Erik survives. Barely. Three days of fever and seizures stretch into an eternity.
Each hour measured by the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the tremors that wrack his small body, the moments when his breathing stops and my heart stops with it.
I refuse to leave his bedside, my hand wrapped around his, willing my strength into him through the contact of skin against skin.
The healers come and go with their poultices and prayers, their expressions growing grimmer with each visit.
Solveig forces broth between my lips when I forget to eat, drapes furs over my shoulders when I forget to feel the cold. I register none of it.
There is only Erik—his copper hair dark with sweat, his face pale as winter snow, his body fighting a poison that was meant for me.
Bjorn stands guard at the door with a knife he is too young to carry, his ice-blue eyes hard as flint.
He turns away everyone except Solveig and the healers, questioning each visitor with a suspicion that would be impressive if it were not so heartbreaking.
Nine years old, and already he has learned that the world wants to destroy what he loves.
"You should rest," I tell him once, my voice hoarse from disuse.
"You rest instead, and I will watch," he replies, and does not move from his post.
Ivar sits silently by his brother's bed through the endless nights, whispering stories into the darkness. Tales of brave warriors and clever foxes, of ships that sailed to the edge of the world and found wonders there.
I do not know if Erik can hear them, but Ivar does not stop. Perhaps he believes, as I desperately want to believe, that his voice can guide his brother back from wherever the poison has sent him.
On the third night, the fever breaks.
Erik's eyes flutter open, confused and frightened, and his cracked lips form a single word: "Mother?"
"I am here." I gather him into my arms, pressing my face against his hair, feeling his heartbeat against my chest. "I am here, my love."
For one shuddering moment, I allow myself to collapse. Tears I have held back for three days spill down my cheeks, soaking into his sweat-damp curls. My shoulders shake with sobs I cannot control.
Then the grief burns away, and what remains is rage.
Cold. Focused. Absolute.
I go to Ragnar not with accusations but with evidence.
Solveig's network has been busy while I kept vigil—her contacts among the servants tracing the poisoned wine to its source.
A maid in Astrid's direct employ, a girl who prepared my evening cup and then fled the castle the night Erik fell ill.
Witnesses who saw her receive a small vial from the queen's own hands. A pattern of payments that leads directly to Astrid's personal accounts.
I present my findings with military precision, laying each piece before Ragnar like markers on a campaign map.
My voice remains steady despite the fury burning beneath my skin, despite the images that flash through my mind—Erik convulsing, foam at his lips, his small body arching in agony.
Ragnar listens in silence, seated behind his great oak desk, his expression transforming from ice to something far more dangerous. I recognize that look.
I have seen it on battlefields, in the moment before violence becomes inevitable.
When I finish, he rises from his chair and moves toward me with slow deliberation.
"She will answer for this," he says quietly. "I swear on my blood."
"Swearing is not enough."
My voice cracks despite my efforts to contain it.
"She tried to kill my son. Your son. Three days I watched him fight for his life, not knowing if each breath would be his last. And she will try again unless—"
Ragnar's hands close around my arms, pulling me against him.
The kiss is not gentle. It burns with fury and possession and something rawer beneath—a claiming that steals my breath and ignites every nerve.
His mouth demands and I answer, my fingers fisting in his tunic, ten years of denial crumbling in the space between heartbeats.
When he pulls back, his ice-blue eyes blaze with heat I have never seen there.
"No one touches what is mine," he growls against my lips. "Not ever again."
I should protest the possessiveness. Should remind him that I am not a possession, that I have survived a decade without his protection, that I will not be claimed like a conquered territory.
Instead I pull him back down.
***
The confrontation with Astrid happens that evening. I am not present—Ragnar insists I remain with Erik, and for once I do not argue.
But Solveig's servants report what they hear echoing through the corridors: Astrid's shrill denials, Ragnar's cold accusations, the sound of something shattering against stone walls.
"You have no proof!" Astrid screams, her voice carrying even through thick oak doors. "This is that whore's doing, turning you against your own wife with her lies and her sorcery!"
"I have the testimony of six servants. I have the payment records. I have the maid herself, captured this morning trying to board a ship."
Ragnar's voice is quieter, but it carries its own terrible weight. "Would you like to hear what she confessed under questioning?"
Silence. Then, softer, something that might be weeping.
When Astrid emerges from the king's chambers, her face is pale as bone and her eyes are red-rimmed. She does not look at anyone as she retreats to her own quarters, her silk skirts trailing behind her like a shroud.
I watch her go from the window of the healing room, Erik sleeping peacefully now, his fever-flushed cheeks finally cooling to normal warmth.
I feel nothing. No triumph. No satisfaction. Only the cold certainty that this is not over—that a serpent defanged is still a serpent, and Astrid's hatred will not die simply because her methods have been exposed.
Ragnar finds me later, still keeping vigil over Erik's sleeping form.
He enters quietly, his footsteps soft on the rushes, and for a long moment he simply stands beside me, looking down at the copper-haired boy who carries his brother's coloring and his brother's fire.
"Her household has been disbanded," he says finally. "Her servants dismissed. Her access to the royal quarters restricted to her own chambers and the public halls. She may not approach you or the boys without escort."
"And the maid?"
"She will face execution at dawn. Publicly, so that all may see what becomes of those who raise hands against my blood."
I nod slowly, still watching Erik's peaceful face. "It is not enough. You know that."
"I know."
Ragnar kneels beside my chair, his hand covering mine where it rests on Erik's blanket. His voice drops to something meant only for me.
"If anything happens to you or the boys again, I will not wait for proof before acting. Do you understand? I will burn her alive in the great hall and damn the political consequences."
I look at him then—truly look, past the crown and the cold and the legend. I see simply a father protecting his children.
A king choosing me over his queen. A man who was once a god in my hallucinations and is now something more terrifying: something real.
I turn my hand beneath his, lacing our fingers together.
"I believe you," I say softly.
From the doorway, unseen by either of us, Leif watches. His expression mingles jealousy and hunger in equal measure, his green eyes tracking our joined hands with an intensity that burns even from across the room.
But I do not see him. I see only Ragnar, and the promise written in his ice-blue gaze.