The war council forms before the brazier smoke clears. Erik's table is a coastline of scars; wooden wolves and ships mark what he can spend. I stand at his right.
"My vision," I say. "Bjorn has allied with Danes hungry for a foothold. He's promised them Úlfheim's wealth. My father refused, so they'll strike Ravnfjord first to remove the obstacle."
Silence. Gunnar sets two fingers on the map. "If we chase ghosts south, we invite a strike here. Úlfheim is our priority."
"My mother and sister live in Ravnfjord," I say. "So do people who never swore an oath to any of you."
Erik's jaw tightens. "How long?"
"Three days. Less if they sail hard."
He studies the map. Command sits on him like mail: familiar, heavy. I feel his decision before he voices it. "We sail to Ravnfjord."
The room erupts.
"If this is a trap—"
"The seer's visions—"
"We can't divide—"
"It's not a trap," I cut in. "If I were inventing fates for fun, I'd start with a nap."
One of the elders, an old man I haven't talked to before, lifts a brow. "Her gift has not failed us yet."
Gunnar points—not at the map, at me. "Every choice has cost. We thin our lines and beg for a second blade."
"Then don't thin them," I say. "Take only the spine—warriors who can row through the night and still swing in the morning. Leave a hard shell here."
Erik nods once. "Two score shields, no more. We travel light."
Gunnar grunts, already naming men. "Supplies?"
"Waybread, dried meat, spare bowstrings, pitch," Erik says. His voice sounds like Bloodwolf's is supposed to be—practical, unromantic. "If the Danes brought ships, we may meet them on the waterline."
Erik's gaze returns to me as if it can't help it. "You’ll stay at my side."
"Obviously," I say, and only afterward realize how much I needed to say it.
Orders ripple. The longhouse turns hive: buckles, fletching, resolve. Katla hooks me with a bundle of herbs that smells like rain on iron.
"For calm," she says. "You're afraid."
"Not of battle." I take the bundle anyway. "Of what comes after. I don't know what I'll say to them. To him."
"To your father," she says. "Perhaps you don't need to know yet. Words arrive in the doorway of the moment."
"Wise woman," I mutter. "Infuriating."
"Accurate," she agrees, smiling too bright. "Though I'll be here when you return—someone needs to keep this hall from falling apart."
"It's already falling apart," I say.
"Then I'll sweep the pieces," she says. "Now go. The tide won't wait for sentiment."
Outside, warriors stream toward the black sand beach. Erik's ship waits with dragon prow catching first light. I follow him down the shore, boots crunching on sand.
He catches my hand as I reach the gangplank—quick, private. "Stay close on the crossing. The fjords can turn."
"You're bossy when you're worried."
"I'm always worried where you're concerned. It's very inconvenient."
"Flattering," I allow.
We board. The ship rocks as warriors settle into rowing positions. Erik takes the tiller; I claim space at the prow where wind and spray can't reach the others. Oars bite water in rhythm—stroke, pull, stroke. The fjord opens like a scar.
"Tell me about the Danes," Erik calls over the splash and creak. "What did you see?"
"Lean, angry men chasing coin and a banner that isn't theirs. They'll let Bjorn call himself wolf until they smell weakness. Then they'll eat him."
"Reasonable." A pause. "Ravnfjord?"
"Stone walls and pride. Good on the ramparts, worse in the field. Father trusts rock and memory, not movement."
"If he chokes on taking my command?"
"Make him believe the command is still his," I say. "While you hand him the plan that won't get us all killed. Dance narrow."
He slants me a look. "I'll try not to step on any royal toes."
"Not royal," I say. "Just very stompable."
Gunnar, pulling an oar nearby, mutters loud enough to carry: "You two flirt like ravens arguing over a shiny."
"Jealous?" I call.
"Of the shiny," he deadpans.
The fjord narrows to black rock walls; speech falls away. The world becomes breath, discipline, salt spray stinging my teeth. Erik hands me a skin. I drink because arguing with a canteen would be new even for me.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"For what?"
"For making it easier to be brave by making it impossible to be anything else."
"That's not a compliment."
"It's the only kind you respect." His knuckles graze mine. "If there's smoke at the outer settlements—"
"I'll be ready."
The ship cuts through water like a blade through silk. My gift prowls the edges of my sight like a wolf that hasn't decided whether to bite.
The coast curves. Somewhere beyond that bend is the hall where I learned oaths and silence. Home and history and a girl I don't recognize anymore.
"Talk to me," Erik says, because he hears storms I haven't named.
"I don't know what I'll say to my mother," I admit. "To Ingrid."
"And your father?"
I chew the word like gristle. "I think I'll let the gods translate my silence."
"That's a dangerous liturgy."
"I'm a dangerous priest."
He huffs a laugh. "Then say nothing you'll regret in daylight. Let him speak first."
"You mean bluster. He'll call this a raid you orchestrated to steal his daughter."
"I did," Erik says, so baldly I almost choke. "But I won't let you lose your family because I prefer tidy plans."
Something loosens in my chest. "You believe me that much."
"I believe you, period." The words are knife-clean. "And I refuse to be the man who keeps you from trying."
"Don't get poetic," I warn. "It's bad for your reputation."
"Tragic," he says. "I was aiming for 'bardic menace.'"
"Keep practicing," I say, and he smiles like a secret.
We navigate into shallower water as the afternoon light turns honey-gold. No smoke. No horns. Only the hush before a blade leaves its sheath. We drag the ship onto the beach and check weapons.
Erik is waiting when I finish, attention flicking to me like a compass finds north. "Ready?"
"No," I say. "But I can fake it convincingly."
"That's my terrifying girl." The endearment is a rasp, not a ribbon, and it steadies me more than gentleness would.
We move inland from the shore. Frost snaps under iron; a fox barks somewhere in the scrub. My breath fogs—then fails.
The vision hits like surf.
I'm standing between two armies in Ravnfjord's valley—Úlfheim at my back, Ravnfjord before me, the Danes a third shadow crouched to strike. Ministers of death wait on my tongue. If I say yes, men live who would have died; if I say no, different men live, different men die. Both futures end in blood. Only the border changes.
The sight shatters. I'm standing on solid ground again with white knuckles and lungs that forgot their work.
Erik's hand is already on my arm. "Astrid."
"I'm fine," I start, then correct it because what’s the point. "No. But I understand."
"What?" he asks, low.
"The prophecy." The clarity terrifies and frees me in the same heartbeat. "It was never about crowning you or destroying you." I hear my voice steady. "It's about me. About my choice."
His nod holds no fear, only trust. "Then choose," he says softly. "And I'll make the ground hold whichever door you open."
We walk the last stretch toward home while the future breathes hot against my ear.