Astrid Egildottir of Vinterhall stared at her reflection in the mirror as her handmaiden gently styled her pale, waist-length hair.
The young woman in the mirror was, in all definition, a breathtakingly beautiful.
The woman in the mirror had skin smooth and porcelain-pale, with a faint natural glow under the morning light that filtered through the curtains behind her. Her lilac-colored eyes, calm and focused, gave off an unusual clarity, framed by long white lashes. Her high cheekbones and soft lips were symmetrical and finely sculpted. There were no blemishes, no traces of imperfection—only the cool stillness of a woman entirely composed.
Her hair, thick and silver-blonde, flowed in loose curls over her shoulders and down her back. The strands were partially braided at the crown and secured with small pins shaped like snowflakes and violet flowers. A few curls framed her face, tucked gently behind one ear.
The bodice of her gown, a pale lavender silk embroidered with silver thread and tiny crystals, reflected softly in the mirror. It was tight-laced in the front with satin ribbons, accentuating her figure without looking restrictive. Subtle details—faintly stitched vines, beaded starbursts, and the soft ripple of ruffled sleeves—completed the ensemble.
Around her neck, a gold chain held a small pendant, shaped like an antlered stag. It rested just above her collarbone, unmoving as she remained still in the chair.
Astrid sighed heavily, her gaze still fixed on her own reflection.
Her handmaiden, Signe, who stood just behind her with the brush paused mid-stroke, tilted her head slightly.
"What is the matter, my lady?" she asked softly, her voice steady and clear with a faint accent from the northern isles. "Are you not excited about finally meeting your betrothed? Prince Leif is said to be very handsome."
Signe was a young woman, likely no older than eighteen. Her features were refined, but modest—clear porcelain skin, high cheekbones, and soft pink lips that rarely curled beyond a reserved smile. Her wide, pale gray eyes held a calm attentiveness, always focused on her mistress, never wandering.
She wore the traditional uniform of the Vinterhall household: a black dress with a high-collared white blouse beneath, both trimmed in fine white lace. A satin ribbon was tied neatly at her throat, and a matching lace headpiece framed her dark brown hair, which was parted at the center and braided tightly into a low bun at the nape of her neck.
Her posture was perfect, hands steady, fingers practiced. She moved with quiet precision—trained, respectful, and utterly disciplined. Though her voice was gentle, there was no childish softness to her demeanor. She had been raised in service, and it showed in every movement, every word.
Still, there was a faint flicker of curiosity behind her otherwise composed expression as she awaited Astrid's reply.
Astrid shifted in her seat, the silk of her gown rustling faintly against the carved arms of the chair. She turned fully, facing Signe without ceremony. Her back remained straight, her posture trained, but the tight line of her jaw betrayed the effort it took to stay composed.
"Signe," she said, voice low and measured, "why on Midgard would I be pleased to meet the boy my grandfather arranged for me to marry before I was even born?"
Her gaze stayed on Signe's face, searching for any sign of reaction—surprise, disapproval, even discomfort. But as always, Signe's expression was calm, eyes steady, her hands folded neatly in front of her apron. She had served Astrid long enough to know when not to speak. Silence, in this case, was not detachment—it was respect.
Astrid's tone sharpened. "I am a kvennvinr (lit. woman-lover — from kván "woman" and vinr "friend/lover") for Freya's sake. Everyone in Vinterhall knows this by now, and yet—"
She let the sentence hang unfinished as she exhaled through her nose and turned her eyes away, toward the frost-glazed window. The second sigh came unguarded, this one quieter, heavier. Not frustrated. Just tired.
She wasn't trying to be difficult. She wasn't trying to rebel. She simply didn't understand why her choices—even now—were still treated like an inconvenience.
"—And yet my grandfather still insists on going through with it," she said, voice flattening. "No matter how much my father and brothers protest. It's my father who is Jarl now. Not him. So why…"
She trailed off again, but the question lingered. Not rhetorical—she genuinely didn't know the answer, or perhaps she didn't want to say it aloud.
Signe remained silent, but her gaze softened slightly—just enough for Astrid to notice.
Of course, Astrid understood the reason, even if she resented it. Prince Leif was the second-born son of the Kingdom of Verdelund, the prosperous and diplomatic power to the south. With its temperate climate, river ports, and refined courts, Verdelund was everything Vinterhall was not: open, mild, and connected to the wider continent. The royal family, House Aldricsson, had long sought expansion through trade rather than conquest.
For Vinterhall, the alliance promised several benefits: access to Verdelund's expansive southern markets and refined exports; safe overland trade routes for their rare Froststeel, runewood, and glacial glass; a naval pact reinforcing their fjord defense fleets; and, most importantly, legitimacy in the eyes of southern powers who still viewed the North as savage and archaic.
And for Verdelund, the rewards were equally strategic: first rights to rare northern resources; defensive backing from Vinterhall's Shieldguard and mountain troops; stakehold in the frost routes and the lucrative Whispering Fjord; and the prestige of marrying into a lineage as ancient as the mountain-spirits themselves. Any child born of this union would hold dual claims to northern and southern territories, forming a dynastic bridge between two very different worlds.
The treaty had been named The Fjord-Crown Accord, and it outlined generous trade terms, shared military pacts, and succession guarantees. An Autonomy Clause had been added by Astrid's father to ensure her continued authority over her lands, military command, and title regardless of relocation.
But none of that eased the frustrations in her chest. The benefits to Vinterhall simply outwayed the means.
The door opened with a soft knock—more a courtesy than a request—and the scent of mountain sage and pine resin drifted in on the cold draft that followed.
Signe stepped back and lowered her gaze.
Astrid didn't need to turn. The rhythm of the footsteps, the low hush of silken cloaks, and the almost imperceptible hum in the air told her exactly who had entered.
"Mother," she said evenly, meeting her own eyes in the mirror before rising to her feet.
Yrsa of the Grey Veil stood just inside the chamber, flanked by two of her handpicked ladies-in-waiting—both veiled and dressed in deep slate tones with silver accents, marking them as part of the Seeress's inner circle.
Though years older than Astrid, Yrsa appeared barely into her thirties. Her long, silver-white hair fell in carefully arranged waves, streaked with icy threads of pale blue—a visual mark of her Seer's blessing. Her face was striking, sharp-boned but not severe, her eyes a pale crystal blue that never quite revealed what she was thinking. Her robes were layered and rich, the storm-dyed blues and embroidered sigils glinting faintly with protective runes. Around her throat, a pendant of skyglass pulsed faintly.
And in her hand, she carried her staff—a twisted thing of ancient alderwood capped with carved runes and an embedded froststone. She rarely brought it indoors.
"Leave us," Yrsa said, her tone smooth and even as her gaze briefly flicked toward Signe.
Signe obeyed immediately, dipping her head with quiet precision before retreating through the side door.
Astrid didn't speak, only watched her mother's reflection as she approached. The two veiled women lingered silently by the doorway, hands folded, still as statues.
"Your grandfather won't budge," Yrsa said flatly. "And your father, along with all eight of your brothers, have been sulking like overgrown children. The bickering started before breakfast. Honestly, your other mothers and I are spending more time keeping them from tearing into each other than managing the household."
She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, the weight of her fur-lined cloak shifting with her movement. After a long pause, she looked at Astrid again and let out a tired sigh.
Astrid turned slowly from the mirror, the hem of her gown whispering against the floor. "So that's it, then? No one's going to stop it?"
Yrsa looked up at her daughter, eyes calm but direct. "Would you like me to?"
Astrid didn't answer right away. Her hands drifted toward the pendant at her throat, fingers brushing the antlered stag absentmindedly.
"I don't want to be anyone's political offering," she said quietly.
Yrsa nodded once, not unkindly. "Then don't act like one."
Astrid blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You act like this is something happening to you," Yrsa said, voice low but firm. "But I didn't raise a girl who waits for permission to live on her own terms. If the Accord goes through, make it yours. If Leif ends up in your hall, let him know who commands the frostblooded Shieldguard and the elder runestones. Remind the South that no velvet court can teach a Vinterhall daughter how to bend."
Astrid frowned. "So I'm just meant to go along with it? Smile through it? Be a good, cold ornament on someone else's throne?"
Yrsa's eyes narrowed, the slightest crease forming at the corners. "No. But I am telling you not to let your pride blind you. This deal is already sealed in ink and blood. If you want to change the shape of your future, do it from within the walls—not from the snow-covered gate."
She rose, the staff in her hand faintly humming with that quiet power again.
"For what it's worth," she added more softly, "I made my own marriage into something it wasn't meant to be. You can do the same, if you choose to."
Astrid's shoulders tensed. "And if I choose not to?"
Yrsa's gaze held hers for a long moment.
"Then choose well," she said simply. "And be ready to deal with the storm that follows."
She turned to leave, her voice floating back just before the door closed behind her.
"Oh, and… Prince Leif should arrive in half an hour or so. We will be greeting him in the Winter Hall."
The door shut with a soft click.
Astrid let out a sound—half groan, half exhale—and stood abruptly. She didn't know where to direct the frustration building behind her ribs, so she turned in place and dropped backward onto the edge of her bed. The mattress barely gave under her weight.
Prince Leif.
The name alone made her jaw clench.
Twelve years had done nothing to dull the memory of their first and only meeting.
Twelve Years Ago
The Summer of the Accord Signing — Vinterhall's High Courtroom
The grand stone hall smelled of polished pine, hot wax, and traveling leather. Light streamed in through the narrow high windows, casting long, slanted shapes across the ceremonial furs and black ice banners of Vinterhall. A faint draft stirred the braziers at the corners, but the fire held.
Astrid sat stiffly on the edge of her carved seat, legs too short to reach the floor. She was only six winters old but already knew how to keep still when eyes were on her. Her hair, lighter than it was now, had been brushed and braided so tightly her scalp ached. A woven sash of white and violet crossed her tunic, marking her as the heir-daughter.
The boy they brought in from the other side of the hall walked like he didn't like being watched either.
Prince Leif of Verdelund was maybe a year or two older—seven, maybe eight—but already carried himself with a cautious dignity that didn't quite belong to boys his age. His dark brown hair, swept and curled in the courtly southern style, had clearly resisted the comb that morning. He wore a tailored blue jacket embroidered with fine silver branches and a gold lion clasp at the throat. The fur trim at his collar was too warm for summer, but it was traditional, and tradition trumped comfort.
Astrid stared at him openly. She'd never seen a southern noble up close before. He didn't look soft like her uncles said—they always spoke of the southern royals like they were made of velvet and syrup. He looked alert. Quiet. Like he was trying not to flinch in the cold.
Leif glanced her way, and for a breath, their eyes locked. His were an unusually bright shade of blue—not like the ice lakes near Vinterhall, but like blue fire in lantern glass. His mouth twitched faintly, not quite a smile.
Neither of them spoke.
The adults did the talking. Parchment was unrolled, names spoken aloud. Words like unity, future, stability floated in the air like invisible thorns. Astrid didn't understand most of it. Only one phrase made her sit straighter:
"—and in twelve years' time, the Lady Astrid Egildottir of Vinterhall shall be wed to His Serene Highness, Prince Leif Aldricsson of Verdelund, thus uniting north and south under the Fjord-Crown Accord."
Her tiny fists clenched in her lap.
She hadn't been asked.
The moment passed, and the courtiers began to applaud.
Only when the clapping faded did Astrid feel the silence between her and the boy. Leif stood just to her left now, close enough that she could see the fine stitching on his gloves and the way his shoulders didn't quite relax even when no one was speaking to him.
He leaned slightly toward her—not much, just enough so only she would hear.
"I don't like being told what to do either," he said, almost too quietly.
Astrid blinked. It was the first thing he'd said.
"I'm not marrying you," she said, flatly.
Leif didn't flinch. "We shall see."
That was it. He straightened up again and folded his hands in front of him, looking straight ahead. They didn't speak again. By nightfall, his carriage had already left.
She wouldn't see him again for twelve years.
Back in the present, Astrid stared at the wooden beams above her bed, the memory still lodged in her chest like a splinter.
The door opened again.
Signe stepped in, composed as ever. She paused just inside the room, hands clasped neatly in front of her apron.
"My lady," she said gently, "Seeress Yrsa has asked me to bring you to the Winter Hall to begin preparations."
Astrid didn't move at first. Then with a long, slow breath, she sat up. "Of course she has," Astrid muttered under her breath, brushing a hand through her curls.
She rose, smoothing the front of her gown, eyes distant.
"Let's get it over with."
The corridors of Vinterhall's keep echoed faintly with the sounds of preparation when Astrid and her Signe walked out of her chambers. The distant clatter of shields being shifted, the murmur of servants rushing with linens and torches, and the low, steady chants of rune-wardens activating the frostglyphs along the main gate all reached Astrid's ears as she walked.
Signe led the way, her steps measured and her posture flawless. She didn't look back, but Astrid could feel the handmaiden's quiet awareness—always close, always present, like a tether of steadiness when her own thoughts threatened to spiral.
The Winter Hall doors loomed ahead, carved from blackened oak reinforced with bands of froststeel. Intricate runes spiraled outward from the center, etched so deeply that the grooves still glowed faintly with trapped moonlight even in the day. A pair of Shieldguard warriors in heavy fur-and-mail stood on either side, their helms wrought in the shape of stag antlers. They crossed their halberds in salute as Astrid approached.
The doors opened with a resonant groan, and the weight of the hall pressed in around her.
Inside, the vast chamber was alive with movement. Tapestries of ice-blue and silver draped the high stone walls, each bearing the crest of House Vinterhall—the black stag rampant upon a frozen field. Chandeliers of carved ice hung suspended from the rafters, rune-bound to resist melting, their light casting sharp crystalline patterns across the flagstone floor. At the far end of the hall, the ancient basalt roundtable had been set with ceremonial goblets, runic scrolls, and fresh branches of pine—symbols of welcome and pact-binding.
Her family was already assembled.
At the head of the roundtable sat her father, Jarl Egil Vinterhall, his long beard braided with iron beads, his broad frame draped in a cloak of direwolf fur. At his right hand were his three wives—Yrsa, still veiled in her seeress mantle; Svala, fierce and hawk-eyed, with a sword laid across her knees; and Bryndis, calm and maternal, fingers adorned with silver rings. Along the sides of the chamber stood Astrid's eight elder brothers, each armored in ceremonial scale and bearing their own weapons across their backs. Their expressions ranged from tense to openly hostile, though none dared direct their ire at Astrid herself.
The air was sharp, expectant.
Signe guided Astrid forward, and the hall fell quieter with each step she took across the froststone floor. The sound of her gown trailing behind her seemed louder than it should have been.
Her father's gaze followed her, steady but unreadable. Yrsa inclined her head slightly, acknowledging her daughter's composure.
From outside, the sound of horns rose—deep and long, carrying through the fjords. The gates of Vinterhall were opening.
A ripple of tension passed through the hall.
Prince Leif had arrived.