Dawn breaks blood-red across the horizon.
I stand at the longhouse window, watching the sky bleed crimson into black water. My gift whispers warnings along my spine—death is coming. So much death.
Then I see them. Dragon-prowed ships cutting through morning mist, exactly where my vision showed they would be.
Bjorn's fleet.
"They're here," I breathe.
Erik materializes beside me, already armed. His face is carved from stone, but his hand finds mine for one brief moment. "Stay inside. No matter what you hear."
"Erik—"
"Promise me." His storm-gray eyes hold mine with desperate intensity. "Promise you'll stay safe."
I nod, throat too tight for words.
He leaves, and I'm alone with the thunder of my pulse and the certain knowledge that some of the men leaving this hall won't return.
The sea battle begins as the sun clears the horizon.
I watch from the high window, hands pressed white against the sill. Erik's warriors emerge from cliff-side positions exactly as planned—arrows darkening the sky like a flock of ravens taking flight. Bjorn's ships splinter under the assault, wood screaming as hulls breach.
Men scream too. The sound carries across water, high and terrible and human.
Erik's strategy holds. His forces have the high ground, the element of surprise. They're winning.
But my gift keeps whispering: Something's wrong.
I pace through the long hours, unable to settle. Runa brings food I can't eat. The sun crawls across the sky.
By late afternoon, word comes that the sea attack is repelled. Erik's forces secured the beaches. Victory seems certain.
Then dusk approaches, and I return to the window.
The forest explodes with movement.
Warriors pour from the tree line—Bjorn's second force, exactly as my vision showed. The pincer attack, perfectly timed as Erik predicted. I watch our warriors wheel to meet them, formations shifting with practiced precision.
But something crawls beneath my skin. Some wrongness that makes my gift scream.
I count the attacking force. Once. Twice. Three times.
Too few. My vision showed more—hundreds more. This is maybe fifty men, sixty at most.
Understanding hits like ice water: Bjorn knows it's a trap.
This isn't his real army. It's a test. A distraction. He's drawing Erik's forces away from—
"The longhouse," I whisper.
Horror floods through me. While everyone's focused on the pincer attack, while Erik's positioned his best warriors at the beaches and forest edge, the longhouse stands nearly undefended.
Bjorn sent his real force here. For me.
I run for the doors, nearly colliding with the guards. "You have to warn Erik—it's a diversion! The real attack—"
The doors explode inward.
Warriors flood through—Bjorn's men, paint-streaked and savage. The two guards fall before they can draw weapons. Blood sprays hot across my face.
I stumble backward, reaching for a weapon that isn't there.
Then he appears.
Bjorn strides through the doorway like vengeance in human form. His armor's spattered with blood, sword still dripping. When he smiles, it's the expression of a predator who's cornered his prey.
"Hello, wife." The word is poison. "Did you think I'd let the Bloodwolf keep what's mine?"
I back away, heart hammering. "I'm not your wife. The ceremony wasn't completed—"
"A technicality." He advances with measured steps. "You were sworn to me. By law. By your father's word. That northern savage just stole you before we could finish." His eyes rake over me with naked hatred. "But you went willingly enough into his bed, didn't you?"
My back hits the wall.
"You humiliated me, Astrid." His voice drops to something deadly quiet. "Spread your legs for that barbarian in my hall, let him take what should have been mine." He closes the distance in two strides, one hand locking around my throat. "I'm going to make you pay for that."
There's no pretense now. No charming mask. Just raw violence and the promise of worse to come.
His fingers tighten, cutting off air. I claw at his hands, but he's too strong, too practiced at causing pain.
"First I'll break you," he hisses against my ear. "Then I'll parade you before your savage lover's corpse. Let you see what your betrayal cost him before I—"
His words cut off as steel whispers behind him.
"Touch her again," Erik's voice is death itself, "and you die slowly."
Bjorn's grip loosens just enough that I can gasp air. He turns, using me as a shield, blade suddenly at my throat.
Erik stands in the doorway, surrounded by bodies—Bjorn's warriors, all dead. Blood drips from his sword, spatters his face. He looks exactly like his reputation: the Bloodwolf, brutal and terrifying.
But his eyes when they meet mine are desperate, almost afraid.
"Let her go," Erik says, voice carefully controlled.
"Why should I?" Bjorn's laugh is ugly. "She was sworn to me first—by law, by her father's word. You're just the raider who stole her."
"She was sworn to Úlfheim." Erik takes one careful step forward. "Before your political convenience made Ragnar an oath-breaker."
"Semantics." The blade presses harder, and I feel hot blood trickle down my throat. "The alliance was forming. She would have been mine. Then you kidnapped her, ruined her, turned her against—"
"I saved her from you."
"You stole her!"
"I claimed what was always mine."
They face each other across the space between us, and I'm trapped in the middle—Bjorn's blade at my throat, Erik's rage barely leashed. Two men arguing over possession while my blood drips onto white silk.
Then Erik's expression shifts. His smile is terrible—the expression I imagine his enemies see before they die.
"Fine." He sheathes his sword with deliberate calm. "Let's settle this the old way. Single combat." His eyes never leave Bjorn's. "Winner takes Astrid and the border territories. Loser feeds the crows."
The room goes silent.
"Single combat?" Bjorn's grip on me loosens slightly. "You'd stake everything on—"
"Scared?" Erik's voice drips contempt. "I thought you were a warrior, Bjorn Ironside. Or do you only fight women and merchants?"
Bjorn's face flushes. "I'll gut you like the northern dog you are."
"Then accept." Erik spreads his arms. "Fight me at dawn. Witnessed by both our forces. Winner takes all—Astrid, the disputed territories, the alliance questions. One fight ends this."
I want to scream. Want to tell them both that I'm not a prize to be wagered, not property to exchange hands based on who swings a sword better.
But Bjorn's blade is still at my throat, and Erik's eyes are pleading with me to stay silent, to trust him.
"Dawn," Bjorn agrees finally, shoving me away. I stumble, catching myself against the wall. "And when I kill you, Bloodwolf, I'll take my time with her. Make sure she understands the cost of betrayal."
"You'll be dead." Erik's certainty is absolute. "But dream if it comforts you."
Bjorn laughs and backs toward the door, warriors flanking him. "Dawn then. May the gods favor the rightful claimant."
He leaves, and the hall fills with Erik's men securing the breach.
I stand frozen against the wall, blood on my throat, watching Erik cross the space between us. When he reaches for me, I let him pull me against his chest, let him examine the cut with gentle fingers.
"It's shallow," he murmurs. "You'll be fine."
But I won't be fine. Because standing here in his arms, I realize the terrible truth:
I'm still just a prize to be won. A trophy for whoever proves stronger.
Even by the man who made me believe I could be more.