The days blur together like watercolors in rain. I move through wedding preparations like a ghost wearing my skin.
Every fitting, every blessing, every practiced smile—it all feels like preparing a corpse for burial. I smile when expected. Nod at appropriate moments. Recite the proper words about duty and honor and blessed unions.
But inside, I'm burning.
The secret of Erik lives under my skin—a brand no one else can see.
The memory of him lives in my body. The phantom touches that make me shiver during dress fittings. The delicious ache between my thighs when I walk and bruises hidden beneath my shift that I press when alone, savoring the sweet pain.
Evidence that for one perfect moment, I wasn't property.
I was desired. Chosen. His.
At night, I lie awake replaying every moment.
The boathouse. The salt-thick air. His touch, reverent and hungry all at once. The way he said my name—like it meant something more. The pain that became something else, something that made me his in a way Bjorn can never claim.
Politics made me a transaction. Erik made me sacred.
I catch glimpses of him during the day. Across the feast hall during meals, his dark hair was unmistakable among the northern warriors. In the training yards where men spar and boast, his movements are fluid and lethal.
Once, our paths cross near the grain stores, and the world narrows to just us. He catches my hand for a heartbeat. Just long enough for his thumb to brush across my knuckles, for heat to flare between us like struck flint.
Then he's gone, melting back into shadows and duty, and I'm left trembling.
Each glimpse is flame. Each stolen moment burns.
Sigrid watches. I see her sharp eyes tracking every glance, every flush that crawls up my neck when Erik is near. Every time my breath catches or my hand trembles.
"You're glowing," Sigrid observes during the morning meal, her voice honeyed with poison. "Marriage must agree with you already."
I meet her gaze steadily. "Perhaps it's just relief. Soon this will all be over."
Her eyes narrow. She knows something's different but can't place it. Good. Let her wonder why I no longer flinch when Bjorn's name is mentioned.
Why I don't cry myself to sleep. Why I wear secrets like armor.
She's waiting for me to crack, to give her ammunition. To confirm whatever suspicions twist through her poisonous mind.
I can't make myself care.
Bjorn, strangely, turns attentive, transformed into the perfect bridegroom—caring, charming, bringing gifts like offerings to a goddess.
A silver comb yesterday. Amber beads this morning. Each offering comes with sweet words about our future, apologies for being "caught up in alliance details" these past days.
Each present comes with public declarations of devotion that make my skin crawl.
"I haven't been the betrothed you deserve," he says during one public display, loud enough for witnesses. "Forgive me, my love. Once we're wed, I'll make it right."
But now I can see how his eyes stay cold. Empty of anything real.
It's a performance. Every word, every gesture calculated for the audience watching. I see it now—how easily he lies, how smoothly charm slides over cruelty.
I try to taunt him.
Throw hints about warriors seeking comfort in guest quarters, about how some men can't control their appetites even days before their wedding. About loyalty meaning different things to different people.
He laughs, claps me on the shoulder like I'm a child who's said something amusing. Like my words are nothing but nervous bride-chatter.
"You have such spirit, Astrid. I'll enjoy that fire once we're properly wed."
He doesn't know I saw him. Doesn't suspect I witnessed his betrayal with my own eyes. My hints sail past him, meaningless. In his mind, I'm too stupid, too innocent, too powerless to matter.
Tomorrow he'll learn differently.
Mother visits my chamber the night before the wedding.
She brings the traditional bride-talk—awkward advice about the marriage bed delivered in clinical terms. How to endure. How to please. How duty becomes easier once you stop expecting more than obligation.
"The first time is... difficult," she says carefully, fingers folding and refolding the fabric in her lap. "But you learn to find satisfaction elsewhere. In children. In managing the household. In your status."
"Does it ever become more than duty?" I ask.
She looks startled. "What else would it be?"
"Love. Desire. Choice."
"Astrid." Her voice turns stern. "Those are luxuries we cannot afford. We take what satisfaction we can from security, from children, from survival. That is enough."
But it's not enough. Not when I've tasted what more feels like.
I listen, nodding in the right places. But inside, I'm thinking how wrong she is.
How different it is when desire is real. When someone touches you like they're memorizing your soul. When pain becomes intimacy and intimacy becomes choice.
Erik showed me that. Gave me that gift even knowing I'd be torn away.
Mother mistakes my silence for fear. She squeezes my hand, offers hollow reassurances. "It gets easier, dear. I promise."
But I don't want easier. I want what I had in that boathouse—raw and real and mine.
She leaves, satisfied she's done her duty. I sit alone in the dimness and wonder if she ever felt what I felt with Erik. If she chose my father or simply accepted what was chosen for her.
The night before my wedding and I can't sleep.
I stand at my window, watching torchlight flicker in the Úlfheim camp. The northern warriors keep late hours, their voices carrying across the compound in rough laughter and drinking songs.
Is Erik awake? Does he think of me?
Does he regret what we did, or does he hold it sacred the way I do?
My gift stirs—that familiar prickling at the base of my skull that means vision wants to break through. I close my eyes, let it come.
Fractured images slam into me: Dragon-prowed ships cutting through fog. Erik above me, his face contorted with something between rage and grief. Blood on white fabric. Fire consuming timber.
His voice is rough against my ear—’Mine. You've always been mine.’
Then it scatters, leaving me gasping.
I press my forehead against the cold window frame, heart hammering. My gift has never been clear, never offered simple answers. Just fragments of possible futures tangled with present fears.
Tomorrow I'll be Bjorn's wife. In law, if not in heart.
The ceremony will bind us before witnesses and gods. I'll wear his ring, sleep in his bed, bear his name and eventually his children. I'll become what Father needs me to be—a bridge between vikings clans, a womb for heirs, a transaction completed.
But tonight, I'm still mine.
I touch my lips, remembering Erik's kiss. The way he held me after, possessive and tender, like I was something worth keeping.
I make a silent vow in the darkness:
Whatever I endure, whatever Bjorn does to me… Even if he can take my name, my body, my future, he can't take that night in the boathouse. He can't take what Erik gave me when he whispered "mine" and meant it as a gift instead of a cage.
Tomorrow changes everything. Indeed.