Úlfheim rises from the sea—black sand beaches stretching beneath volcanic cliffs that claw at gray sky. The landscape is harsh, beautiful in a way that steals breath and promises no mercy.
The ship glides toward shore, and I see them gathering. Erik's people. Dozens of faces turned toward us, watching their jarl return with his prize.
My stomach twists.
Erik disembarks first, offering his hand. I ignore it, climbing down myself. My legs shake after two days at sea, but I force them steady.
The crowd parts as we walk. Their faces blur—curiosity, hostility, something darker. Whispers follow us like smoke.
"The stolen bride."
"Oath-breaker's daughter."
Each word lands like a stone. I lift my chin higher, refusing to show fear.
An older man steps forward, face weathered and twisted with contempt. He spits at my feet.
"Oath-breaker's daughter," he snarls. "Your father's word is worthless. Like you."
The crowd goes silent.
Erik's hand finds the small of my back—warm, steadying. Then he moves, fluid and terrifying. His sword clears its sheath with a whisper of steel.
"Erik, don't—"
Too late. The blade takes the man's head in one clean strike.
The body crumples. Blood spreads across black sand like spilled wine.
I press my hand to my mouth, fighting the bile rising in my throat. The crowd doesn't gasp. Doesn't react. They simply watch their jarl clean his blade on the dead man's cloak.
"No one disrespects her." Erik's voice carries across the beach, cold and absolute. His hand returns to my back, impossibly gentle given what just happened. "Astrid is under my protection. The next person who forgets that joins Torsten in death."
He sheathes his sword and guides me forward. His touch is careful, warm, completely at odds with the violence still staining the sand behind us.
I can't process it. Can't reconcile the tenderness with the execution, the protective hand with the bloody blade.
"Walk," he murmurs near my ear. "Don't look back. Show them strength."
I walk. Force my legs to move, my spine to stay straight. But inside, I'm screaming.
The longhouse looms ahead—brutal timber and stone, nothing like Ravnfjord's warmth. It's a warrior's hall, built for function and defense rather than comfort.
Erik leads me through the main room where warriors pause their tasks to stare. Up stairs worn smooth by countless feet. Down a corridor lined with shields and weapons.
He stops at heavy oak doors, pushes them open.
The room is spare—massive bed, table cluttered with maps, weapons on walls. A brazier casts flickering light.
"You'll stay here," Erik announces.
Panic races through me. I back toward the wall.
"So you can finish what Bjorn started? Break me for your pleasure?"
His jaw tightens. Something dangerous flashes in his eyes.
"I've never taken an unwilling woman," he says quietly. "I won't start with you."
He strips off cloak and weapons, leaving him in a tunic that shows the warrior beneath.
"That bed is yours." He gestures. "I'll sleep elsewhere."
I search for the trap. "Why?"
"Because you're not ready." His eyes hold mine. "And I won't touch you until you are."
"I'll never be ready."
"Then I'll never touch you." He pauses at the door. "Though not because I don't want you. Not because the memory of that boathouse doesn't haunt me. Not because I don't remember how you felt beneath me, how you said my name."
Heat floods my cheeks.
"But when I take you again," his voice drops, "it will be because you've asked me to. Because you've come to me willingly, fully knowing what you're choosing."
The promise sends something dangerous through me.
"You're safe here," he says. "No one will harm you."
"You just executed a man."
"Exactly." Final, absolute.
He leaves.
I stand frozen, mind reeling. This man who beheaded someone for insulting me is the same man who held me while I cried. Promised not to touch me without permission.
Exhaustion crashes over me. I sink onto the bed—softer than expected, furs warm. His scent clings to everything.
I should feel trapped. Instead, I burrow deeper and hate myself for feeling safe.
A knock startles me awake.
Gunnar enters, studying me with calculating eyes.
"Bjorn Ironside is gathering an army," Gunnar says. "Calling the jarl's actions war. Demanding your return."
My heart lurches. "How many?"
"Enough. He's rallying clans who fear Úlfheim's power."
"I should—"
"You should what?" Erik's voice cuts from the doorway. "Offer yourself to a man who promised to break you?"
"People will die because of me."
"People will die because Bjorn is ambitious." He moves with predator grace. "You're just the excuse."
He turns to Gunnar. "Double the northern watch. Three days warning minimum."
"Already done." Gunnar leaves.
Erik faces me. "Let him come. I'll end this."
"You want war."
"I want you." The words land like stones. "Everything else is politics."
He leaves, and I'm alone with too many thoughts.
I should search for escape.
Instead, I explore.
Maps cover the table—trade routes, territories, strategic positions in neat handwriting. I see the brilliant mind behind them.
A worn letter catches my eye, folded so many times the creases are torn.
"Erik—You cannot keep running from what you are. The wolf is part of you. Until you accept that, you'll never be whole. Come home when you're ready.—Alva"
Something in my chest aches at the loneliness in those words.
A carved wooden wolf sits on the windowsill—small, crude, made by a child's hands. Who was Erik before he became the Bloodwolf?
Then I see it. A leather journal beneath maps and parchments.
I shouldn't. It's private.
But my hands pull it free, opening to the first page.
Erik's handwriting. Over a year ago.
"Grimhild's prophecy haunts me. A woman who sees beyond the veil—who will either crown or destroy me. She says the seer dreams of me, that our fates are tangled."
My breath catches.
"The only known seer is Ragnar's daughter. Astrid. The one promised to Úlfheim before her father broke his oath."
No.
"She dreams of me. Grimhild confirmed it. The woman who will determine my fate is the same one stolen from my claim."
The journal nearly slips from my hands.
"I must claim her before the prophecy claims us both. Bring her here myself rather than waiting for fate."
He knew. Before the feast, before the boathouse—he knew about my visions.
The room spins. I sink onto the bed, journal clutched in trembling hands.
Every moment replays differently. His appearance—calculated. Finding me crying—convenient. The boathouse—strategy.
Every touch, every word—just moves in a game I never knew we were playing.
The betrayal cuts deeper than Bjorn's. With Bjorn, I saw the truth eventually. With Erik, I was starting to believe. Starting to trust. Starting to think that maybe what we had meant something real.
But it was always about the prophecy. About controlling his fate. About claiming the seer before the gods could turn her against him.
I was never Astrid to him. Just a vision. A weapon to be secured.
The journal slips from my fingers and hits the floor with a hollow thud.
I collapse onto the furs and finally let myself break—wrenching sobs that tear through my chest. Not for what I lost, but for what I never had.
Because the man I was foolish enough to believe in doesn't exist.
He never did.