The hunting lodge clings to the mountainside like a wound, smoke curling from its chimney against the pewter sky.
I study it from the treeline, counting guards, four visible, likely more within, measuring distances, calculating angles of attack.
The structure is old, built of weathered stone and dark timber, positioned to command the narrow approach. A defensible position, chosen with care.
But not impregnable.
Beside me, Ragnar and Leif conduct their own silent assessments, their breath misting in the frigid air. We have ridden hard for three days, pushing horses and men to their limits, and exhaustion pulls at every muscle.
None of it matters. Only the small figure I know waits inside those walls.
A figure appears at an upper window, golden hair catching what little light the clouds permit.
Astrid.
And in her grip, a small form with auburn hair—Ivar, alive, a knife glinting at his throat.
My heart stops. Restarts. Pounds against my ribs with bruising force.
"I know you are there, sister."
Astrid's voice carries across the clearing, high and brittle, stripped of its courtly music.
"Did you think I would not prepare for your heroics? Come out. Let me see the whore who stole everything from me."
"I go alone," I murmur to the twins. "Buy time for your men to find position."
"Hild…" Leif begins.
"She will kill him if she sees you. You know this." I meet Ragnar's ice-blue gaze. "Circle to the rear. Wait for my signal."
I do not wait for agreement. I step from the trees alone, hands raised, empty, though weapons wait beneath my cloak. The clearing stretches before me like a killing field.
"I am here," I call back. "Release my son."
Astrid's laugh echoes off the stones, jagged and wrong. "Your son. Your kings. Your throne. Everything should have been mine."
The knife presses closer to Ivar's neck, and I see a thin line of red appear against his pale skin. My vision tunnels, my heart stopping for one agonizing beat.
"I was the legitimate daughter. I was beautiful and accomplished and everything a princess should be. And you—you were nothing. Pig-dung and poverty and shame."
"I was a child you tormented for sport."
"You were an insect I should have crushed." Astrid's composure fractures further, tears streaming down gaunt cheeks.
The woman in that window bears little resemblance to the golden queen who once ruled Skálholt's court. Madness has carved hollows beneath her eyes, stripped the luster from her hair.
"That night—I wanted those princes for myself. I drugged you to keep you hidden, to keep you from somehow ruining my chance. You were supposed to stay in that barn, unconscious and forgotten."
The confession strikes me like a physical blow.
All these years, I believed the drugging was mere cruelty—Astrid's casual malice, another torment in a lifetime of torments. But it was calculated. Strategic.
She was removing competition she did not even consider a true threat.
"And instead you stumbled into their arms," she continues, her voice rising to something shrill.
"You gave them sons while my womb remained empty year after year. Every healer, every potion, every prayer—nothing. The gods gave you three children from a single night, and they gave me nothing but blood and disappointment."
"That was not my doing, Astrid. I did not choose any of it."
"You chose to survive!"
She screams the words, spittle flying from her lips.
"You chose to run, to hide, to build a life while I rotted in a marriage that produced nothing but contempt. You were supposed to die in that snow, and instead you became everything I was promised."
Movement flickers at the edge of my vision—Leif's team breaching the rear, shadows flowing between outbuildings. Ragnar's signal will come any moment. I need to keep her focused, keep that knife from pressing deeper.
"Let him go," I say, forcing my voice level. "Your quarrel is with me. He is innocent."
"Innocent?" The word twists into something ugly. "He carries their blood. He is proof of your triumph and my humiliation. There is no innocence in that."
"Then take me instead."
Astrid stills, her eyes narrowing.
"That is what you want, is it not? My death for his life." I spread my arms wider, showing my empty hands. "I will kneel before you. I will let you end this however you wish. Just release my son first."
Something shifts in Astrid's expression—hunger, triumph, the desperate need to finally win something after a lifetime of losses. Her grip on Ivar loosens slightly as she considers the offer.
It is enough.
I move before the signal comes, sprinting not toward the front entrance but toward the lodge's eastern wall.
The guards shout, but I am already climbing, fingers finding handholds in the ancient stonework, wounded muscles screaming protest I do not hear. Maternal terror lends me strength I should not possess.
A window looms above—the same room where Astrid stands.
I crash through the glass in an explosion of shards, rolling across the floor, coming up with my knife already drawn. Astrid screams, surprise, fury, fear, and swings Ivar in front of her like a shield.
But I am faster.
I close the distance in two strides, my blade finding the soft space between her ribs before she can react.
The knife at Ivar's throat falls away as Astrid's hands clutch at the wound, at the blood blooming across her silk gown.
"You…" she chokes, her beautiful face twisting with disbelief. "You cannot… I am the queen…"
"You are nothing." I catch Ivar with one arm, pulling him behind me, keeping my blade embedded in Astrid's flesh. "You have always been nothing but cruelty wrapped in silk."
I twist the knife.
Astrid's eyes go wide, then dim. She crumples to the floor in a spreading pool of crimson, golden hair fanning around her head like a tarnished halo. Her lips move, forming words that never come.
And then she is still.
I stand over my half-sister's body, chest heaving, blood dripping from my hands. I wait for something—triumph, satisfaction, grief. Nothing comes. Only a vast, hollow relief that it is finally over.
Small arms wrap around my waist from behind.
"I knew you would come," Ivar whispers, his thin shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "I knew you would find me."
I drop to my knees, gathering him close, breathing in the scent of his hair beneath the smoke and fear. "Always," I promise against his temple. "I will always find you."
The door bursts open—Ragnar and Leif crashing through with weapons drawn, their faces wild with terror that transforms to relief when they see us whole.
Ragnar's gaze moves to Astrid's body, something cold and final settling in his expression.
Leif crosses to us and pulls both me and Ivar into a fierce embrace.
"It is done," I say against his chest, my voice steady despite the trembling in my limbs. "She cannot hurt us anymore."
We leave the lodge as the sun sets, Astrid's body left for her remaining loyalists to bury or burn as they choose.
I carry Ivar before me on the saddle, his small hands gripping the pommel, his eyes fixed forward on the path home.
Behind me, the mountains swallow the hunting lodge into shadow.
I do not look back.