I don't answer his question.
Can't answer it—not with his warriors watching, not with Bjorn's blood still fresh on the snow, not with Erik's eyes searching mine for something I'm not ready to give.
Instead, I turn and walk away.
My legs move without thought, carrying me across the battlefield toward the longhouse. Behind me, I hear Erik's sharp intake of breath, hear Gunnar's low question that I can't make out. But I don't look back.
I can't.
The door closes behind me with a heavy thud. My hands shake as I lean against the wood, breathing hard.
What do you choose?
The question echoes through my skull.
I stripped Bjorn of everything—lands, titles, honor. Claimed my freedom before witnesses. But Erik's question demands something deeper. Something that terrifies me more than any battlefield.
My feet carry me to his chambers without conscious decision. The bed calls to me—soft furs still bearing his scent, the promise of oblivion. I collapse onto it fully clothed, too exhausted to care about propriety or what anyone might think.
Sleep claims me fast and hard.
But it doesn't bring peace.
I dream—not visions of prophecy, but memories that cut deeper than any blade.
Erik's hands gentle as I cried in that storage building, his fury on my behalf so pure it blazed like fire. The way he held me after, like I was something precious he'd found and refused to lose.
How he looked at me in the boathouse—really looked, seeing past the jarl's daughter to just Astrid, raw and real and choosing.
The dream shifts.
The journal in his chambers. His handwriting detailing prophecies and strategic plans. How he'd sought me out deliberately, calculated every touch, every word. The manipulation laid bare in ink and parchment.
I wake gasping, tangled in furs and confusion.
Morning light filters through the windows. My body aches—not from injury, but from the weight of everything unsaid. Of choices I don't know how to make.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
"My lady?" Runa's voice is tentative. "The jarl requests your presence in the war room."
My stomach clenches. "Now?"
"When you're ready. But..." She hesitates. "The elders are gathered. It seems important."
Of course it does.
I force myself upright, splashing cold water on my face from the basin. My reflection stares back—pale, shadowed, still wearing yesterday's battle-stained dress. I look like someone who's survived a war.
I feel like someone who's still fighting one.
The war room thrums with tension when I enter.
Erik stands at the head of the table, surrounded by clan elders. Gunnar leans against the wall, arms crossed.
They all turn when the door opens.
Erik's expression shifts—relief flashing across his features before control slides back. "Astrid."
Just my name. But the way he says it makes my chest tight.
"You summoned me." I keep my voice steady, spine straight. "What do you want?"
"We need to discuss your status," Gunnar says. His tone is formal, careful. "You're not a captive, but you're not free to leave. Your father's oath-breaking still stands."
"Then what am I?" I demand. "Property? Hostage? Prize?"
"That depends," Erik says quietly, "on what you choose to be."
I remain standing. Refuse to make this easier for anyone.
"You have options," Erik continues, moving around the table until only a few feet separate us. "You can stay as an honored guest. Neutral ground while our clans negotiate peace terms."
"Or?" My throat is tight.
"Or return to Ravnfjord with escort, if your father pays weregild for the broken oath." He pauses. "Your family would have you back. Safe."
The offer should feel like freedom. Instead, it feels like losing something I didn't know I still wanted.
"Or?" I hear myself ask, because I see there's more. Feel it in the way Erik's jaw tightens.
One of them—gray-haired and scarred—speaks up. "Marriage. To the jarl. Fulfill the original oath your father swore."
The word hangs in the air like a blade.
My laugh comes out bitter, sharp enough to cut. "Another marriage I have no say in. How generous of you."
"You have every say." Erik's voice cuts through my anger, rough and urgent. He steps closer, and I see something desperate in his storm-gray eyes. "This isn't a demand, Astrid. It's an offer. One you're free to refuse."
"Free," I repeat slowly. "Like I was free when you kidnapped me from my wedding?"
His jaw works. "That was different—"
"Was it?" I turn to face him fully, anger and confusion and something else warring in my chest. "You took me without asking. Brought me here against my will. And now you're offering me choices?"
The elders exchange glances. Gunnar pushes off the wall, clearly uncomfortable with the direction this is taking.
But Erik doesn't move. Doesn't look away.
"You're right," he says finally. "I took you. Claimed you without permission. Used strategy and manipulation." His hands flex at his sides. "But this is different. This is me giving you real power over your own fate."
"And if I refuse?" The question comes out whisper-soft. "If I choose to leave?"
Erik's throat works. Something painful crosses his face—there and gone so fast I almost miss it.
"Then you're free to go," he says quietly. "I'll arrange safe passage. Escort you myself if needed. Your father will have you back, and the broken oath will be settled."
I search his face for the lie, the manipulation, the hidden strategy. Find only brutal honesty that makes my chest ache.
"You'd let me go." Not a question.
"I'd rather die than keep you prisoner." His voice drops lower. "I want you, Astrid. Gods know I want you. But not like this. Not because you have no other choice."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid. The elders watch like this is theater, but Erik's eyes never leave mine.
"I need time," I whisper finally. "To think. To... figure out what I want."
"Take all you need." The relief in his voice is palpable. "No one will rush you. No one will force your hand."
I nod, not trusting my voice. Turn toward the door before this moment can crack me open further.
"Astrid."
I pause, hand on the doorframe. Don't look back.
"Whatever you choose," Erik says softly, "it will be honored. I swear it."
I leave without responding, but his words follow me into the cold morning air, into the space where I need to breathe and think.
My gift flares without warning.
The vision slams into me:
Erik standing before a great hall, massive and imposing. Warriors at his back, torques of gold around his neck, power radiating from him like heat. Victorious. Feared. Respected.
But alone.
So utterly, devastatingly alone.
No woman at his side. No warmth in his eyes. Just cold calculation and the weight of a crown earned through blood. The Bloodwolf in truth—powerful and isolated, ruling through fear rather than love.
And I understand with crushing clarity: this is the future where I leave. Where I choose safety over risk, comfort over chaos.
Where I let him become exactly what everyone fears.
The vision releases me, and I'm gasping against the longhouse wall, knees weak, heart hammering.
My choice doesn't just shape my future.
It shapes his.