The day before battle dawns heavy with ritual.
Blood offerings. Prayers to the gods. Warriors marking themselves with ash and ochre, preparing to meet death with honor.
Erik stands at the center, performing his duties as jarl. Even from the longhouse, I see the weight on his shoulders. The burden of leading people into battle based on fragments of my vision.
If I'm wrong, they'll be slaughtered.
The thought follows me through the day. I watch warriors say goodbye to wives, to children. Watch mothers hold sons too long. All of it resting on my word.
What if I've doomed them all?
Midnight finds me outside the war room. Light spills from beneath the door.
Erik stands over the map table, still dressed for battle. His finger traces forest paths, calculating losses.
"You should rest," I say from the doorway.
He doesn't look up. "So should you."
We maintain careful distance—me at the threshold, him at the table, charged air between us.
"Can't sleep?" he asks.
"Can you?"
"No." Finally, he looks at me, exhaustion in his eyes. "Tomorrow changes everything."
I step inside. "What if I'm wrong?" The words barely whisper out. "What if my vision was false and I've led you into a trap?"
"Then we fall." His voice is calm, absolute. "But I don't believe you're wrong."
"How can you be so certain?"
He gives me his full attention. "Your gift is true, Astrid. Even if you doubt it, I don't."
"People will die tomorrow because you trusted me."
"People will live because you warned me." He moves closer. "Without your vision, we'd have been slaughtered. Instead, we have a chance."
I move closer, drawn despite myself. "How can you trust me after what my father did? After everything?"
"Because in that boathouse, I saw who you really are." His eyes hold mine. "Not Ragnar's daughter. Not a political asset. Just Astrid—brave and fierce and real. Mine."
The words crack something in my chest.
"I'm not yours," I say, but it lacks conviction.
"Aren't you?" Something almost playful in his expression despite tomorrow's weight. "You gave yourself to me. Chose me over the man you were supposed to marry. Warned me about the attack. You're working alongside my people, becoming part of this clan whether you intended to or not."
Heat crawls up my neck. "That doesn't make me yours."
"Maybe not." His smile is slow, knowing. "But you're here. In my war room. At midnight. The night before battle. When you should be as far from me as possible."
"I came to—" I stop, because I don't know why I came. Just that I couldn't stop thinking about him standing here alone.
"You came to check on me," he finishes softly. "Because despite everything, you care what happens to me."
I want to deny it. Can't.
"You're still planning to hate me tomorrow?" His tone lightens, teasing.
"Absolutely."
"Good." That crooked smile. "I'd worry if you made it easy."
"If you think I'm joking—"
"I don't." He closes the distance, cupping my face with rough gentleness. "I know exactly how much you hate me. How much I've cost you."
His thumb strokes my cheekbone. "But I also know you're here. That you warned us. That you're worried in a way that goes beyond duty."
My throat tightens. "Don't read too much into it."
"I'll read whatever I want into it." His forehead touches mine, voice dropping to something raw. "You can hate me, Astrid. Rage at me. Make me earn every moment of your trust. But survive tomorrow."
The shift in his tone makes my breath catch.
"Stay in the longhouse during the fighting. Stay safe. And hate me for as long as you need to—decades if that's what it takes. Just let me see you after. Let me know you're alive and whole and still furious with me."
"Erik—"
"Promise me." His hands tighten on my face. "Whatever happens tomorrow—stay inside. Stay safe. Promise me."
I should refuse.
Instead, I whisper: "I promise."
The relief that crosses his face is naked, unguarded.
We stand there, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air.
"The vision wasn't complete," I hear myself say. "There's more I didn't tell you."
His hands tighten on my face. "What is it?"
I close my eyes. "You'll win. I saw that clearly. Bjorn's forces break against your defense."
"That's good news."
"But the cost..." My voice breaks. "I saw warriors fall. Men I've met, boys I watched you train. Tristan—the one who trips. He doesn't make it past noon."
Erik goes very still.
"The eastern section of the longhouse burns," I continue. "Not the whole structure, but enough that people inside will be hurt. And Gunnar—" I have to stop, swallow hard. "There's an injury. Something that nearly takes him. I saw him on the ground, so much blood, and you're kneeling beside him screaming for the healer—"
"Does he survive?" Erik's voice is carefully neutral.
"I think so. The vision faded before I knew for certain." I open my eyes, meet his gaze. "You'll win, Erik. You'll protect your people, survive to see another day. But the price will be higher than you want to pay."
For a long moment, he says nothing.
Then he pulls me against him—not gentle, but desperate. One hand cradles the back of my head, the other wraps around my waist, and he holds me like I'm the only thing keeping him standing.
"Thank you," he murmurs against my hair. "For telling me."
"I should have told you sooner."
"You told me when you were ready." His arms tighten. "Some losses can't be prevented. But knowing—being prepared—that's something. I can position healers near the eastern wall. Keep Gunnar closer to me. Make sure Tristan isn't in the first wave."
"It might not change anything—"
"Then we'll try anyway." He pulls back just enough to look at me, something fierce in his expression. "You gave me a chance to save them. To try. That's more than most jarls get before battle."
We stand there in the darkness, sharing the weight of what's coming. Warriors who will fall. Blood that will stain black sand. Victory that will taste like ash.
"This… is terrifying," I admit into his chest.
"Yes, it is." His voice rumbles through me. "At least we’re not terrified alone, huh?"
The confession breaks something open between us. All the posturing falls away. Just two people holding each other the night before battle, both terrified of what dawn will bring.
"Stay with me," he whispers. "Just tonight. Just until dawn."
I should refuse.
Instead, I nod against his chest.
We sink down together against the wall, his arms around me, my head on his shoulder, sharing warmth and fear and the terrible intimacy of waiting for tomorrow.
Outside, Bjorn's army draws closer.
Inside, caught between prophecy and choice, we hold each other and try not to think about all the ways this could end.