The women's hall reeks of sage smoke and lies.
They've arranged us in a circle—me at the center like a sacrifice, surrounded by every married woman in both clans. My mother's friends, Bjorn's aunts, wives who've survived five years or fifty.
All here to share their wisdom about the marriage bed, about duty, about whatever waits for me in two days' time.
"Marriage is about patience," my mother's friend Gudrun intones, pressing a cup of ceremonial mead into my hands. "A wise wife learns when to speak and when to hold her tongue."
"Men have needs we must accommodate," adds another. "It's our burden and our blessing."
Burden. That's what they call it. Not joy, not pleasure—burden.
The mead tastes of honey and bitter herbs, thick on my tongue. Around me, the women continue their liturgy of lowered expectations.
How to endure when he comes home drunk. How to hide bruises with clever clothing. How to keep smiling when he brings his bastards home for you to raise.
"The gods blessed you with beauty," Bjorn's aunt says, her smile sharp as winter ice. "That will fade, but if you give him sons quickly, he'll remember his duty to you."
My stomach turns. Is this really what they expect my marriage to be like? That this is the path I'm walking toward? This careful choreography of resignation?
An older woman—Thora, widowed last winter—catches my hand as I pass. Her fingers are cold, grip too tight.
"The first year is the hardest," she whispers, eyes glassy with mead and memory. "After that, you learn not to expect too much. It gets easier."
Easier. The word curdles in my stomach.
Across the circle, my mother watches, her face a portrait of composure.
I want to ask her if this is what she wanted for me. If she too once sat beneath flowers that pricked and bled, surrounded by women telling her how to survive being chosen instead of choosing.
But I already know the answer.
“Now.” My mother rises, lifting an ornate horn etched with runes, filled to the brim with dark mead. “Drink, dear.”
The horn is placed in my hands and I glance at the faces encircling me: watchful, reverent, resigned.
“Drink it all,” my mother repeats softly.
The rim touches my lips. The mead is thick, sweet at first with honey and herbs, but underneath lurks something bitter, metallic, like blood.
I drain the ceremonial cup in one swallow, desperate to blur the edges of their words.
Warmth blooms in my chest. The air ripples. The women’s chanting fades, turning soft and distorted. Their shapes blur like shadows underwater.
And then the vision strikes.
Blood on white linen, so much blood. A man's cruel laughter echoing off stone walls. Dragon ships with crimson sails cutting through black water. Iron chains. A golden torque forced around my throat while hands hold me down—
I gasp, stumbling. The horn slips from my fingers and hits the floor, spilling its dark contents across the stone like spilled blood.
"The mead is strong," someone laughs nervously. "Some brides see frightening things."
"Just wedding nerves," my mother says, but her eyes are worried. "The mind plays tricks when we're afraid of the unknown."
But I know my gift. Know the difference between visions and wine. These aren't fears—they're warnings, promises, threats.
Something is coming, something is already here, but the images fracture before I can grasp them.
"I need air," I manage.
"Of course, dear. Take a moment."
I stumble from the hall, their pitying looks following me. Poor nervous bride. Overwhelmed little girl. If only they knew I'm not afraid of marriage.
I'm afraid of what my gift is screaming at me to see.
The compound is quiet in the late afternoon. I wander aimlessly, needing clarity. Needing something solid to hold onto. I need Bjorn.
The thought steadies me.
Yes. I'll find him, talk to him, and let him tease away my fears with his easy charm. Seeing him will settle this writhing dread in my chest. He'll hold me, tell me the women are wrong, that our marriage will be different.
My feet carried me toward the guest quarters where Bjorn's men are housed. Laughter drifts, warm and intimate, making my heart lift. He must be there, probably sharing stories with the other warriors.
I follow the sound, hope kindling despite everything. The door stands partially open, so I reach for it— And freeze.
Bjorn. Sprawls naked across his furs, skin gleaming in the firelight.
But not alone.
Sigrid beneath him, her dark hair spread across furs, her legs wrapped around his waist as he moves inside her with rough, brutal thrusts. Her nails rake down his back, drawing blood, and she's laughing… breathless and triumphant.
Two other women lounge beside them on the bed. One I recognize vaguely from the kitchens. The other is Thyra, who helped me with flower arrangements yesterday.
Their sweaty bodies are marked with bruises blooming purple across pale skin. Bite marks on throats and breasts.
I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't look away.
"Gods, you're perfect," Bjorn groans, gripping Sigrid's hips hard enough to leave marks. "Nothing like that frigid little virgin I'm marrying."
Sigrid laughs, a sound like breaking glass. "Poor Astrid. So proper. So pure." She runs her nails down his shoulders. "She'll never satisfy you like this.”
Bjorn laughs, that same cruel sound from my vision, and captures Sigrid's mouth in a brutal kiss before pulling back.
"She's for breeding heirs. Pretty bloodlines to secure alliances. But real pleasure?" He grabs Sigrid's breast hard enough to bruise. "That requires real women."
The words land like blows.
"She is rather... proper," Thyra offers, trailing fingers down Bjorn's arm. "All that talk about love and partnership. So naive."
"Too coy to satisfy a true warrior's needs," Sigrid agrees, smirking. "I almost pity her."
"Don't." Bjorn shifts, and I can see his face now—flushed with lust and something darker. Cruelty. "She thinks she's too good for a man's touch. All that blushing virgin act."
He thrusts harder, making Sigrid cry out. "I'll make her understand her place—a pretty broodmare who'll learn to be grateful I bother with her at all."
The women giggle. Actually giggle, like he's told a clever joke instead of describing my destruction.
"Will you keep us after?" the kitchen woman asks, voice honey-sweet. "Once you're married?"
"Of course." Bjorn's grin is wolf-sharp. "Why would I give up pleasure just because I've chained myself to duty? Astrid will be too busy breeding to notice. And if she does..."
He shrugs, and his voice turns cruel, dangerous. "On our wedding night, I'll teach her what her place is. Break that pride of hers."
"And if she resists?" Sigrid gasps.
"Then I'll enjoy it more." His laugh is ugly and victorious. "Virgins always cry the first time anyway. Might as well give her something to cry about."
They laugh together, all four of them, while my world collapses into sharp, cutting pieces. Sigrid pulls him down for another kiss, her eyes flicking toward the door, toward me.
And for one horrifying moment, I think she knows I'm here. That this performance is for me.
Her smile says: I won.
I back away slowly, silently, my body moving without thought. A step by step back. Then another one makes the floor creak.
And when Bjorn's head turns to the sound—I run.