Lady."

Yggdrasil blinked, caught off guard by his sudden nervousness.

He wasn't usually like this. Sihtric was composed, always steady, always sure. But right now? Right now, he was stumbling over his words.

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could even form a thought, his hand reached for Heimdall's reins—his fingers brushing hers.

Soft. Warm. Barely there.

A spark. A whisper of something dangerous.

Yggdrasil's breath hitched. She felt her heartbeat betray her, hammering a little too fast, a little too loud. And gods help her, she couldn't look away from him.

Sihtric, as if realizing what he had done, froze for the briefest second. His fingers hesitated against hers—just a moment, just long enough to make her wonder if he felt it too.

And then—too quickly, too suddenly—he pulled back.

"I will take care of him," he murmured, voice just above a whisper.

He didn't wait for her response. He turned, leading Heimdall away, his grip on the reins tight, his shoulders squared—but not before she caught the way his ears burned red at the tips.

Yggdrasil stood there, unmoving.

She should say something. She should call him back, make a teasing remark, brush it off like it was nothing. But the words tangled in her throat, stuck somewhere between confusion and something else—something she wasn't ready to name.

Before she could gather herself, a soft nudge woke her up.

"Don't think I didn't see that, Silla," Finan's voice came from beside her, thick with amusement.

She turned quickly, looking at him. "What are you talking about?"

Finan's grin stretched wide, full of mischief. "Oh, just you, staring after Sihtric like a lovesick pup."

Heat exploded across her cheeks.

"I was not—" she started, but Finan only chuckled, shaking his head.

"Gods, that was adorable." He threw his head back, laughing. "Go on, then. Enjoy your quiet little moments with your knight."

Yggdrasil let out a frustrated groan, shoving him off as he walked away, his laughter trailing behind him.

But as she turned back toward the stables, she caught sight of Sihtric in the distance—his head lowered slightly, hands moving with practiced ease as he loosened Heimdall's saddle.

She should leave.

She should turn away before this feeling—this stupid, ridiculous feeling—took root.

But she didn't.

She stayed.

And watched.

And wondered, for the first time in a long time, what it would be like to let someone close.

[beyralxoxo]

{DESTINY AND BLOOD-KINGDOM: SIHTRIC KJARTANSSON}

II: to war

SUMMARY: Alfred's health is worsening, Bloodhair is killing and raiding whatever he sees and our Yggdrasil happens to have certain young heathen wrapped around her finger and she doesn't even know it.

PAIRING: Sihtric Kjartansson x Yggdrasil Ivarsdottir (OC)

WORD COUNT: 4,9 K

WARNINGS: swearing-drinking-mentions of vomit

The first light of morning came far too quickly for Yggdrasil's liking.

The golden rays pierced through the wooden shutters, casting sharp lines of warmth across her face like an uninvited guest. She groaned, burying herself deeper beneath the rough woolen covers, as if she could escape the cruel march of time simply by willing it away.

Peace.

It was a rare luxury. A fleeting thing, like the mist before the sun burned it away. And for a few sacred moments, wrapped in the lingering haze of sleep, she almost had it.

Almost.

The door to her chamber crashed open, the wooden frame groaning in protest as it slammed against the wall.

"WAKE UP, LITTLE SISTER!"

The all-too-familiar bellow of Finan shattered any hope of a slow morning, dragging her—kicking and cursing—into the waking world.

Yggdrasil squeezed her eyes shut, groaning as she gripped the blankets tighter around her.

"I swear to the gods, Finan—" her voice was thick with irritation, muffled under layers of fabric, "—you are worse than a starving pack of wolves."

Laughter. Loud, unapologetic, and entirely too pleased with itself.

"Come on now!" Finan strode into the room as if he owned it, completely unfazed by her suffering. "Are you really going to let the break of dawn ruin your day? I thought you were made of sterner stuff, woman!"

She didn't have to see his face to know he was grinning. The bastard.

"You're a menace."

"Aye, that's what all the ladies say." His voice dripped with mischief. "Now up you get!"

Yggdrasil groaned louder, rolling onto her side, trying to ignore him. Maybe if she stayed still long enough, he'd get bored and leave.

But Finan was as relentless as a storm. She heard him moving around, rifling through her things like a particularly irritating magpie.

"Touch my sword, and I'll break your fingers."

"Now, now." His voice was pure amusement. "Wouldn't dream of it. I do value my hands, after all. Though I'm sure you'd love to test that theory."

Yggdrasil peeked out from beneath her covers, squinting at the sight of Finan casually leaning against the wooden frame, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.

"You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

She sat up with a huff, pushing her wild hair out of her face, glaring at him like a woken dragon.

"You're insufferable."

"And you're slow." He smirked."Come on then, get moving. There's breakfast waiting, and if you don't hurry, I might just eat your share."

She narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

Finan's grin widened. "Would I?"

Yggdrasil threw a pillow at his head.

"OUT!"

He dodged it easily, laughing as he backed toward the door."Aye, aye, I'm going! But don't take too long, little sister, or I might start feeding your food to the pigs!"

She grabbed the nearest object—a wooden cup—and launched it at his retreating form.

The door slammed shut just in time.

Yggdrasil exhaled, running a hand over her face. Sleep was well and truly gone now.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet meeting the cold wooden floor. The world was waiting, the road ahead uncertain.

There would be no rest. Not until it was walked.

With one last deep breath, she rose, casting aside the comfort of slumber.

With one last deep breath, Yggdrasil rose, the stiffness of sleep lingering in her muscles like a ghost refusing to be exorcised. Every movement felt like shaking off the remnants of a long-forgotten dream—one she had no time to linger in.

She stretched her arms high above her head, rolling her shoulders until they cracked, a dull ache traveling down her spine. The ache of past battles, of roads traveled, of burdens carried. It was a familiar pain—one that whispered of duty, of survival, of the endless fight that was her life.

Golden sunlight streamed through the wooden slats of her chamber, warming the cool morning air. The light kissed her skin, dancing across the faded scars that adorned her arms, silent reminders of victories and near-deaths alike.

She was awake now.

Her fingers moved on instinct, reaching for the worn leather and iron of her armor. Light. Flexible. Deadly. Heavy plate was for men who relied on brute strength, on force over finesse. But Yggdrasil was made of something else entirely—something sharp and untamed, something forged by the gods themselves.

She fastened the straps with practiced ease, pulling each buckle tight, feeling the armor mold against her like a second skin. The weight was not a burden—it was a promise. A whisper of steel and blood and battle yet to come.

Her hair was an unruly mess from sleep, cascading over her shoulders in wild waves. With a sigh, she grabbed her comb, the wooden teeth gliding through the thick strands as she braided with purpose. Her fingers worked with the certainty of a warrior, weaving tight plaits that framed her face—a crown of war, a shield against the world.

Silver bands waited at the ends, gleaming softly in the morning light. Ornate. Ancient. Holy. Passed down from her mother, her grandmother before her—women who had known war just as intimately as they had known love. She fastened them carefully, reverently, feeling the weight of her bloodline settle around her like an embrace.

Rings slid onto her fingers, cool against her skin. A silver circlet locked around her wrist. A warrior adorned, not in gold, but in the favor of gods and ghosts alike.

For a long moment, she stood before the polished metal of her reflection, mismatched eyes staring back at her. One light, like the frozen tundras of her homeland. One dark, deep and unreadable. A contradiction in flesh, a child of two worlds, never truly belonging to either.

You belong here.

The thought was soft, creeping through her mind like a whisper from something older than herself. She didn't know if it was her own voice or something greater—something divine, something woven into the very fabric of her existence.

She looked away before she could try to decipher it.

The sword at her back was a familiar weight as she turned on her heel, each step forward erasing doubt, erasing hesitation. Boots met wood, the sound sharp against the morning silence, a reminder that she was not a woman made for stillness.

She walked through the door without looking back.

The world was waiting.

And Yggdrasil was ready to meet it.

The morning light poured in through the high stone walls, bathing the great hall in a gentle, golden glow. The warmth of the fire, the quiet clinking of cups, and the low murmur of conversation made the space feel almost peaceful. Almost.

Yggdrasil moved through the hall with steady steps, adjusting the sword at her hip. The weight of the day had not yet settled fully on her shoulders, and for now, she allowed herself the simple comfort of the morning—the scent of fresh bread, the soft hum of familiarity.

As she entered, the men at the table turned toward her. A subtle shift in the air, a quiet acknowledgment. Uhtred sat at the head, ever composed, his sharp gaze soft with something unreadable. Finan grinned at something Osferth had said, nudging him playfully as the younger man flushed.

But it was Sihtric who caught her attention.

He had been seated, his fingers idly tracing patterns against the table's worn wood. But the moment Yggdrasil stepped through the door, he froze.

Then—almost too quickly—he stood.

It was clumsy, unplanned. His chair scraped against the stone floor, loud in the morning quiet. His hands twitched at his sides, like he had started to move toward her before thinking better of it.

Yggdrasil blinked, caught off guard by the sudden movement. "Oh," she said softly, offering a small smile. "Good morning, Sihtric."

His lips parted slightly, as if words had caught somewhere in his throat. He gave a stiff nod, then—realizing it wasn't enough—he cleared his throat and tried again.

"Good morning, lady," he said, voice quieter this time, almost... careful.

She hesitated for half a breath. He had called her that before. Yet there was something about the way he said it, something uncertain, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed.

But before she could say anything else, Finan, ever observant, leaned back with a lazy smirk. "What's this? Sihtric, you nearly knocked the whole table over just now."

Sihtric's face burned red as he quickly sat back down, mumbling something under his breath.

Yggdrasil glanced at him, her brows drawing together slightly in concern, but he refused to meet her eyes. Instead, he busied himself with the plate in front of him, shoulders drawn tight.

She didn't understand. Had she done something wrong?

Shaking the thought away, she sat, reaching for a piece of bread. But before she could take a sip from her cup, she found it empty.

She frowned, lifting it slightly in quiet disappointment.

Before she could react, Sihtric moved again.

"I—" His chair scraped softly against the floor as he stood, less abrupt this time. His voice was hesitant, almost nervous. "Let me."

Yggdrasil looked up at him, surprised by the sudden offer. "Oh," she said, tilting her head. "You don't have to—"

But he was already taking the cup from her hands, his fingers barely brushing against hers.

It was so light, so fleeting, but it left warmth where it had been.

For a moment, she simply watched him as he walked toward the mead barrel, his steps unusually careful. There was something gentle about the way he held the cup, as if it were something precious, as if serving her was not a simple act but something meaningful.

She didn't know what to make of it.

Osferth hid a knowing smile behind his hand, and Finan shot her a look that she couldn't quite decipher.

Uhtred, ever observant, exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of amusement in his expression. "He doesn't pour me a drink that quickly," he murmured.

Yggdrasil blinked, looking between them. "Is that... odd?" she asked, genuinely curious.

Finan snorted. "For him? Aye."

Her frown deepened. She glanced back toward Sihtric, who had carefully filled the cup, taking longer than necessary before returning. He set it down in front of her with both hands, as if making sure it wouldn't spill.

"There," he said, his voice softer than before.

Yggdrasil offered him a warm smile. "Thank you, Sihtric."

He swallowed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His eyes darted to hers—just for a moment—before quickly lowering again.

"It's—" His fingers curled slightly at his sides. "It's nothing."

But it wasn't. Not to him.

And suddenly, Yggdrasil felt as though she had missed something important.

She lifted the cup to her lips, taking a small sip. The warmth of the mead spread through her, soothing in a way she couldn't quite explain.

Across the table, Finan smirked, his voice lilting with mischief. "Well, well. Looks like someone's got a soft spot."

Yggdrasil turned to him, puzzled. "For what?"

Finan chuckled. "Ah, never mind, lass."

She frowned, but before she could press further, she caught a glimpse of Sihtric's face—flushed, his gaze firmly fixed on his plate.

And for the first time, something stirred in her chest. A quiet curiosity. A warmth she did not yet understand.

Uhtred's voice cut through it, quieter this time. "You should eat quickly, Silla. Alfred wants to see us both."

Yggdrasil paused mid-bite, her brow knitting together. "Why?"

She already had a feeling she knew the answer, but she asked anyway, as if saying it aloud might change it.

Finan, ever the troublemaker, leaned in with a grin, his voice dripping with mischief. "Oh, I imagine he just misses you terribly."

A breath of laughter ghosted past her lips, though she shook her head, amused despite herself. "Right," she murmured, picking at the bread on her plate. It was always like this—the teasing, the lightness—but she clung to it. It made the weight of things easier to carry.

Uhtred took a slow sip from his cup before setting it down with measured intent. His eyes darkened, the humor fading as he spoke again.

"Bloodhair is close." A pause. "Too close."

Yggdrasil stilled. The name alone sent a quiet fury through her veins. She lowered her fork, the sound of metal against wood louder than it should have been.

"That bastard should have been dead long ago," she said, her voice steady, but there was a sharpness beneath it.

Uhtred only nodded, his expression unreadable. He agreed, but words would not change the reality of it.

The table lapsed into silence, save for the occasional clink of a cup, the murmur of distant voices, and the fire's steady burn. It was a fragile sort of quiet—the kind that came before the storm.

The hall was alive with the golden flicker of torchlight, casting long, shifting shadows over the faces of those gathered. The rich scent of roasted meats and spiced mead filled the air, thick enough to drown in. At the head of the long oak table sat King Alfred, his features drawn, exhaustion etched into every weary line of his face. The firelight caught the hollows of his cheeks, making him appear almost ghostly.

Beside him, Aelswith sat rigid, her lips pressed into a thin line of quiet judgment. Across from them, Uhtred lounged with the effortless arrogance of a man who belonged nowhere and yet everywhere, his presence both imposing and strangely at ease.

Yggdrasil sat beside him, one gloved hand wrapped loosely around a goblet of mead. She was still, composed, watching with the quiet patience of a wolf in a room full of sheep. Her mismatched eyes gleamed in the dim light, betraying nothing but the slightest amusement at the scene before her.

Further down the table, Beocca sat stiff-backed, ever the watchful guardian of Alfred's faith and rule. Haesten, wholly unfamiliar with noble decorum, tore into his food like a starving beast, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before finally speaking.

"His name is Sigurd," he muttered between bites, tearing off another chunk of mutton. His eyes flickered toward Uhtred and Yggdrasil, and when he spoke again, there was something heavier in his tone, something that made the air feel suddenly thinner.

"His men call him Bloodhair."

Yggdrasil let out a low, almost amused chuckle, shaking her head, though she said nothing. Aelswith, however, visibly stiffened, her expression darkening like storm clouds over the sea. With careful precision, she placed her goblet back onto the table.

"I do not wish to know why," she said, her voice prim, tight with distaste. "Something depraved, no doubt."

Uhtred smirked.

"I have men watching his camp."

Yggdrasil swirled her mead, tilting her head slightly as she turned to Haesten. A slow, mischievous smile played at her lips.

"Tell me, Haesten," she drawled, voice honeyed yet laced with sharp edges, "he didn't ask you to join him?"

Haesten met her gaze without flinching, his face unreadable.

"He has, my lady," he admitted, unbothered. "I declined."

Uhtred snorted.

"Because you're a man of honor?"

"No," Haesten said flatly, smirking. "Because, unlike you, I've accepted the King's missionary."

Yggdrasil nearly choked on her drink. She coughed, eyes widening for just a moment before she regained herself, then turned to him with something dangerously close to delight glinting in her gaze.

"Oh, that is rich." She set down her cup, shaking her head in mock disbelief. "Haesten, the devout convert? Next time I see you, I expect you in robes, hands clasped in prayer."

Uhtred's brow furrowed, unimpressed.

"Your peace means nothing."

Haesten only raised a lazy brow.

"Does it not? Does the peace we share not hold? Do my wife and children not wish to become Christian?"

Aelswith, intrigued despite herself, sat up straighter.

"They do?"

"They do, Lady," Haesten said with an easy nod. "I've already spoken to the priest about it."

Beocca, usually so composed, looked positively stricken. Shock, concern, perhaps even hope flickered across his face.

Yggdrasil couldn't help but let out a soft, dark laugh.

"That is good news," Aelswith said, a rare glimmer of relief in her tone.

Yggdrasil raised her goblet, eyes glinting.

"Oh, it's certainly news."

Aelswith, choosing to ignore the sarcasm, turned to Alfred, her voice softer now, her gaze laced with something close to warmth.

"It should be an occasion, my lord," she murmured. "A sign of peace. Unity."

Alfred, ever composed but visibly weary, gave a single nod.

"I will consider it, my dear." His voice, though heavy with exhaustion, still carried the weight of command.

Then, his gaze shifted.

"Once we've dealt with Earl Sigurd Bloodhair."

He turned his sharp eyes to Haesten.

"Will he attack or raid?"

Before the dane could answer, Yggdrasil did.

"He'll raid first."

The certainty in her voice sliced through the room like a blade. All eyes turned to her as she leaned forward slightly, setting her goblet down.

"He'll test your defenses, your readiness," she continued, her tone unwavering. "He wants to see if Wessex is as weak as the rumors say. If you hesitate—if you let him get comfortable—he'll attack. And when he does..." She tilted her head ever so slightly, her expression unreadable. "He won't stop."

A heavy silence settled over the table.

Alfred exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening.

Uhtred, his gaze darkening, nodded.

"Destroy his army." His voice was quiet, yet it carried the weight of inevitability. "Send a message to all the Northmen."

The tension in the hall thickened, pressing down like the promise of a storm.

And then—

A sickening lurch. A sharp, choking sound.

Every head turned as Alfred, the King of Wessex, jerked violently forward. His breath hitched. His body tensed—

And then he vomited.

The sound of retching echoed across the hall, an ugly, wet disruption to the heavy silence. Conversations stopped. The clatter of cups and plates stilled. Every eye locked onto the frail, shaking form of their king.

Aelswith was at his side in an instant, her hands hovering uselessly, her face white with panic.

"My lord—has something upset you?" Her voice wavered, her composure cracking.

Across the table, Haesten barely glanced up from his drink. He swirled his goblet lazily before taking a slow sip, then smirked.

"Too much wine, my lord?" he mused, his tone all mockery and poison.

Yggdrasil's head snapped toward him.

The look in her eyes was colder than the grave.

"Careful, Haesten." Her voice was velvet, smooth and dangerous. "It would be such a shame if you choked—on your own wit, or your tongue."

Haesten chuckled, but the sound was hollow. His smirk faltered ever so slightly.

And in that silence, in that moment of stillness, something unspoken passed between Uhtred, Yggdrasil, and Beocca. A grim understanding. A silent grief.

Their secret was no longer a secret.

Alfred was dying.

And there was nothing—no warrior, no priest, no god—that could stop it.

Yet, despite the pallor of his face, despite the trembling of his hands, Alfred straightened. He wiped his mouth, his breathing labored, his resolve unwavering.

His gaze found Uhtred. Then Yggdrasil.

"You are right," he said, his voice hoarse but firm. "Sigurd's ships landing on Wessex soil is an affront we cannot ignore." He inhaled deeply. "We will strike before winter's bite."

Uhtred nodded once.

"Soonest, lord."

Alfred turned to Beocca, his sharpness unshaken.

"Send word to Aethelred. This is his fight, too. We gather at the burh of Aescengum."

Beocca bowed his head. "At once, my lord."

A decision had been made. A battle was coming.

And as Alfred stood and turned, the firelight caught his face—gaunt, pale, worn thin by time.

A king still standing.

A king already fading.

A heavy silence fell over the table, broken only by Haesten's insistent voice.

"So," he began, stretching his legs beneath the table like a man far too comfortable in another's hall. "How fares the Lady Aethelflaed these days? And the child? Who does the girl resemble—"

Before he could finish, Beocca set his knife down with a sharp clink. His voice, though calm, carried an unmistakable threat.

"One more word against her, and I will shove that food so far down your throat, you'll be tasting it for weeks."

Uhtred picked up a piece of bread, chewing slowly, his gaze never leaving Haesten. With casual ease, he added,

"I've seen it happen before. It's a miracle."

Yggdrasil, who had been sipping her mead, let out a soft, amused laugh. But her eyes—cold and calculating—remained fixed on Haesten. She raised a single hand, stopping Beocca before he could intervene.

"Beocca, don't waste your breath on this cunt of a Dane," she murmured, her voice smooth and honeyed, as if discussing the weather—not a threat.

For a moment, Haesten's smirk faltered. His jaw tightened before he straightened in his seat.

"I only speak the truth, Lady," he said, his voice silk wrapped around steel. "Or do you pretend Aethelred hasn't said the same about his wife?"

Yggdrasil's lips curled, but there was no amusement. Only cold disdain.

"Her husband," she replied smoothly, "is as much of a pile of shit as any man like him."

Beocca's patience frayed, his voice tight with barely contained fury.

"And I would say you owe Aethelflaed a great debt, Haesten. You have men, you have ships—not because you earned them, but because she killed your lord."

The mention of Sigefrid drained the humor from Haesten's face in an instant. His grip on the chunk of meat in his hand tightened, and with a swift motion, he slammed it onto his plate.

"I remember what that bitch did," he muttered, voice low, venomous.

The room shifted.

In an instant, Yggdrasil was on her feet, her sword drawn with such speed that the torches barely caught the flash of steel before its tip pressed against Haesten's throat.

Silence.

Yggdrasil's face was a mask—smooth, composed—but her eyes were full of cold calculation, already plotting the precise force needed to sever his head from his shoulders.

"One more word," she whispered, her voice slicing through the tension like a blade, "and I'll take that fat bastard's head off your shoulders and use it to prop open the doors of this hall."

The blade pressed deeper. A single bead of blood welled up on his neck.

Uhtred, still seated, raised a brow. His voice was almost amused, but laced with something far colder.

"That's enough of your shittalk, Haesten," he said. "She will kill you. And I will not stop her."

Haesten's breath slowed. He met Yggdrasil's gaze—no fear, only something darker, something dangerous.

A twisted excitement.

"Tell her," he murmured, voice calm, "that I pray our paths cross again."

Yggdrasil exhaled sharply. Her grip tightened, the blade biting just enough for him to feel it—to remind him of the consequences of his words.

"Haesten," Uhtred's voice was firm now, commanding. "Enough."

A long beat of silence.

Then, with a slow exhale, Yggdrasil sheathed her sword with a sharp click.

Haesten rubbed his throat, smirking. It was a hollow thing, tinged with something darker.

"You know," he said, his voice dripping with mockery, "Bloodhair has a woman you'd like, Uhtred. Skade. A beauty that blinds you like the sun, yet she carries the darkness of night."

He leaned in slightly, voice lowering.

"She's a seer. The devil's own daughter."

Yggdrasil let out a soft laugh. It was bitter. Mocking.

"Any common whore who's recited your future once can call herself a seer," she said coolly. "She's nothing special."

Haesten's eyes sharpened with interest.

"Do you feel threatened, Lady?" he asked, tone laced with amusement. "That someone else might wield power like yours?"

Yggdrasil's gaze turned to ice.

"No one dares to," she said. "No one will."

Haesten studied her for a long moment. Then he stood, his smirk returning—colder now.

"I'd say it was a pleasure to meet you, Uhtred," he said, dripping with mock courtesy.

"And you, Lady Yggdrasil. But, truth be told—" his smirk deepened—"it never is."

Uhtred gave a small, dismissive nod.

"Likewise."

Haesten chuckled darkly before turning on his heel, disappearing into the shadows of the hall.

Beocca exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He muttered under his breath,

"May God forgive him, but I'd love to chop his head off with a blunt axe."

Uhtred rose from his seat, a silent signal for Yggdrasil to follow. His voice, quieter now, carried a weight neither of them could ignore.

"The king's health is failing, Beocca."

Beocca sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face.

"More than we care to admit."

The weight of the night hung heavy over them all—war was coming, and with it, bloodshed was inevitable.

Yggdrasil sheathed her sword, her breath a harsh exhale.

"Then we have little time," she murmured.

The cold air bit at Yggdrasil's skin as she stepped out of the hall, her pulse still thrumming from the confrontation. The taste of battle lingered on her tongue—not one fought with swords, but with words, with power, with restraint. She inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.

"I swear, it's like I'm drowning in this place," Yggdrasil murmured, casting a weary glance at the towering stone walls behind them.

Uhtred, ever the opportunist when it came to teasing, stretched lazily beside her, his broad shoulders rolling back. A wicked grin tugged at his lips, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"What's got you sulking, Silla?" he drawled. "I've never seen you shy from a fight before. Don't tell me you're actually afraid of Saxons who smell like boiled meat and stale prayers?"

Yggdrasil turned her gaze on him, her expression amused, eyes alight with something playful.

"Afraid?" she echoed, shaking her head with a quiet chuckle. "No, not afraid. Just tired of fighting beside men who think the gods care about their prayers while they drown themselves in ale."

Uhtred arched a brow, smirk widening.

"And yet," he mused, stepping forward with an easy swagger, "here you are, walking through a Saxon fortress, drinking their Saxon ale, listening to their Saxon prayers—like a well-trained hound."

Yggdrasil pressed a hand to her chest, feigning deep offense, though her lips quirked into a smile.

"A tragic twist of fate," she sighed dramatically. "How did I ever fall so low?"

Uhtred laughed, the sound warm and rumbling in his chest.

"You would've made a fine Saxon, you know," he said with a teasing grin, nudging her shoulder as they walked.

Yggdrasil narrowed her eyes, though there was no real fire behind it.

"Say that again," she warned lightly, "and I'll fight you with both hands tied behind my back."

Uhtred chuckled but said nothing, watching as she veered toward the stables with easy, confident strides. His grin faded just a touch as he halted in his tracks.

"Where's your Viking pride running off to now?" he called after her. "And what happened to that sharp wit of yours?"

Without breaking stride, Yggdrasil tossed him a glance over her shoulder, her expression soft but undeniably smug.

"To my horse. He's smarter than you and far better company."

Uhtred let out an exaggerated gasp, hand over his heart.

"A cruel wound, Silla!" he lamented, then grinned. "But I'd wager he can't drink as much ale as I can."

Yggdrasil merely lifted a hand—middle finger raised, smooth and effortless—before disappearing into her destination.

Uhtred threw his head back with a rich laugh, shaking his head.

"Aye, you'll never change, Silla."

She needed to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere far from the tension, the glances, the weight of expectations.

The stables.

Without thinking, she moved toward them, boots pressing firm against the frost-laced ground. The moment she stepped inside, the familiar scent of hay, leather, and damp earth welcomed her. But something was off.

Her stallion, Heimdall, was already tended to.

Her brows knitted together as she stepped closer, fingers running down his well-groomed coat. His mane—braided. Someone had done this. Someone had taken their time, their hands threading through each strand with the care of a seasoned rider.

"Heimdall, you traitor," she murmured, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "Have you found another to spoil you in my absence?"

The horse huffed in response, pressing his nose into her palm as if to assure her of his loyalty. Yggdrasil chuckled softly, but her curiosity only grew.

And then—

A hesitant voice from behind.

"I—I'm sorry, Lady. If I overstepped... I didn't mean to."

She turned, her breath catching before she could stop herself.

Sihtric.

His figure stood half-shrouded in the shadows of the stable door, sunlight flickering against his face, catching on the uncertainty in his deep mismatched eyes. 

She took a step toward him, tilting her head.

"You did this?"

Sihtric swallowed, gaze flickering to Heimdall before hesitantly returning to hers. "I wanted to be of use, lady—" He shifted on his feet, fingers flexing at his sides as if debating whether to explain himself. "I thought it might bring you some peace."

Something in her chest twisted.

She should tell him it wasn't necessary. That she could take care of her own horse. That she wasn't the type to be fussed over.

But the words never left her tongue.

Instead, she studied him, the way his shoulders tensed as if expecting a reprimand, the way his lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say more but didn't dare.

Yggdrasil exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath.

"You braided his mane."

Sihtric's gaze dropped. "I... I didn't mean to presume. I just—" He hesitated, then let out a small, almost nervous chuckle. "I suppose I got carried away."

She blinked. Sihtric. Braiding her horse's mane. Taking the time to tend to him, to care. She didn't know whether to laugh or let the warmth spreading through her chest take over completely.

A part of her—one she usually buried—wanted to reach out. To touch his hand, to tell him she noticed these little things.

Instead, she stepped closer, testing the fragile space between them.

"They suit him," she said softly. "The braids. You did well."

Sihtric finally lifted his gaze, and for the first time, a small, almost shy smile crossed his lips.

"You think so, lady?"

Yggdrasil nodded, unable to stop her own lips from curving.

"Yes."

Silence settled between them, but it wasn't empty. It was full—charged, unspoken. His eyes lingered on her for a second too long, and she swore she could hear his breath hitch before he glanced away.

"I should go," he murmured. "Let you rest."

Yggdrasil hesitated.

She could let him leave. Let the moment pass like a whisper on the wind, unspoken, unnoticed.

But instead—

"Sihtric."

He paused, turning back.

She tilted her head, her voice quieter now. "Thank you."

Sihtric held her gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, with the faintest of nods, he slipped away into the outside world.

Yggdrasil stood there for a moment longer, fingers ghosting over Heimdall's braids, feeling the warmth he had left behind.

And for the first time in a long while, she wasn't sure if she wanted that warmth to leave.

[beyralxoxo]

{DESTINY AND BLOOD-KINGDOM: SIHTRIC KJARTANSSON}

I: the gods call

SUMMARY: Yggdrasil returns to Wessex to help her brother, there she is met with one very flustered dane.

PAIRING: Sihtric Kjartansson x Yggdrasil Ivarsdottir (OC)

WORD COUNT: 2,1 K

WARNINGS: drinking-mention of drinking

The sun bled gold across the hills, its light slicing through the mist that curled over the earth like ghostly fingers. Yggdrasil Ivarsdottir rode alone, her black horse cutting through the mud with the ease of a beast bred for war. She did not slouch, did not waver—her back was straight, her cloak billowing behind her like a shadow. Beneath the hood, her mismatched eyes—one the piercing blue of ice, the other the molten gold of fire—swept across the land with cold precision.

This was not the North. There was no salt in the air, no distant roar of waves against the fjords. This land, for all its fragile beauty, was foreign. And foreign lands rarely welcomed creatures like her.

The gates of the Saxon settlement loomed ahead, guarded by two men gripping their spears with more bravado than sense. Their faces hardened when they saw her approach, their hands tightening around the shafts of their weapons.

"Halt!" one of them barked, his voice edged with uncertainty. He is afraid. He should be. "Who goes there?"

Yggdrasil did not slow. When she finally reined in her horse, it was with the kind of effortless control that spoke of years in the saddle. The beast beneath her snorted, impatient, as if it too sensed the men were not worth stopping for.

She did not dismount. Did not move. Let them feel the weight of her presence. And when she finally spoke, her voice was low, steady—the kind of voice that did not ask, only commanded.

"I seek Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg."

The guards hesitated, exchanging a wary glance. "And who are you to seek him?"

Yggdrasil tilted her head slightly. The movement was slow, deliberate, the fabric of her veil shifting just enough to reveal the dark ink curling down her throat—Nordic runes, a language older than this kingdom.

"Fetch him," she said, her tone sharp as steel. "And you'll have your answer."

One of them hesitated, fingers flexing around his spear. The other muttered a curse under his breath and turned, disappearing through the gates.

She dismounted with fluid ease, boots sinking into the damp earth as she tethered her horse. She stood still, shoulders squared, a figure of shadow and steel. Silent. Waiting. Watching.

Then the gates creaked open again.

They did not send a single man. They sent him.

Uhtred of Bebbanburg.

He walked like a man who did not fear death, flanked by three others. Finan, his ever-grinning second, sharp eyes gleaming with mischief. Osferth, too young to wear his sword so seriously. And Sihtric. Quiet. Watchful. His dark gaze flickering over her like a hunter assessing a beast he did not yet understand.

Uhtred stopped, his hand resting lazily on the hilt of his sword. His eyes, sharp as a blade's edge, roamed over her with the scrutiny of a man who had seen too many battles to be easily impressed. "You called for me," he said. "Speak quickly, stranger. My patience is thin, and my men are quicker than they look."

Yggdrasil took a single step forward.

The movement was small, yet it shifted everything.

"Yield," she said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade, "or die."

The reaction was instant.

Steel whispered against leather. Finan and Sihtric's blades were drawn in a breath, effortless and sure. Osferth fumbled slightly but managed to unsheathe his weapon, his stance uncertain.

"Bold words for someone standing alone," Finan said, amusement curling at the edges of his lips.

"Do we cut her down, lord?" Sihtric's voice was quiet, but his grip on the hilt of his sword was steady.

But Uhtred didn't move.

It was the voice. Something about it—a thread of memory woven between the sharp cadence of her words. His brow furrowed as he stepped forward, the weight of recognition settling in his bones. And then, slowly—too slowly—a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Would you kill me, sister?"

The world seemed to still.

Then—a laugh. Low, rich, edged with mischief.

Yggdrasil lifted a hand, tugging back her hood. The firelight caught the dark ink of her tattoos, the intricate Norse patterns carved into her skin like a map of her lineage. Her face was striking—fierce, sharp-boned, framed by two thick braids that cascaded over her shoulders.

"Silla, my beautiful, mad sister," Uhtred laughed, his arms locking around her in a fierce embrace. She met him with equal force, gripping him as if to confirm he was real—that this moment was real.

When she finally pulled back, her fingers traced his face, memorizing the familiar lines of war and time. "You still look like a fool, brother," she murmured, lips curving into a knowing smirk. "But I've missed you."

Uhtred chuckled, shaking his head, but before either of them could say more—

"Ah, come here, you little terror!"

A blur of movement. A rough, calloused grip. And suddenly, the ground vanished from beneath her feet.

Yggdrasil let out a startled laugh as Finan hoisted her up, spinning her like a child despite her protests.

"Finan, put me down this instant!" she gasped between laughter, trying to wriggle free, but the Irishman only tightened his hold, grinning like a fool.

When he finally relented, setting her down with exaggerated care, he pressed a swift, brotherly kiss to her forehead, eyes crinkling with mirth.

"Little sister! God, how I've missed you," he declared, shaking his head. "I could barely standyour brother's endless prattle without you."

Yggdrasil scoffed, rolling her eyes. "And here I thought you enjoyed his wisdom."

Finan snorted. "Wisdom? Nay, lass. I've been suffering."

She smiled then—a real, unguarded smile—the kind that felt like home. The weight of the journey, the whispers of war, the looming shadows of fate... for a moment, they melted away.

For now, she was not a warrior, not a legend, not the harbinger of blood and ruin.

For now, she was simply Yggdrasil. And she was home.

Uthred took her to the long house and sat her down by the table. Yggdrasil barely had time to settle before she felt a pair of eyes burning into her. She lifted her gaze, meeting the wide, startled stare of a young Dane—Sihtric.

The moment their eyes locked, his entire body went rigid. A heartbeat later, he jolted to his feet so violently that his knees slammed against the table, rattling the cups and drawing the attention of every warrior in the hall.

Yggdrasil did not move. She only watched, her head tilting ever so slightly—slow, deliberate, like a predator testing the wind.

Sihtric swallowed hard. "L-Lady..." he stammered, palms wiping hastily against his trousers as though he could rid himself of whatever spell she had just cast over him.

A slow, knowing smile curved at Yggdrasil's lips, though something unreadable flickered behind her mismatched eyes. "What do they call you?" she asked, her voice as soft as silk, yet edged with steel.

Before he could answer, Uhtred's voice rang through the hall like a war drum. "He's Sihtric, Kjartan's bastard son."

Silence fell like an axe.

Yggdrasil's expression did not falter, but something in her gaze sharpened. "Kjartansson?" she murmured, suspicion curling around her words like smoke.

Sihtric tensed, shifting uncomfortably, as though the very mention of his father's name burned him. "Lady, I swear—I am not my father, nor will I ever be."

She studied him then, truly looked at him. The tension in his shoulders, the flicker of something desperate in his eyes. A man torn between blood and honor, between past and future.

Gods, she thought, if only he were less handsome. Perhaps then my heart wouldn't race like a warhorse in battle.

But she said nothing. Only let her gaze linger a moment longer before she finally inclined her head. "I am yet to believe you."

Sihtric, his face flushed with nerves and something dangerously close to hope, dipped his head in understanding.

Then—

"For the love of the god, Sihtric, sit your arse down," Finan drawled, barely concealing his amusement.

Sihtric shot him a glare, but the Irishman only grinned wider, his laughter echoing through the hall, relishing the discomfort of his younger companion.

With a reluctant sigh, Sihtric sank back into his seat, but the tension between him and Yggdrasil remained—a taut, invisible thread, waiting to be pulled.

And if Finan noticed how Yggdrasil's gaze flickered back to Sihtric more times than necessary, he wisely chose to keep his smirk to himself.

Her gaze drifted across the room, settling on the young monk—small, quiet, out of place. He looked like a boy among warriors, but there was something in his eyes, something uncertain but strong.

A soft smile tugged at her lips. "And what do they call you, baby monk?"

Osferth blinked, clearly startled to be addressed. He straightened a little, shifting awkwardly under her gaze.

"I am called Osferth, lady. Just... Osferth." His voice was quiet, careful, like he wasn't used to being noticed.

Yggdrasil tilted her head, studying him. The way he held himself—like he was trying to take up less space but still refused to shrink completely—intrigued her.

"You have bravery in you, Osferth," she said finally, her voice low but sure. "Serving under my brother—either you'll become a warrior, or you'll be a fool."

Osferth's lips parted slightly, like he wasn't sure if he should take it as a compliment or a warning.

Uhtred scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Silla, don't throw dirt in my face," he muttered, though the teasing laced in his voice softened the words.

Yggdrasil's smile widened, her eyes never leaving Osferth. "His pride has been wounded," she whispered conspiratorially, as if sharing a secret.

And to her surprise, Osferth laughed. Quiet at first, but real. The sound barely had time to settle before Uhtred shot him a glare sharp enough to slice through steel, but the damage was already done—the air in the room had shifted. The tension eased, just a little, replaced with something lighter.

Something that felt almost like home.

Yggdrasil wrapped her fingers around her drinking horn, the weight of it grounding her as she took a slow sip. The mead was warm, spreading through her like fire, but it wasn't enough to quiet the thoughts racing through her mind.

The noise of the hall faded. The laughter, the clatter of cups, the low murmur of conversation—it all blurred into the background.

Until Uhtred's voice cut through it like a blade.

"You didn't come here without a reason, Silla," he said, watching her with knowing eyes. "I'm sure of it."

She set her cup down, tracing the rim with her fingers, slow and deliberate. Her mismatched eyes met his, holding his gaze without flinching.

"The whispers of your adventures reached Kattegat, Uhtred," she said softly. "The gods themselves were calling me to follow you."

Uhtred exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. "Did the gods tell you anything else about me?"

A slow smile curved her lips, something playful and knowing. "That you are a fool." Her voice was warm, laced with amusement. "But you amuse them, so they won't let you die."

Uhtred roared with laughter, shaking his head in exasperation. "Oh, I've missed you."

Finan, never one to stay quiet for long, leaned in with a wicked grin. "So, we're keeping her,then?"

Uhtred glanced at her, the teasing slipping from his face just a little. His smile softened, something deeper flickering in his expression.

"We're keeping her," he confirmed.

Yggdrasil rolled her eyes, a laugh slipping from her lips. "You both are impossible."

But the warmth in her chest told her she didn't really mind.

Across the table, Sihtric had been quiet.

Too quiet.

But his eyes—they spoke louder than any words ever could.

He watched her, gaze sharp, unwavering. There was something almost reverent in the way he looked at her, like she was something carved from stone, something eternal, something that demanded to be remembered.

It unsettled him.

It consumed him.

Her beauty wasn't soft, wasn't delicate in the way men often desired. No, Yggdrasil was striking—like the first crack of lightning before a storm, like the glint of a blade catching the sun. She was the kind of woman who didn't just turn heads; she left marks. And gods help him—she had already left hers on him.

Sihtric swallowed, fingers twitching against his cup.

This was dangerous.

This feeling.

Because he had seen strong women before, had fought beside them, had admired them. But Yggdrasil... she wasn't just strong. She carried something else entirely—a past she did not fear, a certainty in herself that made the rest of the world feel smaller.

And she hadn't even tried to steal the air from his lungs.

Yet here he was, breathless.

Gods, he was doomed.

He willed himself to look away, to move, to do anything that would sever whatever thread had started weaving between them. But before he could, her head tilted—just slightly—and her gaze found him.

Their eyes locked.

For a second, neither of them moved.

A flicker of something passed between them—unspoken, but heavy.

Sihtric's pulse hammered, and then—coward—he tore his gaze away, face burning.

But Yggdrasil... she said nothing.

And that was worse.

Because it meant she had seen him. She had felt it too.

And still, she let him suffer in silence.

The gods had a cruel sense of humor, Sihtric thought bitterly.

They had placed him here, in this moment, with her.

Knowing full well what would happen.

He would fall.

And there would be no saving him.

[beyralxoxo]

{Amor Omnia Vincit-Lucius Verus Aurelius}

Chapter 4-Gloria Ad Venerem: Glory to Venus

SUMMARY: Tillotama is getting ready for her performance, Hanno sees her again and gods help him, she is even more beautiful up close. She makes it her goal to show him her respect towards him, and he is taken aback by her even standing this close to him. She then performs but our courtesan has her own wishes...

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x South Indian OC

WORD COUNT: 8K

WARNINGS: none really-some swear words

The golden rays of the morning sun seeped through the embroidered curtains, casting dappled shadows upon the polished marble floor. Tillotama stirred beneath the silken sheets, her mismatched eyes—one a deep, fathomless brown, the other a radiant amber—flickering open. The opulence surrounding her was undeniable. Gilded columns, carved screens adorned with intricate patterns, the soft fragrance of incense curling through the air—it was a world that whispered of power, of kingdoms that could crumble with a single word.

Yet, it felt like a gilded cage.

A soft hum escaped her lips as she stretched, her arms reaching above her head. So this is my life now... The thought draped over her like a heavy cloak, settling into the hollow of her chest. She would wake in a foreign land, walk through corridors of marble that reeked of ambition and influence, and dance for men whose eyes held the fate of empires. It was all decided—her destiny etched in stone, sealed with blood.

Before the weight of her thoughts could consume her, the doors to her chamber swung open with a sharp creak.

A whirlwind of silk and laughter entered—the ladies-in-waiting.

Kinjal, poised as ever, her eyes like those of a hawk, sharp and ever watchful. Chanchal, the mischievous one, already grinning, as though she were privy to some secret that would scandalize the court. Mataangi, bold and unrestrained, her confidence as reckless as the winds that tore through battlefields. And Bulbul, the youngest, soft-hearted, still clinging to the last remnants of innocent dreams in a world that was anything but innocent.

Their jewelry jangled as they moved, a chorus of sound that only heightened the feeling of waiting.

Chanchal plopped herself down beside Tillotama, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “You look grumpy, Tillo,” she teased, her voice light and carefree.

Tillotama exhaled slowly, forcing a smile to her lips. “Today is the day I perform.”

Mataangi rolled her eyes, sprawling across the divan like a lioness basking in the sun. “You know, we could just kill the guards and help you escape,” she said with a lazy drawl.

Bulbul let out a horrified squeak. “M-Maybe let’s not do that, huh?” Her wide eyes darted nervously to the door, as if expecting an assassin to burst forth at any moment.

Kinjal, ever practical, arched an eyebrow. “At this hour? Murder is inconvenient, and I’ve just washed my hair.”

Tillotama chuckled, shaking her head. “I love you all.”

A comfortable silence settled among them, the shared bond of sisterhood a silent, unspoken promise that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.

Then Kinjal clapped her hands. “Enough of this sentimental nonsense. Up you get. You have Rome to conquer.”

Tillotama groaned but obeyed, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The silk of her nightgown pooled at her feet, its weight pressing against the marble. She stretched once more, inhaling the day that had already begun.

Rome awaited.

And whether it knew it or not, Rome would never be the same.

Tillotama stood still, her nightgown slipping from her shoulders like a whispered secret. The air around her was thick with the mingling scents of jasmine, rose, and sandalwood. The stone bath shimmered before her, its water dotted with rose petals, the delicate fragrance of jasmine mixing with the heat of the room.

Without a second thought, she stepped into the water, the warmth of it swallowing her whole. She sank beneath the surface, her body becoming weightless, her mind temporarily freed from the weight of her world. When she emerged, her dark hair slicked against her back, she wiped the water from her face, exhaling slowly.

The girls sat around her, their eyes soft but expectant.

"Your aunt has already told us what you should wear for the performance," Mataangi said, her voice holding an edge of reluctant compliance.

Tillotama frowned, brushing stray petals from her shoulder. "Next time I speak to her, I'll probably have to ask permission to breathe."

Kinjal chuckled lowly, shaking her head. "We did take the clothes she picked out, but we certainly didn’t prepare them." She smiled. "We know you too well to dress you in that nonsense."

Tillotama smirked to herself, running her finger through the water. "Good," she murmured. "Because I already know what I’ll wear."

Bulbul, ever the gentle one, leaned forward and began pulling the damp rose petals from Tillotama’s hair. "And what will you wear?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.

Tillotama’s smile deepened, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Bulbul blinked, confused.

Chanchal, however, gasped in realization, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm. "Oh—oh! I know what she’s going to wear!" She turned to the others, pointing dramatically at Tillotama like a scholar unveiling a grand secret.

Mataangi grinned, lounging back. "If she’s this excited, it must be something scandalous."

Kinjal’s smirk matched the others. "Or something dangerously clever."

Tillotama leaned back, stretching her arms along the marble edge of the bath. “You’ll see soon enough,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement.

The girls exchanged knowing glances. Whatever Tillotama had planned, it would be nothing short of legendary.

Meanwhile, in the underbelly of Rome, another day began in a far less graceful manner.

For Hanno, it began with a bucket of water to the face.

The cold shock hit him like a brutal strike, jolting him from the depths of sleep. Water streamed down his face, dripping onto the cold stone floor of his cell.

Laughter echoed from the hall beyond the bars.

"Wake up, barbarian," a voice sneered, thick with amusement.

Hanno took a slow, measured breath, suppressing the instinct to react. He had learned long ago that Rome craved a reaction, and he had sworn never to give them that satisfaction.

Instead, he rose from his cot, his movements deliberate, slow, as though the world itself was beneath him. He stepped in line with the other gladiators, each one an instrument of war, standing like weapons on display in the narrow corridor. The scent of sweat, steel, and blood filled the air—heaven for the hungry, hell for the damned.

Hanno stretched his neck, his sharp gaze fixed ahead, unreadable.

Then came the voice that he had grown accustomed to despising.

"Barbarian!" the guard spat, his voice laced with scorn, echoing through the stone halls.

Hanno sighed inwardly, his patience unwavering as he stepped forward.

The guard, a stout man who had never tasted death's cold embrace, squared his shoulders and glared up at him, attempting to assert some semblance of dominance.

Hanno, ever the predator, barely acknowledged him. His eyes remained cold, calculating, as though deciding whether this particular prey was worth the hunt.

"You have work to do, barbarian," the guard sneered. "The Caesar’s whore needs her guard."

Hanno’s fists clenched, but only for a moment. The insult was not to him—it was to her.

They spoke of her in the most despicable ways.

She did not belong to this world of power and conquest. She was not some trinket to be traded, some object to be owned. No, she was something far grander—something untouched by the darkness that ran through these streets, something far more sacred. Something to be prayed to.

To speak of her in such a way... it stirred something in him.

The guard chuckled darkly, sensing a flicker of restraint. "Oh? Did I strike a nerve, barbarian? Do you—"

Before he could finish, another voice, smooth as silk, cut through the tension.

"Lord," Ravi interjected, stepping forward with the calm grace of one who had mastered the art of diplomacy. "Perhaps it would be unwise to provoke a man who could sever your head from your body before you could even scream."

The guard stiffened, but his fingers twitched toward the whip at his waist. Hanno barely noticed.

His mind, once sharp and focused on survival, was clouded. Why did she unsettle him? What was it about her that roused this strange feeling of... protectiveness?

The guard shoved him forward, snapping him from his thoughts. "Move. The princess is waiting."

Hanno inhaled sharply, forcing the strange thoughts aside. Whatever this was—a fleeting desire to shield her from the world’s cruelty—was nothing more than a passing notion.

But as he made his way toward Tillotama’s chambers, the unsettled feeling gnawed at him.

Tillotama, still unaware of the thoughts of the gladiator, dressed in her finest attire and, with her ladies in waiting, walked toward the main chambers for prayer. The doors to the great hall opened to reveal her mother, aunt, and sisters waiting for her.

As she entered, she smoothed the folds of her saree, her eyes falling upon Bhumi, who ran toward her, her tiny legs carrying her with such excitement.

“Tillo!” Bhumi cried, her voice bright. “Did you know there’s a big fountain? And I can feed the doves?”

Tillotama’s heart softened, and she smiled gently as Bhumi clung to her legs. Rambha approached, chuckling lightly. “She’s been feeding those poor birds since dawn.”

Ezhili, ever the practical one, nodded. “They’ll burst sooner or later.”

Tillotama laughed softly, her heart lightening as she listened to her sisters tease Bhumi. It was a fleeting moment of warmth before the weight of the day’s demands would take over once again.

Korravai’s voice sliced through the room like a cold wind, sharp and commanding, a silent demand for compliance. “We have been waiting for you, Tillotama.”

Tillotama’s eyes met her aunt's, and the smile that had graced her lips faltered for a mere second. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Her mismatched gaze—a deep, rich brown paired with a molten amber—held steady, though the weight of the world seemed to shift upon her shoulders. I arrived, haven’t I? she thought, her thoughts wrapped in both defiance and quiet resignation. Her voice, however, betrayed nothing of the battle within. “I arrived, haven’t I?”

Korravai’s sharp sigh seemed to pierce the air, her jaw clenching with restrained frustration, but before tension could consume the moment, Amrapali’s soft voice floated through like a breeze, gentle and soothing.

“You look beautiful, sweetling,” Amrapali said, her words caressing the air with a tenderness that was an oasis amid the storm. Her eyes sparkled with affection, and a soft smile adorned her lips, a maternal warmth that eased the sharpness of Korravai’s presence.

Tillotama’s lips curved upward in a faint, yet sincere smile. “Thank you, Ammi,” she whispered, her voice a soft murmur, wrapped in warmth for the woman who had always been a haven amidst the tempest.

Korravai, unwilling to soften her stance, shook her head in exasperation. “Tillotama, sit down. The prayer is about to start,” she commanded, her voice cold and brittle, as though no room existed for anything but duty.

With a silent nod, Tillotama moved to take her seat, her every movement a study in grace. She smoothed her saree with delicate hands, the luxurious fabric flowing like liquid silk beneath her touch. She flicked her braid over her shoulder, casting a final glance over her shoulder as she settled in, each inch of her seeming to speak of poise, of nobility. The air in the room felt heavy with expectancy, as though the very walls held their breath in anticipation of the moment about to unfold.

The prayer began.

Tillotama closed her eyes, her breath deepening, slowing to the rhythm of the sacred words that filled the chamber. The melody of the chant wrapped around her like an embrace, soft and soothing. Each word was a thread in the tapestry of her spirit, knitting peace where chaos had once resided. In the sanctity of this prayer, she sought refuge, quieting the turmoil of her heart, hoping—praying—that she wouldn’t lose herself in the fire that was Rome. The prayer filled the air, and she hummed softly along, her mind settling like still waters, her soul a mirror reflecting the purity of the moment.

But just as she sank further into the melody, a sudden shift in the air broke her reverie. The heavy doors to the chamber groaned open with an unmistakable creak, their sound jagged against the flow of prayer. A figure entered, and with him, an unfamiliar tension.

Hanno.

The guards, their presence as cold and uncaring as ever, shoved him into the room, their boots thudding on the floor like a drumbeat heralding an unwelcome interruption. Pompeia, quick as ever, stepped forward, her posture as straight as an arrow. Her sharp gaze flickered over the scene, immediately reading the disturbance with practiced ease.

“Have you no mind at all?” Pompeia’s voice was like the crack of thunder in a silent sky, sharp and commanding, though there was a subtle warmth woven into the reprimand. “My lady is praying. It is unwise to disturb such a moment.”

The guards shrank back under her gaze, muttering apologies as they shuffled out, their footfalls echoing down the corridor, leaving only the silent reverence of the room in their wake.

Pompeia let out a sigh, but her eyes never left Hanno. And Hanno, despite his usual steel-hard composure, was not looking at her. No, his gaze was fixed elsewhere.

On Tillotama.

For a moment, the world seemed to slow around Hanno. His breath caught in his chest as his eyes fell upon her—her figure, bathed in the soft golden light of the chamber, her face serene and untouched by the world’s cruelty. There was a purity to her that stole his breath, a quiet grace that seemed to belong to another realm entirely, one untouched by the blood and dust of Rome. She was like a distant star, hanging in the heavens, beautiful and unattainable. His heart thudded in his chest, a violent, reckless pulse that he had no power to control.

In that moment, Hanno felt as though he were gazing upon the very heart of the universe. She was more than flesh, more than bone. She was light, she was fire, she was the embodiment of everything sacred that this wretched city of Rome had long forgotten. Her presence was an oasis in a desert of stone and blood, her calm a stark contrast to the violent world he inhabited.

She was a goddess.

He swallowed, his throat dry, as though he were standing at the edge of a precipice, gazing into a chasm that threatened to swallow him whole. Her beauty was not the beauty of a woman, not the beauty of someone simply existing in the world. No, she was the kind of beauty that stopped time itself, the kind of beauty that made the very stars dim in comparison. He could not look away. He didn’t want to look away.

She was a paradox—a delicate bloom in a war-torn land. A flame, untouched by the cold winds that howled through the streets. She was not of Rome, not of this empire of death. She was beyond it all, a sanctuary of innocence in a world that knew only sin.

And in that moment, Hanno realized something. He was not merely looking at her. He was worshipping her. His heart, his very soul, had knelt before her, recognizing the divine within her, recognizing the purity that was almost too much for him to bear.

Pompeia’s voice—soft, teasing—shattered his reverie.

“Come, boy. Stand here,” she said, her voice laced with a gentle amusement as she glanced over at him, her eyes catching the flicker of something in his gaze. She saw it—the reverence. The awe. The silent, unspoken devotion that pulsed in his every movement. She knew he had been caught. She smiled faintly at his response, and the gentle pressure of her voice brought him back to reality.

Hanno’s head dropped, his eyes still burning with that impossible, unbearable ache. He followed Pompeia’s lead, moving to her side with deliberate slowness, the weight of his thoughts pulling at him like a storm. His steps, though careful, felt as though they were leading him further into a labyrinth of desires he couldn’t even begin to understand. His gaze, almost imperceptibly, flickered back toward Tillotama, his soul silently reaching for her, even though the distance between them was far greater than any mere physical space.

He stood beside Pompeia, but his mind, his heart, was still in that room with her.

Tillotama. The flame. The star. The goddess.

She was untouchable. And yet, all he could do was stand there, silently worshipping the space she occupied in the world.

The prayer, a sacred melody whispered through the chambers, faded into the stillness of the room. The last notes of devotion clung to the air like a soft breath, lingering with a serenity that only the divine could impart. Tillotama, seated before the statue of Saraswati, her eyes closed in silent reverence, arranged the garlands delicately, weaving them into the offering that would grace the goddess’s feet. The soft rustle of petals and the scent of jasmine filled the space around her, offering peace, a fleeting reprieve from the chaos of her own thoughts.

But peace, it seemed, was a luxury she could not hold onto for long.

A gentle, teasing nudge at her shoulder broke her reverie. At first, she didn’t react, simply humming as if nothing had disturbed her. It was only when the nudge came again—slightly more insistent—that she turned, a frown of confusion creasing her brow.

There, standing beside her, was Chanchal, her lips curled into a mischievous smirk, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and secret knowledge. “You have a secret admirer, Tillo,” she said, her voice soft but heavy with the weight of unspoken meaning.

Tillotama blinked, her fingers faltering for a moment as she held the garland. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, her tone more puzzled than anything else. Surely, her attention had been too focused on the prayer, on the simplicity of the moment, to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Before Chanchal could answer, Mataangi, ever the one to cut through the haze of uncertainty, approached with her usual directness. “You mean to tell me,” she said, her eyes flashing with humor, “you didn’t see your own guard making an appearance?”

Tillotama’s brow furrowed, and she turned toward Mataangi with a confused shake of her head. “My guard? W-what do you—”

And then, just as suddenly as a thunderclap, her voice faltered, the words dying on her lips. She turned toward the entrance, her eyes locking onto the figure standing just beyond the threshold.

Hanno.

His presence was a quiet thing, like the calm before a storm, yet it filled the room completely. His head was bowed, and there was a reverence in his posture, as though he stood not just as a man, but as something more. Something humble, yet heavy with purpose.

Tillotama’s heart skipped a beat, her breath faltering. There was a strange softness in her gaze as she took him in—his broad shoulders, the strong lines of his form, the way he stood with an air of quiet respect, as though he was honoring something much greater than the mere duties of a guard.

It unsettled her. She could not find the words to describe what she felt. There was something about him, something that tugged at her—something that reached deep inside her and made her pulse quicken.

His gaze remained fixed on the floor, but still, it felt like he saw her. His quiet, composed stance carried the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts, his silence speaking louder than any words could.

Kinjal’s laugh—light, knowing, and teasing—shattered the moment, pulling Tillotama back to herself. “You are interested, I see,” Kinjal murmured with a playful gleam in her eye.

Tillotama, startled by the sudden shift in atmosphere, shrugged her shoulders and forced a smile. “Interested?” she echoed softly, but the teasing tone of her voice was betrayed by the flutter in her chest that she couldn’t shake.

“Of course not,” she continued, attempting to brush away the attention with a nonchalant gesture, as if she could bury the surge of unexpected feelings beneath the weight of her usual indifference. “I’m just—”

But the words died in her throat as she stood, her gaze flickering back to Hanno, now standing with quiet poise by the door. There was something about the way he carried himself that she couldn’t quite explain, something that tugged at the very core of her. And when their eyes met, even for the briefest of moments, her breath hitched, as if the air itself had thickened with an unspoken understanding.

She smiled softly to herself, though she quickly looked away, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.

Before anyone could press further, Tillotama turned, feigning casualness as she stood to her feet, her soft silk saree flowing around her like the petals she had just arranged for the goddess. She moved quickly, as though the pace of her steps could outrun the thoughts that were beginning to crowd her mind.

Chanchal’s voice, full of playful mockery, followed her retreating figure. “Oh, you’re going to run away from it now? Tillo, you’re practically glowing.”

Tillotama tossed a glance over her shoulder, trying to ignore the sudden warmth in her cheeks, the flicker of something in her chest that she couldn't quite explain. “I’m not running,” she said, her voice light, but there was a telltale tremor in the words that betrayed her calm exterior. “I’m simply… getting some air.”

Her ladies in waiting laughed softly, their eyes glinting with the quiet knowledge of something far deeper than any prayer or garland could convey. Tillotama could feel their gazes on her, like gentle prodding fingers, but it did little to soothe the strange sensation that had bloomed inside her.

With a slight shake of her head, she tried to compose herself, walking toward the garden with her usual poise, though her mind seemed lightyears away from the serenity of the prayer she had just offered. Her footsteps fell softly against the marble, and she could feel their eyes on her—on the way she walked, on the faintest trace of a smile that lingered on her lips.

Her heart fluttered in a strange rhythm, her pulse quickened in a way that felt both thrilling and terrifying.

And as she moved through the chambers, the image of Hanno—head bowed, reverent, quietly watching her with the weight of something deeper than just duty—lingered in her mind. It haunted her, like a whisper at the edge of her consciousness.

Perhaps there was more to him than a simple guard. Perhaps there was something in his gaze, in the way he stood, that called to her in ways she could not yet understand.

Tillotama found herself glancing back once more, but Hanno had not moved. His stillness seemed like an invitation, an unspoken promise that there was more beneath the surface, waiting to be discovered.

And for the first time in a long while, Tillotama didn’t know what to think. She only knew that, somehow, the world had shifted, and it was no longer just Rome she was bound to. It was him—this silent, reverent figure who had stolen her attention without a single word.

She smiled again, this time for herself.

Korravai’s presence was a storm that shook the very air around her. The coldness she carried with her was palpable, a chill that seemed to seep into the room itself. As she approached, her eyes were like daggers—sharp, unrelenting, and icy. Her voice, when it came, was as hard and unyielding as a mountain. “Today is the day you prove your worth, Tillotama,” she said, her words heavy with expectation. “Today, our lives are in your hands. If the emperors find fault with you, if they turn their backs on their gift, we will all fall into danger. Don’t let that happen.”

Tillotama met her aunt's gaze, the weight of her words pressing down on her like a thousand stones. The moment felt like a battlefield, and she was the only soldier standing in its midst. Her voice was steady, though, betraying none of the turmoil she felt inside. “It’s not the first time I’ve been put in this situation,” she replied softly, her tone almost detached.

Korravai’s lips twisted into a sharp, disappointed line. She shook her head, her gaze narrowing like a hawk ready to strike. “That does not make you better or more experienced, Tillotama.”

Tillotama turned her head slightly, her eyes flickering to the side. She couldn’t bear the weight of her aunt’s gaze any longer. A sigh escaped her lips, an exhale that carried the burden of unspoken words. Korravai’s disappointment was a living, breathing thing, pressing in from all sides.

Without another word, Korravai turned on her heel, her coldness radiating out like a wave. She called for Tillotama’s mother and sisters to follow, her movements deliberate and precise, as though ensuring that no one would disrupt Tillotama in her moment of solitude.

Tillotama remained where she stood, the quiet of the room enveloping her like a thick, suffocating fog. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to steady her racing thoughts. The weight of Korravai’s words clung to her like a cloak made of iron, heavy and unyielding. She needed to let go, if only for a moment.

Kinjal’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and laced with annoyance. “How sweet is she, eh? Amazing motivator,” she quipped, her sarcasm a balm for the tension that hung in the air.

Mataangi, ever the firebrand, snorted. “I swear, if she talks like that again, I’ll choke her with her own adorments.”

Tillotama chuckled softly despite herself, the sound faint, but real. “Then she would come back to haunt us,” she said, the words escaping her lips without thought. It was true, though. Korravai had a way of weaving her presence into the very fabric of their lives, always present, always watching.

Chanchal, ever the one to lighten the mood, patted Tillotama’s arm gently. “The food is served, Tillo,” she said, her voice warm and soothing. “You need to eat, not think about this demon.”

Tillotama smiled faintly, a small, private thing that barely touched her eyes. She had to admit, the thought of food was comforting. It was something tangible, something she could control. She let out a quiet hum, agreeing, as she moved toward the table. Her ladies-in-waiting followed her, their movements fluid and familiar, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift, if only slightly.

As she sat down at the table, the rich scents of the feast before her filled the air—roasted meats, spiced fruits, the warmth of freshly baked bread. But the aroma did little to stir her appetite. Her mind, still weighed down by Korravai’s words, wandered back to the task ahead. Rome. The emperors. The performance. The thin line she walked between power and peril.

And yet, as the soft chatter of her ladies-in-waiting swirled around her, she found a small comfort in the routine. The simple act of breaking bread with those who truly knew her, those who saw beyond the title and the expectations. It was something solid, something real, amidst all the uncertainty.

“Are you going to stare at your plate all day, Tillo?” Kinjal’s voice broke through her thoughts, sharp as ever. “You have food here, and you’re still lost in your head. We all have our problems, but you can’t feed yourself with fear.”

Mataangi chimed in, her tone a mockery of Kinjal’s. “You know, if she wanted to feed herself with fear, she'd simply ask Korravai for more advice. That would be more than enough to sustain her.”

Tillotama’s lips twitched at the corners, a rare smile breaking through. “You’re both impossible,” she murmured, but the lightness in her tone was a welcome distraction.

Chanchal, ever the gentle soul, took a bite of fruit before glancing up. “You know, we’re here, Tillo. Whatever happens today, we’re with you.”

Tillotama nodded, her gaze softening. The words, though simple, held a depth of meaning that she couldn’t ignore. In this room, with these women, she was not just the pawn on the chessboard of Rome. She was Tillotama. A woman with her own strength, her own will.

Tillotama ate with the soft rhythm of her own thoughts, the food before her mostly forgotten as her gaze, gentle and unbidden, drifted toward the man who stood at the far corner of the room. Hanno, her guard, was a figure etched in silence. His head remained bowed, his focus lost somewhere in the depths of the stone floor, as if he could will himself to disappear into it. Yet, despite the quietude of his demeanor, Tillotama felt a strange pull toward him, something tethering her heart to the mystery that lay behind his solemn eyes.

There was something about him that made her feel... safe. In a room full of intrigue, of power, of men who’d cut down nations without a second thought, he stood like a rock in the tumultuous sea. But even the sturdiest stones bore marks of wear, and as Tillotama stole another glance, she noticed the bruises on his arms—purple and dark, fading but ever-present. A small, unexpected ache twisted in her chest. Those marks—were they from the brutality of the arena, or from something more… personal?

She stared at her food for a long moment, her thoughts clouded by the image of his silent suffering. Her hand rested lightly on the edge of the table, but her appetite had abandoned her. She could feel the weight of her companions’ eyes upon her, the soft crackle of tension hanging in the space between them.

Kinjal, ever the keen observer, tilted her head with a flicker of concern. “Has something happened?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with the curiosity she knew better than to hide.

Tillotama’s gaze never left Hanno, her silence a quiet sea of introspection. She did not respond at once, and the silence in the air grew heavier with every passing breath. Bulbul, ever gentle and concerned, nudged her lightly. “Tillo?” she asked, her voice a whisper meant to pull her from the depths of her thoughts.

Tillotama blinked slowly, as though waking from a dream, and glanced at her friends. She met their questioning looks, but her heart still lingered with the image of Hanno—his quiet strength, the unreadable pain that seemed to mar his every movement. Her fingers curled lightly around the edge of her plate, but the food no longer held her interest.

Mataangi, sharp and quick to catch the undercurrent of the moment, let out a low laugh of realization. “Tillo, as much as I love your caring heart, he’s meant to guard you, not the other way around. You’re not his savior,” she said, her tone half playful, half incredulous.

Tillotama turned to her slowly, a softness in her gaze that only Mataangi could read. “A protector deserves respect, doesn’t he?” she replied, her voice quiet, but firm with an undercurrent of something deeper. “Besides, I want to show him that I respect him. His work is no small thing.”

Chanchal, ever the teasing soul, exchanged an amused glance with Kinjal before sighing dramatically. “As if we could ever stop you from your ideas, Tillo,” she murmured, her voice laced with both affection and exasperation.

Tillotama allowed herself a gentle smile, the corners of her lips turning upward like the first rays of sunlight breaking through a storm. She stood up from the table then, the movement fluid and purposeful, as though her thoughts had already been decided. She stepped toward the feast, the rich array of dishes laid before her, and began to gather food onto a plate. She filled it generously, the act one of gratitude, not for herself, but for the silent man who had spent his days watching over her, guarding her from the shadows.

Chanchal leaned closer to Mataangi, whispering with a smirk that was only half-hearted. “She wants to fatten him up,” she teased, her eyes dancing with mischief.

Mataangi, never one to be easily amused, shot her a deadpan look. “Chanchal…” she said, the word a soft, resigned sigh as if her patience had already been tested far beyond its limits.

Tillotama’s breath was almost too shallow, her heart thudding with the weight of what she was about to do. The plate, now a quiet burden in her hands, held more than food; it held her unspoken intentions, her desire to show him kindness. Her eyes flickered to her ladies, their gazes full of quiet encouragement. But she was alone in this, standing on the precipice of something new, something delicate.

She took a deep, steadying breath and moved toward him, her steps slow but determined. The space between them seemed to hum with an energy she couldn’t name, and when she stopped before him, her fingers tightened around the plate, the small gesture of care she hoped would bridge the distance between them. She swallowed, then, gently, she hummed, a soft sound that seemed to ripple through the air and catch his attention.

Hanno stiffened. His heart jolted at the closeness, at the suddenness of her presence. He had never been so near her, and her beauty—a beauty like something untouched, something pure—was overwhelming. His mind scrambled to find its place in the moment, but it felt as though he was caught in a dream where every movement, every word was heavier than he was capable of bearing.

Her eyes held him, soft and steady, as if they saw right through him, down to the fragments he didn’t even know existed. He couldn’t breathe as her gaze sought his. And when she gently set the plate down near him, it felt as though the air between them was both fragile and infinite.

The sound of the plate being placed on the table startled him. His thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. Was it a vase? No. He hesitated, looking down at the food, then back up at her. How could he possibly deserve this?

He felt a pull in his chest, an unspoken invitation in her actions, but the words to express his gratitude—his awe—were tangled in his throat. His breath came out in a soft exhale, and he lowered his head, instinctively. To do anything else, to look her directly in the eye, felt like an affront. She was too pure for him, too bright a flame for someone like him to bask in. She should not be so close, so within his reach.

But Tillotama wasn’t discouraged. She tilted her head slightly, her fingers fluttering as if she was trying to find a way to speak the words that could reach him. The motion was small but deliberate. She pointed at the food, and then at him, her eyes searching his for understanding. She didn’t speak—there was no need. Her hands, graceful and certain, told him all he needed to know.

Hanno’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure he understood, but he felt a stirring of something deep within him—something that told him he had to try, that he had to meet her halfway. He lifted his hand slowly, uncertain, and mimicked the motion, pointing first to the food, and then back at himself, his eyes pleading with her to understand.

Tillotama’s gaze softened, but there was confusion in her expression. She watched him, brows knitting together in gentle puzzlement. She didn’t understand his language, and neither did he understand hers, but something passed between them nonetheless. Something unspoken, yet full of meaning.

Hanno’s heart ached, a tightness spreading through his chest. He had tried, but his attempt to communicate was useless in the face of her pure intentions. He shook his head, his lips pressing together in a bittersweet smile. It was as though she could speak to him with nothing more than a gesture, but he—he was clumsy, fumbling with the simplest of expressions.

He looked at her again, and the words he wanted to say filled his mind, but they wouldn’t form on his lips. You’re too good, too kind for this world, he wanted to say. I don’t deserve this, don’t deserve you. But instead, he simply shook his head again, lowering his gaze with a reverence that burned in his chest.

Tillotama, sensing the fragility in the moment, felt her own heart soften. She didn’t understand his language, but she could feel the weight of his unspoken words. His eyes, his every gesture, spoke louder than any words could. She reached out gently, her fingertips brushing the edge of the plate once more. Her hand, so delicate, hovered near the food, and then, as though in some shared understanding, she pointed to it again, then to him.

There was a pleading in her eyes now, a quiet invitation that could not be ignored. Please, she seemed to say, take this from me.

Hanno’s chest tightened, the raw emotion building inside him as he looked at her, at her kindness, at her purity. He couldn’t fathom what he had done to deserve her, but in that moment, he knew with painful clarity: she had given him a gift he could never repay.

Finally, he nodded, the motion slow, reluctant, yet inevitable. She had asked him to take it, and in her eyes, there was something that called him to do so.

His voice, when it came, was a quiet whisper, full of the reverence he could not hide. "Thank you," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "I don’t deserve this." His words seemed too small, too fragile for the magnitude of what she was offering.

Tillotama smiled then, the warmth of her expression like the first rays of dawn. She didn’t need him to speak. She didn’t need to understand his language. What mattered was this: the gentle connection between them, the shared moment of understanding that transcended any words they could exchange.

Hanno’s gaze never left hers as he reached forward, taking the plate into his hands with a careful reverence, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. He knew, in the quietest corner of his soul, that it wasn’t the food that mattered—it was her. She had given him more than he could ever ask for.

And as he lifted his gaze again, their eyes met once more, a silent promise hanging in the air between them. This moment, this quiet exchange, was everything. And in it, they had found something that neither language nor distance could ever take away.

The time for the performance had come too soon for Tillotama’s liking. The hours had slipped through her fingers like grains of sand, and now, standing before the great mirror, she felt the weight of the moment settle over her like a veil of silk—soft yet inescapable.

She looked at her own reflection, studying the girl in the glass as if she were someone else entirely. The glow of countless oil lamps cast golden halos upon the polished mirror, illuminating the delicate details of her attire. Her thick braid, woven with strands of gold and adorned with tiny jasmine flowers, coiled over her shoulder like a sacred offering. The weight of her jewelry pressed against her skin—three necklaces, each more intricate than the last, their gold and pearls glinting like constellations against her collarbones. The lehenga she wore was a masterpiece, golden as the first light of dawn, embroidered with peacocks whose jeweled feathers shimmered as she moved.

Her wrists were encircled by bangles—gold, ruby, and sapphire—a symphony of color that clinked softly as she lifted her hand. Around her ankles, her ghungroos lay still for now, waiting, as if they too held their breath. The naath upon her nose—a delicate hoop of gold—framed her lips, the septum ring adding to the quiet regality that she did not yet see in herself. But it was her eyes that held the greatest magic. One dark as the midnight sky, the other sea like—both rimmed in thick kohl, twin fires that burned with something unspoken.

The door creaked open, and in swept her ladies, their laughter and chatter dying down the moment their eyes landed on her. A hush fell over the room, not the silence of absence but the silence of awe, of reverence.

Mataangi was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tillo…” She shook her head, pressing a hand to her chest. “You look like you’ve stepped out of a story.”

Bulbul let out a breathy laugh, circling her slowly, as if afraid that touching her would shatter the illusion. “No, not a story. A poem. A hymn.”

Chanchal clapped her hands together, grinning. “A vision! Tell me, is it a crime to steal a goddess and keep her hidden from the world? Because I am very tempted.”

Tillotama shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “Enough of this,” she murmured, her voice softer than she intended. “You’ll make me nervous.”

Kinjal tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “Nervous? You? Oh, Tillotama, if they could see you now, the gods themselves would stop to watch.”

She turned back to the mirror, adjusting the placement of her earrings, more to steady herself than anything else. The weight of their words settled over her—not in fear, but in something else, something deeper.

“I do not dance for them,” she said at last, voice barely above a whisper. “Not the emperors, not the court, not the world.”

Mataangi came to her side, her reflection appearing in the mirror beside her. “Then who do you dance for?”

Tillotama’s fingers trailed over the strings of pearls resting against her throat.

“For the one who listens,” she murmured.

The throne hall shimmered in the glow of torches and golden candelabras, the air thick with the scent of wine and the murmur of impatient nobility. Draped in opulence, the two emperors lounged on their thrones, their goblets of spiced wine tilting idly in their hands. Geta tsked, stretching like a restless beast before turning to Macrinus, who sat close by, ever the shadow of measured calculation.

"Tell me, Macrinus… when does our gift intend to perform? Half of Rome holds its breath." His tone was one of feigned boredom, but there was hunger beneath it, a wolf waiting to be fed.

Macrinus smirked, slow and knowing, as if he found amusement in the impatience of kings. "Your Majesty, I assure you, she is yet to come."

Geta rolled his eyes, slumping into his seat like a spoiled child denied his sweets. Beside him, Caracalla swirled his goblet, eyes dark with irritation. "I seek entertainment, not the tedium of waiting!" he huffed, prepared to throw his cup to the floor just to watch the shattered pieces glisten.

And then—music.

Soft at first, like a whisper at the edge of a dream, before unfurling into something more, something ancient, something divine.

The great doors opened, and the hush in the throne room was almost deafening. Four women entered first, their hands lifting a banner of silk—a veil of secrecy—shielding the one at its center. A goddess yet unseen.

Caracalla and Geta leaned forward, twin smirks of pleasure curling upon their lips.

Then, the song shifted, richer now, a melody none had heard in Rome before. The banner dropped, and she was revealed.

A collective gasp swept the hall. Murmurs rippled through the sea of nobles, admiration and envy tangling in the air like incense smoke. Even Macrinus, ever composed, sat up straighter.

Tillotama stood at the heart of it all, adorned in gold and mystery. The jewels at her throat gleamed like fallen stars, her lehenga a cascade of peacock and sun, the bells at her ankles waiting, waiting for movement. The oil lamps caught the kohl around her mismatched eyes, deepening the illusion that she was something not of this world.

And then, she moved.

A twirl, a bow of the wrist, a tilt of the head—grace poured from her as if she had been sculpted for this very moment. The melody wrapped around her limbs, her voice rising with it—a voice like the sirens in the myths of Rome, like water slipping between the fingers of men who longed to grasp what was never meant for them.

She did not dance; she unfolded. She did not sing; she enchanted.

Caracalla and Geta watched, their amusement melting into something deeper, something darker. Their gazes trailed her, worship disguised as possession, adoration tangled with greed.

She twirled, she spun—like a flame bending to its own rhythm, untamed, unyielding.

And when at last the final note of her song quivered in the air, the last twirl settled her in stillness, she stood with her head bowed, breath rising and falling in the aftermath of divinity.

A single sound broke the silence

"Marvelous!"

The word rang through the hall, foreign to her ears, yet she did not move.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

Geta stepped toward her, his eyes drinking her in as one admires a prized artifact. He bent slightly, and before she could retreat, he pressed a kiss against the embroidered hem of her lehenga.

Her breath hitched.

A cold smirk played at his lips as he straightened, reveling in her reaction.

And then—Caracalla. A shadow behind her, too close. His lips brushed the thick braid over her shoulder, the ghost of a touch that sent a shiver down her spine. She felt it then—that sickening weight, the sensation of being owned, claimed like a jewel taken from its temple to sit in the treasury of a foreign king.

Geta turned to the court, his voice triumphant.

"Glory to Venus!"

The room erupted. Rose petals rained down, fragrant and soft, a mockery of celebration. Nobles cheered, women whispered, men watched with hunger in their eyes.

Tillotama remained still, the weight of unseen chains pressing into her skin.

She stole a glance to the side, to Waarangan, the only steady thing in this sea of leering indulgence. His gaze met hers, calm, grounding. He gave a small nod, a whisper of reassurance.

She lowered her eyes once more.

The emperors returned to their seats, their eyes never leaving her.

"Flawless," Geta murmured, his gaze dragging over her like silk through fingers. "Absolutely flawless… a goddess upon the earth."

Waarangan translated, and she swallowed down the bile that threatened to rise. Yet she did not let fear dictate her silence. Instead, she took a breath, steady and measured, before speaking softly to Waarangan.

"Tell him that I thank him for his kindness," she said, the words careful, measured, "yet since I am to remain here as an entertainer, I have one wish."

Waarangan hesitated. A flicker of worry passed over his face before he turned and translated.

Caracalla let out a laugh, rich and cruel. "By the gods, she knows how to entertain indeed!"

Geta, however, tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "And what does she wish for?"

The room stilled. Even Korravai, standing among the spectators, looked as though she might strike Tillotama where she stood.

Waarangan inhaled sharply before relaying the words that made his breath catch in his throat.

"Your Majesties, her only wish is that she and her court may keep their faith, their traditions, their culture. She asks not to be changed into the image of Rome."

A hush, heavy and sharp.

Geta and Caracalla exchanged a glance, unreadable.

Before Geta could respond, Macrinus leaned forward, his tone smooth. "Your Majesty, entertainment is best when it is new—when it offers the unfamiliar, the exotic. Surely the people would delight in witnessing her traditions firsthand, just as much as you do now."

A pause. A beat of tension. Then—

Geta leaned back into his throne, considering. At last, he nodded. "Very well… I shall grant her wish."

Waarangan exhaled a breath he had not realized he was holding, his translation gentle as he relayed the decision to her.

Tillotama did not move, but inside her, something loosened.

It was not freedom.

But it was not yet a cage.

[beyralxoxo]

{Writing Thought v3}

Darlings,

I have been thinking about this for a while—a long while—and I just have to share it with you! 😍

I’ve written a novel set in 1620s Mughal India, diving deep into the world of courtesans—the power, the artistry, the intrigue. And the most exciting part? My protagonist is the granddaughter of Anarkali. Yes, that Anarkali. 👑🔥

Just imagine: the grandeur, the forbidden romances, the whispered secrets behind silk curtains… all in full Heeramandi style. 💃🏽✨ The opulence, the drama, the high-stakes world where beauty is power—I am absolutely obsessed with this story, and I cannot wait to share more!

Are you ready for this journey? Because I sure am! Stay tuned, loves! 💖✨

[beyralxoxo]

DARLINGSSSS✨💗✨💗

Sooo I have some big news to share with ya…. LUCIUS VERUS AURELIUS X MY OC TILLOTTAMA IS BACKKK💗💗💗💗💗

CHAPTER 4 WILL COME OUT TODAYY

[beyralxoxo]

If the sihtric fanfic will blow out and people will like it I swear to everything I’m doing a face reveal

[beyralxoxo]

{Destiny and Blood-Kingdom-Sihtric Kjartansson}

{Prologue}

SUMMARY: it's a prologue darlingss

WORD COUNT: 760

WARNINGS: mention of raids-mention of slavery

AUTOR'S NOTE: I loveeeeee this, and I am so so pumped to write these series

The icy wind howled across the fjord, carrying the salty tang of the sea and the sharp bite of winter. Beneath the towering peaks of Kattegat, the great longhouse of Ivar the Boneless stood like a fortress of legend, its walls etched with the tales of gods and warriors. It was there, under the flickering light of the hearth fire, that Yggdrasil Ivarsdottir was born—a child of blood and destiny.

Her father, Ivar, was a man feared across the known world, a cunning warlord who turned his physical weakness into a strength that broke kingdoms. Her mother, though mortal in form, bore the spirit of Freya herself—a shieldmaiden of extraordinary beauty and strength who whispered secrets of the gods into her daughter’s ear. From the moment Yggdrasil first opened her piercing blue eyes, it was clear she was more than ordinary.

In her early years, Yggdrasil learned the way of the blade at her father’s insistence. “A woman of the gods must wield steel like thunder,” Ivar had said, his voice as cold and sharp as the axe in his hand. Yet her mother taught her another way—a softer power, drawn from the mysteries of the gods. Freya’s songs filled Yggdrasil’s dreams with visions of a world she did not yet understand: a tree that touched the heavens, a sea of fire, and a shadowed figure reaching for her across the void.

But destiny cares little for the dreams of a child.

The raid on the Christian village was meant to be another tale of triumph, another victory for Ivar and his fleet. Yggdrasil, a girl of sixteen winters, sailed at his side, eager to prove herself. The village burned like dry kindling under the Viking axes, the air thick with the screams of the dying and the scent of smoke. Amid the chaos, Yggdrasil fought with the ferocity of her father, cutting down armed men twice her size.

Then came the ambush.

The Christians had prepared a trap, laying in wait with chainmail and crossbows. Ivar’s warriors fell back to their ships, but in the confusion, Yggdrasil was caught. A hood was thrown over her head, her wrists bound in iron shackles that bit into her skin. Her captors cursed her as a demon, their fear of her strength and otherworldly aura evident in their trembling hands.

In the months that followed, she endured torment. Her captors sought to strip her of her power, forcing her to kneel before their god and use her own gifts to serve their cause. Yet Yggdrasil endured, her resolve unbroken. She learned to survive by biding her time, hiding the fire within her until the moment was right.

That moment came when Earl Ragnar’s warriors stormed the monastery where she was held. The roar of battle was like music to her ears as Ragnar himself cut through her chains and held out his hand. “You are free,” he said, his voice steady and kind.

But freedom came with a price. For her safety, Ragnar struck a pact with Ivar to take Yggdrasil as his foster daughter. In the halls of Ragnar’s home, she found a new family: Uhtred, the Saxon boy with a fiery spirit; Thyra, the gentle sister who dreamed of peace; and Ragnar the Younger, a brother in arms. Yggdrasil found solace there, but the gods were not yet done with her.

The night Kjartan came, fire consumed everything. Yggdrasil awoke to the sound of screams and the crackling of flames as Kjartan and his men slaughtered the family she had grown to love. Though she escaped with her life, her heart burned with fury. Uhtred swore vengeance that night, a vow as unbreakable as the iron that once bound Yggdrasil’s wrists.

But her path diverged. She returned to Kattegat, to the father she had left behind and the destiny that awaited her. The whispers of her heritage grew louder, her dreams more vivid. The gods were calling her.

Years passed, and Yggdrasil carved her own legend among the Vikings. Yet when the stories of Uhtred’s exploits reached her—of a brother fighting for his birthright, defying kings and gods alike—she knew her fate was entwined with his. The gods had placed them on separate paths, but blood would always call to blood.

As Yggdrasil prepared her longship, the winds carried the faint echo of a wolf’s howl, a reminder that her journey was far from over. The gods had their plans, and she would see them through—with steel, fire, and the unyielding will of a daughter born of mortals and gods.

[beyralxoxo]

AGAIN SHOUTOUT TO THE EDITOR

SIHTRIC FANFIC IS ON BABES IT’S SO SO ON

[beyralxoxo]

SHOUTOUT TO THE EDITOR

GREAT HEAVENS….god I love this maniac

[beyralxoxo]

{Crimson War: Valhalla-Ivar The Boneless}

{Chapter 2}

SUMMARY: Yggdrasil meets with Bjorn, Ubbe and Hvtiserk to discuss the gods forsaken proposal, after a time...she agrees to it. Ivar's time and mind is focused on trying to forget everything about the situation but Ragnar does not make it easy as he sends all of his sons...but not Ivar to meet Yggdrasil.

WORD COUNT: 3,3 K

WARNINGS: swearing-Lagertha and Ragnar are still married-Aethelstan lives still-Gyda lives-Ivar is a silly goose-mention of unaliving someone

The rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone filled the chamber yet again, punctuated by the occasional growl of frustration. Ivar leaned over his workbench, the muscles in his jaw tight enough to crack bone. Each drag of the blade across the stone was sharper, angrier than the last, as though he were imagining Ragnar’s face beneath it.

The door swung open without warning. Ragnar strode in, unbothered by the scathing glare that immediately burned into him. Ivar didn’t even bother to look up fully.

“If this is about the proposal,” Ivar snarled, his voice cutting through the air like a whip, “I swear to the gods, Father, I will bury this knife. In the table. Or in you. Depends on how much you piss me off.”

Ragnar smirked, leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed. “Is that how you greet your father? I raised you better than this, boy.”

“You raised me to survive, not to suffer idiots,” Ivar shot back, slamming the knife down with a force that made the table creak. He finally turned, his cold blue eyes blazing. “So unless you want me to start sharpening this knife on something else, get to the point. And don’t waste my time.”

Ragnar shrugged, his calm demeanor only fueling Ivar’s irritation. “Oh, no point, really. Just watching. Making sure my favorite son isn’t sulking himself into oblivion.”

“I’m not sulking!” Ivar’s voice ricocheted off the stone walls. “I don’t care about the proposal, or about her, or about whatever stupid plan you think this will accomplish!”

“Oh, you don’t care?” Ragnar asked, raising a brow. “That’s funny. Because this,” he gestured at the knife, “this looks an awful lot like sulking. And sharpening your blade into nothing won’t fix it.”

Ivar clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. “What part of ‘I don’t care’ do you not understand? Let her rot in Geiranger. Let her choke on her own pride. I don’t give a damn.”

Ragnar chuckled, shaking his head. “Is that so? Because you’ve mentioned her at least three times since I came here. For someone who doesn’t care, you’re awfully passionate about it.”

Ivar’s hand twitched toward the knife. Ragnar, unfazed, straightened up and made his way to the door. “Well, no need to worry. Bjorn, Ubbe, and Hvitserk are already on their way. You can sit here, brood, and miss all the fun.”

“What?” Ivar’s voice dropped dangerously low, a storm brewing in his tone. “You sent them to her?”

Ragnar paused at the door, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “Why not? They’re more charming than you are. Probably less likely to stab her.”

Ivar grabbed the knife and hurled it with a roar. It buried itself in the wood inches from Ragnar’s head. Ragnar didn’t even flinch, his laughter trailing behind him as he disappeared down the hall.

Ragnar stepped out of Ivar’s chambers, the faint echo of his son’s rage still resonating in his ears. The knife embedded in the wall had been a particularly fine touch, he thought with a smirk. It was Ivar’s way of saying he cared, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

In the dimly lit corridor, Ragnar was greeted by his daughter, Gyda, standing with her arms crossed and a skeptical expression on her face. Her blonde hair was neatly braided, and her eyes carried the sharp, observant glint she had inherited from him.

“How did it go?” she asked, her tone equal parts curious and concerned.

Ragnar tilted his head, his infamous half-smile spreading across his face. “Very well.”

Gyda raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Very well? I heard shouting from halfway across the hall, Father. You call that ‘very well’?”

Ragnar chuckled, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “Ah, but shouting is Ivar’s way of showing affection. If he hadn’t thrown a knife, I’d be worried.”

Gyda rolled her eyes, stepping closer. “You’re playing with fire. He’s furious about the proposal, and sending Bjorn and the others to Geiranger hasn’t exactly helped.”

“That’s the point,” Ragnar said simply, his tone maddeningly calm.

Gyda folded her arms tighter, her frown deepening. “The point is to make him angrier?”

Ragnar shrugged. “The point is to make him feel something. Anger, jealousy, frustration—call it what you will. He cares more than he wants to admit, and that’s what matters.”

Gyda studied him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re too serious,” Ragnar replied, his grin widening. “But that’s why you and Ivar get along so well.”

Gyda shook her head, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “And what if this all blows up in your face? What if he refuses?”

“He won’t,” Ragnar said confidently.

“And what makes you so sure?” she pressed, her voice tinged with exasperation.

“Because he’s my son,” Ragnar said, his tone turning serious for a moment. “And because, whether he admits it or not, he doesn’t want to be alone. None of us do, not really.”

Gyda looked away, her expression softening. Ragnar placed a hand on her shoulder, his gaze warm but firm.

“Trust me, Gyda. This will work.”

She sighed again but nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Ragnar said, smirking as he began walking away.

“Except when you’re wrong,” Gyda called after him, a hint of mischief in her tone.

Ragnar laughed, his voice echoing down the corridor. “That’s the spirit!”

Geiranger

Yggdrasil stormed through her chambers, her boots pounding against the stone floor. The letter from Ragnar sat on the table, taunting her. Her mismatched eyes burned with barely-contained rage.

Andora, leaning against the doorframe with her usual infuriating smirk, watched her sister’s tirade with amusement. “If pacing was a skill, you’d be the best warrior in Geiranger by now.”

“Don’t start, Andora,” Yggdrasil snapped, jabbing a finger in her sister’s direction. “Ragnar Lothbrok is a manipulative, self-righteous bastard, and I’m this close—this close—to sending his precious letter back with a flaming arrow.”

Andora shrugged, unfazed. “Go ahead. I’m sure he’d admire your boldness. He’d probably frame the ashes.”

Varun, seated quietly in the corner with her arms crossed, finally spoke, her voice low but firm. “What does he want, Yggdrasil? You’ve been cursing his name for an hour, but you haven’t told us what he actually said.”

Yggdrasil snatched the letter off the table and waved it in front of them like it was venomous. “What does he want? Oh, nothing much. Just to send his sons here to ‘discuss the proposal.’ Because apparently, my life isn’t chaotic enough.”

“His sons?” Andora raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. “Well, isn’t that generous of him? The full parade of idiots.”

Varun tilted her head. “You’ve always said they’re like brothers to you.”

“Brothers don’t arrive under the pretense of shoving you into a marriage you don’t want,” Yggdrasil shot back. “This isn’t a family reunion; it’s a raid!”

Andora plucked the letter from her sister’s hand, skimming it with exaggerated flair. “‘Your boldness is admired.’” She snorted. “Oh, Ragnar, you sweet-talking old wolf. Flattery and manipulation in the same breath.”

Yggdrasil threw her hands up. “Admired! He admires me so much he’s decided to ruin my life. That’s his idea of affection.”

Varun, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward. “Are you going to let them in when they arrive? Or are you planning to set the gates on fire?”

“Let them in?” Yggdrasil scoffed. “I should make them sleep with the livestock. But knowing Hvitserk, he’d probably enjoy it.”

Andora burst out laughing. “Gods, I missed this. You ranting about Ragnar and his sons is better than any feast.”

Yggdrasil glared at her, though a small smile tugged at her lips despite her rage. “Laugh all you want, Andora. But mark my words: if they so much as look at me the wrong way, I’ll send them back to Kattegat in pieces.”

Varun stood, placing a steady hand on Yggdrasil’s shoulder. “You’ll deal with it, Yggdrasil. You always do.”

Yggdrasil sighed, her fury softening just a fraction. “I’ll deal with it, all right. But if Ragnar thinks this is over, he’s got another thing coming.”

Andora smirked, tossing the letter back onto the table. “Careful, sister. If you’re too bold, Ragnar might send Ivar next.”

The room fell silent, Yggdrasil’s glare darkening. Andora raised her hands in mock surrender.

“Joking. Gods, you’re touchy.”

“Out,” Yggdrasil muttered, waving them both toward the door. “Before I decide to take my anger out on you instead.”

As her sisters left, laughter still lingering in the air, Yggdrasil sat down heavily, staring at the cursed letter once more. Ragnar’s sons were coming, and with them, a storm she wasn’t sure she could weather.

Three days have passed…

The halls of Geiranger were eerily quiet, save for the faint echoes of hurried footsteps and whispered exchanges. A letter had arrived—sealed with the wolf insignia of Kattegat. It bore the unmistakable weight of Ragnar Lothbrok’s words. The contents were no mystery to Yggdrasil; she had expected as much. Yet, expectation had done little to dull her anger.

Yggdrasil paced in the grand hall, her movements restless, her dark braid whipping with every turn. Her mismatched eyes—one as icy blue as a winter sky, the other as green and fierce as the untamed forest—burned with frustration. She gritted her teeth, muttering curses under her breath. Hosting Ragnar’s sons? She would rather deal with a pack of hungry wolves.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of horses. A scout rushed into the hall, bowing his head.

“My Lady, the sons of Ragnar approach.”

Yggdrasil let out a sharp breath, rolling her eyes to the heavens as if asking the gods for strength. “Wonderful,” she muttered dryly. “The parade of fools has arrived.”

Moments later, the doors to the hall creaked open, and in strode Bjorn Ironside, Ubbe, and Hvitserk. Their presence commanded attention—towering men, each bearing the unmistakable charisma of their father. Bjorn, the eldest, had a quiet, steady confidence about him. Ubbe wore his usual half-smirk, a glint of mischief in his eyes. And Hvitserk? He looked like he was already planning his next inappropriate comment.

“Well, if it isn’t my dearest brothers,” Yggdrasil greeted them, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Come to bless my halls with your wisdom and charm, have you?”

“Careful, little sister,” Bjorn said, his deep voice calm yet firm. “Insults won’t make this easier for either of us.”

“Easier?” Yggdrasil shot back, crossing her arms. “Having you three under my roof is about as easy as swimming in full armor.”

Hvitserk chuckled, leaning casually against a pillar. “Oh, don’t be so sour, Yggdrasil. We’re here to discuss your... future.” His grin widened. “Besides, I missed your lovely personality. So warm. So inviting.”

“I’ll invite my sword to meet your neck if you don’t shut up, Hvitserk,” Yggdrasil snapped, though a faint smirk tugged at her lips despite herself. She turned to Bjorn. “Let’s not waste time. What does your father want now?”

Bjorn sighed, exchanging a glance with Ubbe. “You know why we’re here, Yggdrasil. Ragnar’s proposal still stands. He sent us to ensure you give it proper thought.”

“Proper thought?” Yggdrasil laughed bitterly. “I’ve given it all the thought it deserves. None.”

Ubbe stepped forward, his expression softer. “Yggdrasil, we’re not here to fight you. You know what this proposal means. It’s not just about you and Ivar. It’s about protection. About unity.”

“Unity?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You mean Ragnar wants to use me as a pawn to keep Geiranger loyal to Kattegat. Don’t dress it up as something noble, Ubbe.”

“That’s not true,” Bjorn interjected. “Our father cares for you, Yggdrasil. This isn’t just strategy. He knows what your presence in Kattegat would mean for you. Safety. A future.”

“Safety?” Yggdrasil scoffed, stepping closer to Bjorn. “Do you think I’m afraid? Do you think I need Ivar to protect me? I’ve survived worse than him.”

Hvitserk, ever the instigator, chimed in with a sly grin. “Survived, sure. But have you ever tried living, Yggdrasil? Might be nice to stop glaring at the world.”

“Careful, Hvitserk,” she warned, her tone like a blade. “Your charm doesn’t work on me.”

Ubbe raised his hands, trying to diffuse the tension. “Yggdrasil, no one’s forcing you. But you owe it to yourself to at least to speak to him.”

She fell silent, her gaze hard as steel as she studied her brothers. Deep down, she knew they weren’t her enemies. They were her family, in their infuriating, maddening way. But the thought of Ivar—angry, cruel, unpredictable Ivar—made her stomach churn.

Finally, she let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’ll speak to him. But if this goes as badly as I expect, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Bjorn nodded, relief evident in his eyes. “That’s all we ask.”

As the brothers turned to leave, Hvitserk paused by the door, throwing her a mischievous grin. “Don’t worry, little sister. If you decide to kill Ivar, we’ll help you hide the body.”

Yggdrasil couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped her lips. “Get out, Hvitserk, before I make good on that promise.”

When they were gone, Yggdrasil sank into a chair, her mind racing. She hated the situation, hated being cornered like this. But a small, nagging voice in the back of her mind whispered that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t only about politics. Ragnar’s letter had spoken of protection, of family. Perhaps, against her better judgment, she would find something worth considering.

For now, she would prepare to face Ivar. If he thought he could intimidate her, he had another thing coming.

Kattegat

The great hall of Kattegat thrummed with its usual lively chaos. Warriors sharpened axes at the long tables, their laughter and boasts filling the air, while servants darted around carrying tankards of mead and trays of roasted meats. The hearthfire at the center of the room danced with a warmth that didn’t quite reach everyone present.

Ragnar lounged on his high seat, one leg hooked over the armrest, idly twirling his tankard of mead. He looked every bit the lazy jarl—until you caught the glint in his eye, a glint that promised mischief. Lagertha sat beside him, her elegance and composure starkly contrasting Ragnar’s rakish sprawl.

At a table nearby, Gyda sat with Athelstan, who was softly murmuring a prayer under his breath, as if he could feel a storm brewing. Gyda leaned over, her voice low. “Athelstan, you know praying won’t stop it, right?”

“It’s not for them,” he replied, shaking his head solemnly. “It’s for me. So I don’t run when the knives come out.”

The doors to the hall groaned open, and in strode Bjorn, Ubbe, and Hvitserk. They looked more like men who had just pulled off an elaborate prank than emissaries returning from an important mission. Hvitserk, true to form, made his presence known with a dramatic flourish.

“We’re back!” he boomed, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it at a passing servant.

Ragnar perked up instantly, leaning forward with a predatory grin. “And? What news do you bring from Geiranger?”

Bjorn stepped forward, exuding his usual quiet confidence. “She’s coming.”

The hall froze. Conversations halted, mugs paused mid-air, and even the crackling hearth seemed to quiet in the sudden tension.

From the far end of the room came a sharp metallic clang.

Ivar had dropped the knife he’d been sharpening.

“She’s what?” he snapped, his voice dripping venom.

“Coming here,” Ubbe said, his tone maddeningly casual as he leaned against a pillar. “To Kattegat. To talk.”

“Who the fuck decided that was a good idea?” Ivar growled, his blue eyes narrowing dangerously.

Hvitserk, ever the instigator, grinned as he sidled up to Ivar. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Ragnar, considering he sent us to invite her.”

Ivar’s face twisted into a snarl. “Don’t push me, Hvitserk. I swear to the gods, I’ll—”

“What? Stab me?” Hvitserk teased, raising his eyebrows mockingly. “Might as well, since I’m already dead inside.”

Ragnar’s booming laughter erupted from the high seat, cutting through the tension like a blade. He slapped his thigh, leaning back with abandon. “Oh, this is better than I thought! Look at you, Ivar! You’re about to explode like a barrel of fish left in the sun!”

Ivar rounded on Ragnar, his voice rising. “This isn’t funny!”

Ragnar only laughed harder, wiping at his eyes. “Not funny? You look like a child who’s just been told to share his favorite toy!”

Athelstan groaned softly from the table, burying his face in his hands. “Ragnar, you’re not helping.”

“Oh, come on, Aethelstan,” Ragnar said, grinning wickedly. “You can’t deny it’s entertaining. Look at him!” He pointed at Ivar, who was now gripping the arms of his chair so tightly it seemed the wood might splinter.

Gyda stood, placing a calming hand on Ivar’s shoulder. “Little brother, this doesn’t have to be a battle. Yggdrasil isn’t coming to fight you.”

“She might,” Hvitserk muttered under his breath, earning a quick elbow from Ubbe.

Gyda shot Hvitserk a glare but softened her tone as she turned back to Ivar. “She just wants to talk. That’s all.”

“Talk?” Ivar spat, his voice thick with disbelief. “What in the nine realms is there to talk about? She’s probably scheming—”

“She’s bold,” Lagertha interjected, her voice thoughtful and firm. “Coming here to face this head-on. It takes courage.”

“And a lot of guts,” Ubbe added, smirking. “She didn’t even flinch when we mentioned you, Ivar.”

Ivar’s head snapped toward Ubbe, his expression lethal. “What the fuck did you tell her about me?”

“Nothing too bad,” Ubbe said innocently, though his smirk widened. “Just that you’ve been sharpening knives and sulking since you heard about the proposal.”

“Fucking traitors,” Ivar snarled, glaring at his brothers with enough fury to set them alight.

“Calm down,” Bjorn said dryly, though his lips twitched in amusement. “or you’ll visit Valhalla before she even gets here.”

Athelstan, sensing the mounting chaos, cleared his throat nervously. “Perhaps we should focus on ensuring this... meeting doesn’t turn into a bloodbath.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Hvitserk quipped, earning another booming laugh from Ragnar.

“I don’t care why she’s coming,” Ivar shouted, rising a bit from his chair. His voice cracked with unfiltered rage, though there was a flicker of something else—something closer to fear—in his eyes. “If she thinks she can walk into Kattegat and—”

“And what?” Ragnar cut him off, his tone suddenly sharp. The laughter was gone, replaced with a quiet intensity that silenced the entire hall. “What will you do, Ivar? Throw one of your tantrums and hope she runs? Scream and wave your knives like a child who’s had his toy taken away?”

Ivar’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Exactly,” Ragnar said, leaning forward, his voice low and cutting. “You’ll do nothing. Because you don’t hate her, Ivar. You’re just afraid.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

Lagertha, ever the voice of reason, placed a firm hand on Ragnar’s shoulder. “Enough,” she said quietly. “Let him think on it. We’ll see how he feels when she arrives.”

Ragnar leaned back with a sigh, though the amusement flickered back into his eyes. “Fair enough.”

Bjorn, Ubbe, and Hvitserk exchanged conspiratorial grins as they moved to the table.

“Five silver coins says Ivar loses it the second she steps into the hall,” Hvitserk whispered.

“Make it ten,” Ubbe replied, smirking.

“Both of you, stop,” Gyda scolded, though a smile tugged at her lips.

Ragnar, watching the scene unfold, grinned as he raised his tankard. “This is going to be the best show Kattegat has seen in years.”

Lagertha rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide her smile. “You’re impossible.”

“True,” Ragnar said, taking a swig of mead. “But you love me for it.”

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