The morning after the storm, I wake slowly between two warm bodies.
My limbs are tangled with theirs, my skin still humming with the memory of the night's pleasures.
Ragnar's arm lies heavy across my waist, possessive even in sleep. Leif's breath stirs the hair at my temple, his chest pressed against my back.
For a few precious moments, I allow myself to simply exist in this cocoon of warmth and belonging. No vigilance. No fear. No calculating the next threat or planning the next defense.
Just this—skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat, three people who have somehow found their way to each other across a decade of loss.
Then a messenger pounds on the chamber door, and the world intrudes.
Ragnar is awake instantly, his body coiling from sleep to alertness in a single breath. Leif groans a protest, but he too rises, both of them reaching for clothing as the pounding continues.
"Enter," Ragnar commands, and a young warrior stumbles through the door, his face white with urgency.
The news is worse than anyone anticipated.
Jarl Ormr, who fled after his failed attack months ago, has not been licking his wounds in exile. He has been building—forging alliances with three other powerful jarls whose ambitions outstrip their loyalty.
An army marches toward Skálholt, larger than anything the twin konungs have faced since their ascension.
But it is not mere conquest Ormr promises his followers. It is righteous liberation.
"The proclamation spreads through every village," the messenger reports, his voice trembling. "The twin konungs have been bewitched by a sorceress who bore them bastards through dark seiðr magic. The kingdom will fall to ruin unless the spell is broken and the witch burned. Rally to Ormr's banner, and he will restore honor to the North."
I feel the blood drain from my face.
I recognize Astrid's hand in every word. The precise cruelty of it, the way it transforms me from threat to monster, gives the rebellion a holy cause that mere politics could never provide.
Men who might hesitate to march against their konungs for territory or gold will march gladly to save them from demonic influence.
Ragnar dismisses the messenger with curt instructions to summon the war council. When the door closes, he turns to me, and I see the fury burning behind his ice-blue eyes.
"She planned this," I say quietly. "Before her household was disbanded. Before Erik was poisoned. She laid these seeds months ago."
"And now they bloom." Leif's voice is grim. "Four jarls united under a banner of holy war. That is not a raiding party. That is an invasion."
***
The war council convenes in tense urgency, commanders gathering around the great table with maps already spread between them.
I sit among them as I have for months, but today feels different. The sidelong glances cut sharper. The whispered doubts carry further.
Some lords who greeted me with grudging respect now look at me with open suspicion, Ormr's accusations finding fertile soil in minds already unsettled by my unusual position.
Lord Hákon speaks what others only think. "The enemy marches under a specific grievance. Perhaps addressing that grievance would dissolve their coalition."
"You suggest we surrender the shield-maiden to appease a traitor?" Leif's voice drops to something dangerous.
"I suggest we consider all strategic options." Hákon's gaze slides to me. "The woman's presence has been... controversial since her arrival. If removing her removes the enemy's cause…"
"Perhaps I should leave," I say, cutting through the rising tension.
Every eye turns to me. My voice is steady, though the words tear at my chest like hooks.
"If my presence dissolves this coalition, if removing me ends the threat without bloodshed, that is a strategic calculation worth considering. I will not have men die for my pride."
"No." Ragnar's voice cuts like a blade through ice.
"Absolutely not." Leif's warmth carries equal steel.
The brothers exchange a glance—that seamless communication I have come to recognize, two minds reaching the same conclusion without words.
Then Ragnar rises, his presence commanding the attention of every man at the table.
"The shield-maiden stays," he announces, his tone brooking no argument. "She fights beside us, as she has fought beside us since Ormr first threatened these lands. Anyone who suggests otherwise may leave this table and this hall.”
No one moves. No one speaks.
"We face this together," Leif adds, his hand finding mine beneath the table, squeezing once. "As a family. As we face everything."
Lord Hákon's jaw tightens, but he bows his head in acquiescence. The council continues, strategy replacing speculation, and I force my attention to the maps while my heart pounds with something I cannot name.
That night, I seek the solitude of my chambers and the comfort of a hot bath.
The servants have filled the copper tub with steaming water, scented with lavender and rosemary.
I sink into the heat, letting it unknot muscles tensed by hours of war planning, my eyes closed against the steam that curls through the candlelit room.
For a few moments, there is only warmth and silence.
Then the door opens without warning.
Ragnar enters with correspondence in hand, already speaking of troop movements and supply lines as though he has simply walked into a council chamber.
"The eastern roads remain passable for another fortnight, but we should assume Ormr knows this. His vanguard will likely…" He stops mid-sentence, his ice-blue gaze finding me in the tub.
He does not leave. He does not even pause.
He simply settles into a chair near the copper tub and continues his report, his eyes traveling the water's surface.
The curve of my shoulder breaking through, the shadow of my body beneath, the flush spreading across my chest that has nothing to do with the bath's heat.
"You cannot be here," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
"We are discussing strategy." His expression betrays nothing, but his gaze lingers where it should not—on the swell of my breasts just visible beneath the water, on the column of my throat, on my lips. "Unless you wish me to leave?"
The question hangs between us, a challenge wrapped in courtesy. My skin burns beneath the water, every nerve aware of his attention.
"We discussed strategy for six hours today."
"And we will discuss it for six more tomorrow. War does not pause for modesty." His voice drops lower. "Though I confess, I find this venue more pleasant than the council chamber."
Heat floods through me that has nothing to do with the bath. I should order him out. Should remind him that I am naked and vulnerable and he is taking liberties that even kings should not assume.
Instead, I meet his gaze and hold it.
"Turn around," I command.
His smile is barely perceptible—a crack in the glacier, devastating in its rarity.
He turns slowly, deliberately, giving me a view of his broad shoulders as he continues speaking of defenses and positioning. His voice washes over me, low and measured, but I cannot focus on a single word.
All I can think about is the heat of the water against my skin, and the heat of his attention, and the way my body responds to both.
When he finally leaves, pausing at the door to deliver one last observation about cavalry formations, I sink beneath the water and do not surface until my lungs burn.