The hours before dawn stretch like torture.
I'm confined to Erik's chambers with guards outside. I pace like a caged animal, fury burning hotter with each circuit.
Below, both armies gather in uneasy truce. The ancient rules of single combat bind them. Winner takes everything. Loser feeds the crows.
And I'm the prize they're fighting over.
The thought makes me want to scream.
Footsteps approach. The door opens without warning.
Erik fills the doorway, already dressed for battle—leather armor reinforced with iron, weapons strapped to his body. He looks every inch the Bloodwolf, dangerous and deadly.
"Astrid." His voice is careful. "We need to talk."
I turn away, presenting my back. "There's nothing to say."
"Look at me."
"No."
Silence stretches. Then his footsteps cross the room. He reaches for my shoulder.
I jerk away before he can touch me. "Don't."
"Astrid—"
"I said don't touch me." The words crack like a whip.
He freezes, hand still extended. Confusion flickers across his face, then understanding begins to dawn. "What's wrong?"
The question breaks something in me.
"What's wrong?" I whirl to face him. "What's wrong is that I'm still just property being traded between men! A prize for whoever swings a sword better, whoever spills more blood, whoever can prove they're stronger!"
His face goes carefully blank. "It's not like that."
"Isn't it?" My laugh is bitter. "Winner takes Astrid and the border territories. You said it yourself. I'm just another piece of land to be claimed, another asset to secure."
"That's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?" I step closer, fury giving me courage. "Because from where I'm standing, you and Bjorn are exactly the same. Both of you claiming ownership over someone who never asked to be owned. Both treating me like I'm something to be won instead of someone who gets to choose."
Pain flashes across his features, quickly masked. He moves to the weapons rack, begins checking his blade with practiced movements.
"I know," he says finally, voice rough.
The simple acknowledgment steals my breath.
"Then why agree to this?" I demand. "Why make me part of the wager?"
He sheathes his sword with controlled precision. "Because it's the only way to end this without more death. Bjorn won't negotiate. He only understands violence." His jaw tightens. "Winner takes all—you, the territories, the alliance. One fight settles everything."
"And if you lose?"
"I won't."
The certainty in his voice should reassure me. Instead, it terrifies me. Because certainty means nothing against steel and chance and the fickleness of gods.
He crosses to me, careful like I might bolt. This time I don't retreat when his hand finds my cheek.
"If I fall—" he begins.
"Don't." The word rips out of me, raw and desperate. "Erik, don't you dare die."
Something fierce and possessive flashes in his eyes. His hand tightens on my face. "Then give me a reason to survive."
I surge forward, crushing my mouth to his.
The kiss is everything confused and angry and desperate tangled together. His arms come around me, hauling me against him.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rests against mine.
"I'm not fighting for a prize," he says quietly. Each word is deliberate, weighted. "I'm fighting for the right to prove I can be worthy of your choice. There's a difference."
"Is there?" My voice shakes.
"Yes." His thumb traces my bottom lip. "A prize is something you take. A choice is something given freely." His eyes hold mine, storm-gray intense. "I'm fighting so that one day—maybe not today, maybe not soon—you'll choose me without coercion. Without duty or prophecy or politics forcing your hand."
The words crack something in my chest.
"That's what this is about," he continues. "Not claiming you. Earning the chance to be chosen."
A horn sounds below—the call to combat.
Erik's expression shifts, becomes harder. The warrior replaces the man.
"I have to go."
"Erik—"
He kisses me once more, brief and bruising. "Watch from the window. And remember—whatever happens, you were never just a prize to me."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with my thundering heart and the terrible knowledge that I might lose him before I've figured out what he means to me.
But then I bolt after him. Not trying to catch him, but I need to be there.
The crowd steps aside, giving me way. The cold wind slaps my cheeks, but I stand.
Erik catches my gaze, pleading, but stays silent.
The dawn breaks properly over Úlfheim.
They've cleared a circle in the snow. Both armies form a ring around it—hundreds of warriors bearing witness. In the center, Erik and Bjorn face each other.
Even from this distance, I see the hatred between them. Feel the air. The promise of violence.
The combat begins without ceremony.
Bjorn attacks first, blade whistling through air with brutal efficiency. Erik blocks, deflects, moves with that fluid grace that makes fighting look like dancing.
But this isn't dance. This is death circling itself, looking for an opening.
They trade blows with savage intensity. Bjorn fights like a berserker—all strength and fury, trying to overwhelm through sheer force. Erik counters with calculated ruthlessness, each movement precise and economical.
Blood stains the snow. I can't tell whose.
My gift stirs, unwanted. Vision fragments slam into me:
Erik falling, sword through his chest, eyes going distant. Bjorn standing over him triumphant. Chains around my wrists as I'm dragged away.
I gasp, and the vision shifts:
Erik victorious, blade at Bjorn's throat. But my own face in the crowd, twisted with something I can't name—not quite triumph, not quite horror. Something darker.
The visions scatter, leaving me shaking.
Below, the fight intensifies. They're both tiring now, movements slower. Blood drips from cuts on arms, faces, sides. The snow beneath them is churned pink.
Bjorn lunges, overextends. Erik sidesteps with dancer's grace and brings his blade down hard on Bjorn's sword arm. The weapon flies, landing meters away.
Bjorn stumbles. Erik kicks his legs out from under him.
The golden-haired warrior crashes to his knees.
Erik's blade finds his throat.
The crowd roars—bloodlust and triumph tangled together. They want death. Want to see the oath-breaker's chosen champion bleed out in the snow.
But Erik doesn't strike.
He stands there, blade steady at Bjorn's throat, chest heaving. Then his eyes lift, searching the crowd. Searching for—
Me.
Our gazes lock across the distance. Even from here, I see the question in his eyes.
"What would you have me do, little seer?"
His voice carries across the sudden silence. Every warrior goes still. Both armies watching, waiting.
The choice—life or death, mercy or vengeance—he places in my hands.
Bjorn kneels in the snow, blood dripping from a dozen wounds, hate burning in his blue eyes even in defeat. He would have broken me. Would have taken everything and called it his right.
The crowd expects me to call for his death. I see it in their faces—the hunger for justice, for revenge, for blood payment.
Erik holds my gaze, blade unwavering. Waiting for my judgment.
And I realize: this is the difference he spoke of. This moment right here.
He could end Bjorn without asking. Could claim victory and call it done. Instead, he's giving me power over the man who tried to own me.
Not claiming me as prize. Offering me choice.
The silence stretches, heavy with expectation and blood and the weight of futures hanging in balance.
I open my mouth, and the world holds its breath.