"There's a traitor," I say. "Someone will open the gates from inside."
Erik is beside me before the words finish. His eyes narrow. "Who?"
I close my eyes and let the sight come. The corridors spin; faces flash. A delicate hand with long fingers. The eastern gate. A name falls through me like a stone.
"Sigrid," I breathe. "Of course."
His brows tick. "Your cousin?"
"Sigrid who loved Bjorn. Sigrid who was passed over when I was the problem they married away." My jaw tightens. "She'll tell herself this is justice."
Erik doesn't waste a breath. "Show me."
We move fast. He takes the steps two at a time; I'm a half-stride ahead. "Don't run off," he says.
"I'm not running. I'm hunting."
"That's exactly what worries me."
We cut through passages that smell of damp rope, down into the lower ward. The eastern gate corridor narrows. A single torch gutters. And there she is.
Sigrid stands with both hands wrapped around the bar-brace. Another woman—one of Father's clerks—holds a key that shouldn't exist. The heavy beam is half-lifted.
"Sigrid," I say.
She flinches hard enough to drop the bar. Then she sees me fully, and her face curdles. "You," she spits. "You don't deserve any of this."
Erik steps between the women and the door, weight balanced. "No one opens anything," he says pleasantly. "Unless you'd like to do it from the wrong side of your skin."
Sigrid doesn't look at him. Her eyes are knives for me alone. "Bjorn loved me," she says, nearly a scream. "He chose me. And then Ravnfjord threw me away because you existed and ruined everything!"
"Bjorn loved no one but himself," I say. "And you were willing to kill our entire family for a man who saw you as convenient entertainment."
She lunges.
The blade flashes from her sleeve. Erik moves fast as breath—but I am already there. I catch Sigrid's wrist with my left hand, hard and high; I step into her, not back; my right hand draws the small knife from my hem. I twist. The knife kisses her forearm just enough to make her nerves forget their orders. The blade clatters. I shove her to the floor with my knee on her hip, and she goes down more shocked than hurt.
The clerk fumbles with the key. Erik plucks it from her fingers and tosses it down the hall. "Guards!" he calls, and they come—steel, boots, discipline. They seize both women.
"Bjorn will come for me," Sigrid hisses. "He'll make you pay."
"He always sends someone else to bleed first," I say. "Enjoy finding out which someone you are."
They drag her away. Erik is watching me with new weight in his gaze.
"You've been holding back," he says.
I slide the knife back into its nest. "I've been underestimated my whole life. I learned to use it."
His mouth crooks. "Noted."
"It isn't my home," I say when he asks me to stay at his side, and the lie has fewer teeth than it did.
The horn breaks over us. Erik's head snaps up. "To the wall. Now."
We sprint back through corridors, up stairs where the stone sweats. The sky is iron. On the ridge, Danes and Bjorn's men unspool down the slope. Ladders. Shields. A ram.
Ragnar stalks the parapet. He throws me one glance, then finds Erik. "You had men in the inner ward," he growls. "Why?"
"Because your gate almost opened," Erik says. "You're welcome."
Father's jaw clicks once. He spits over the side and then—blessedly—lets it go. "Archers at the ready!"
The first volley hisses up like rain falling in reverse. Our arrows answer. I move where needed—plug a gap with a shout, pass a fresh quiver, press a palm to a shaking shoulder until its tremor becomes aim. Beneath the wall the ram slams. The stones grunt and hold.
"Ladders left!" Gunnar roars. Pitch spills and leaps to fire; men scream. I taste ash. Erik is everywhere, moving like a rumor the enemy can't catch. He spares me glances that feel like tethers.
And then my gift rises.
It lifts me out of my body so I see the board the way gods must when they play at being mortal. The Danes are the hammer; Bjorn is the greed that swings it. Our walls will hold for a time, but not enough. We are a story that ends with "almost," unless—
Unless he comes closer than is wise. Unless he believes he can take what he thinks is his by stepping into our jaws. He won't chase a banner. He will chase me.
I see it: the gate held just long enough, the inner yard salted with Úlfheim's best, the feint that pulls his teeth into a bite he cannot release. I see men who live if I choose it and men who die if I don't. The only way to win is for me to be seen—fully, plainly, bait on a hook I set with my own hands.
Erik will never agree.
The sight drops me. The noise hits like a slap. Erik is at my shoulder as if he knows even my silence by scent. "What did you see," he asks.
I look at him and feel the ache of what I love most about him: that he will not spend me casually, even if it buys a kingdom. "The way through," I say.
His eyes search mine. "And the cost?"
"Me," I answer. My voice does not shake. "Only for a heartbeat. But it has to be me."
He is silent. Around us, the battle reels and surges; horns answer horns. Erik takes one breath, and I know what he will say.
"No," he begins. "Find me another path."
"There isn't one," I say, softer than the wind.
"Then I'll make one," he fires back. "I'm not sacrificing you to his vanity."
"Who said anything about sacrifice?" I try to smile and fail. "It's a lure. A trick. I'm quite good at tricks."
"Astrid," he warns, and the warning is a plea.
I put my hand on his chest where his mail warms over his skin. "Trust me," I say. "Trust that I know my own edges."
His jaw works. "I do trust you. That's why I hate this."
"Then hate it," I say, almost laughing. "Hate it loudly. I'll admire your technique."
He huffs a sound that is not quite a laugh. "Stay where I can see you."
"For now," I say.
He knows me well enough to hear the lie in that promise. His eyes harden. "Astrid."
"Bloodwolf," I answer, making his name a tease. "Do me a favor and keep the gate shut until I want it opened."
"Do not—" he begins.
"—Die. I know." I squeeze once, then step back. "I've gotten rather attached to breathing."
"A habit I'd prefer you kept," he says, something raw beneath the words.
I turn my face to the wind and let the battle's smoke paint me into a woman the enemy cannot resist chasing. I have been hunted my whole life; time to be the thing that chooses where the hunt ends.
Erik will never agree. So I will have to act without his permission.
And I will.