Although it was rare these days, there were nights when dreams returned to her - sometimes like an old friend, sometimes like the keeper of her enemies.
The village where Svea had once been taken in chains, no more than a child who had been barefoot and bruised, contained houses and workshops which stood apart. Scattered like stones cast carelessly by a giant's hand, their spaces linked by dirt-worn paths where grooves were etched by the countless trudging of feet. Torches burned outside of each one with their flames casting slow, flickering light across timber walls adorned by iron nails which had not yet begun to rust. The day's last light slipped away beyond the hill, the sky dimming to that aching blue that would appear just prior to true night arriving. Svea moved through the village quietly. She had already paid for the flowers that the Overseer had ordered, though she neither cared for them nor the woman who had asked for them on behalf of the Jarl.
She turned to go, but stopped.
Down by the docks, a small crowd had gathered. A ship, newly arrived, rocked against the tide. Women stepped away from it after tying the boat to the dock. Svea's breath caught in her throat.
They were beautiful.
Not in the way village girls were beautiful with round cheeks and soft eyes, but in the way of wolves or carved stone. Lean, tall, their bodies shaped not by farming but by fighting. These were not milkmaids. These were not wives of noblemen or workers. They moved like the sea itself moves: strong, certain, heedless of who watched. There was defiance in their very posture, a pride that refused to bow even on foreign lands. Suddenly, all she wanted was to be just an ounce of whatever they were.
She crept closer, sheltered by the trees along the path. Her eyes tracked their movements in astonishment. She had seen warriors before. . . mercenaries, guardsmen, the occasional sellsword who passed through the village with blood still drying on his boots, but nothing like them. Their armor was unfamiliar: layered leather with dull steel, worn from use but still carefully kept. Fur lined their collars and bracers, not for vanity but for the sake of survival. Their weapons were strapped to their hips, hilts worn smooth by long use. There was no wasted ornament on these women. No sigils, no crests, no runes to announce them. The way they walked said everything.
They were not just people who fought.
They were women who won.
And when they sang, it came low at first, like wind moving through branches.
"Through the woods where shadows play,
Bold women walk at the break of day,
Laughter light, spirits high,
We wander on as the world goes by,
We seek the lost, the ones made small,
In secret places. . . we hear their call. . ."
The melody curled like mist. Something in it provoked fear in one, comfort to another, and empowerment to others. Svea felt as though she shouldn't have been there, listening to something so private. Her heart pounded, warning her to leave. The song was not meant for the ears of men, even if sung aloud - but could it have been for the ears of a little girl?
Svea climbed a tree to see better, her body half-forgotten as the music filled her mind. For a mere moment, the world was peaceful. Everything Svea remembered it to be before she had been abducted, and everything she hoped it could one day be again. Simply still.
Until one of them turned. A woman with bright eyes stared directly at her, past the leaves hiding her, unblinking. She resembled more a fox than woman.
Svea froze.
Another faltered mid-step, checking to see what the other watched. Svea's breath caught in her throat, terrified of what would come next. She should have been obedient. She should have gone home.
This one stood apart: taller, broader, with more weight in her stance. Her armor was finer too, reinforced at the shoulders and wrists, marked with subtle detail that signaled command. She was golden-haired, and even the night could not deny that her hair shone as though sunlight had chosen to linger with her alone. Her face was angular, strong-jawed, and undeniably feminine. Grace remained in it still, though strength had claimed the larger share.
Svea would have torn her own eyes out if it meant she could stop staring and worsening the moment for herself. She wondered, seeing this woman, if it was possible the two - light and dark, masculine and feminine - or if she could ever become more like that once she was older.
The woman stepped forward slightly, eyes never leaving her.
"And you are?" she asked, her voice melodic but edged, deeper than the laughter of the women behind her. No, her voice was more like a song being sung in a war tent.
Svea swallowed. She needed to own up to her decision.
"Svea," she replied, the name small on her lips, like it didn't belong to her.
In truth, she had begun to question if it did. Weeks and months of being referred to as "That One" or "Girl" had made her name feel unreal. She was beginning to doubt it even suited her.
Whilst rude to eavesdrop, she hadn't heard a word they had said. She'd only watched, mesmerized by the vision of the woman she might one day become, if the gods allowed it. Or if she ever dared to try.
The woman tilted her head, one sharp brow arching.
"Svea? Only Svea?" she echoed, almost amused. "I am Herja."
Herja took the moment to look over her fully. Questions rose: Who would let a child wander in such a sorry state?
The girl's clothes hung off her thinning frame, homespun fabric faded, a season behind, unable to shield her from the cold of winter. Her sandals were fraying at the straps, bare skin showing through. No boots. No dignity. Despite her clothes, someone had kept her face and hair clean, though her skinned knees revealed the truth of her mischievous nature.
Behind Herja, one of the women leaned in, dark hair falling over her shoulder. Her voice was soft but cutting. "She is a slave of the Jarl Geir. She does not have a last name."
Herja's jaw tightened. Muscles worked as she chewed on the thought. She chose not to speak right away. She was displeased, but now had a better understanding of the girl's condition. "Is this true?"
Svea's hand drifted to the scar above her budding left breast where the Jarl's brand sat forevermore. The hope she'd felt moments ago fled so quickly she wondered if it had ever been real.
"They all say it is," she murmured.
Herja challenged this thinking. "What do you say?"
Svea was unprepared. She had never dreamed someone might ask her again. What she had to say had stopped mattering the moment Jarl Geir had purchased her from the slaver. Her voice had been silenced between iron on her wrists and trade between men, dulled into compliance in exchange for morsels and less beatings. Yet now, this powerful woman was asking. Listening. She wanted Svea to speak, the girl had never felt anything like that moment. Svea glanced around them, unsure if answering aloud would only call for more trouble. But hope sat in her like a small flame which could still catch fire if it was tended to. She lowered her voice as a final precaution, "Svea Eriksdottir."
With a kind smile, Herja nodded. "I see. . ."
She said nothing more. Though saying the name had brought the smell of her hay, the smell of her father Erik, which now lingered in the air only for her to know.
She frowned. That was all? She wished, fiercely, for Herja to continue speaking. Herja's voice was the safest she had felt in a long time.
"Tell me, Svea Eriksdottir," Herja said at last, crouching as the girl climbed down from the tree. She brushed a strand of hair from Svea's brow. "What plans does this Jarl Geir have for you?"
"Marriage," Svea answered, gaze dropping in shame.
Herja's brows lifted. "Marriage? That is unusual for a slave girl."
By the standards of age, Svea was nearing the threshold where girls might be married off, though she still felt years away from womanhood herself. Herja did not need her to say more. The implication was clear. A grimace passed across her features like a cloud sailing over the moon, brief but telling. It was common enough for Jarls to take young, pretty thralls as their women but it was uncommon for them to marry them.
"What plans," she began softly, "does Svea, Erik's daughter, have?"
Svea blinked. The question struck her like an arrow. Not for its cruelty, but for its unfamiliarity. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked her what she wanted. Or if anyone ever had.
Her mouth opened, dry.
"Freedom."
She let the word sit there, tasting it. It clung to her tongue like honey and ash. She nearly trembled from speaking it aloud. Yet something warm and wild surged in her chest, a force that overpowered the fear. She smacked her lips lightly to the taste of it, as if savoring both danger and sweetness. The fear of being overheard nearly paralyzed her, but the rush in her body was too much for her to stay still.
It was the first time she had ever named her want. And now that she had, it refused to be buried again.
She understood then why Jarl Geir had kept this gathering so private.
If Svea had been host to such guests, she too might have tried to keep them for herself.
These women. . . they were ethereal.
Despite uncounted days at sea, their hair was soft, clean, falling in silken braids and loose curls over weather-worn armor. Some smelled of juniper and sea salt, others of lavender or wild thyme. Yet all of them shared a scent that was not easily named. Svea could only catch faint notes of wildflowers and honey, of cypress bark and amber, each thread weaving into another essence she didn't have a name for. She imagined these women had been anointed with perfumes gifted by the Freyja, goddess of beauty, herself.
Herja didn't flinch at the slave girl's rambling. She didn't mock her. Nor did she douse her dream. She simply straightened, nodded once, approval clear on her face. "When you become free -"
When. The word echoed in Svea's head. Herja was right. There was always a chance she could become free again. She wasn't like these women, hardened by battle and aware of their own power, but she was something else entirely. Something all her own.