The doors of the Winter Hall closed behind them with a thunderous finality, sealing the echoes of firelight and northern voices away. The corridor beyond was dimmer, lit only by rune-torches set into the froststone walls, their pale glow washing the stone in icy blue.
Leif's boots struck the floor in a measured rhythm, his cloak trailing behind him as he strode forward, his retainers flanking him in silence. For several steps, no one dared speak. The tension of the hall still clung to them like frost.
At last, one of his men cleared his throat, his voice low but urgent. "My prince—"
Leif's gloved hand lifted, fingers spread in command. His tone was quiet but firm, leaving no room for argument.
"Not here."
The words cut the air as sharply as a blade. He did not slow, his gaze fixed ahead, blue-fire eyes cold and steady.
"We will discuss it in the chambers we were given," he added, softer now, though the steel remained.
The retainer bowed his head immediately. "As you command."
Silence settled again, broken only by the faint hum of the rune-torches and the echo of their steps as they moved deeper into the keep.
Leif did not glance back at the great doors of the Winter Hall. But the set of his jaw was tight, and his fingers lingered briefly at the edge of his cloak, tightening the fabric as if to hold something in place—anger, perhaps, or something more complicated.
The corridor bent twice, then opened on a heavy oak door carved with antler motifs and reinforced by bands of froststeel. Two Shieldguard of Vinterhall stood on either side, their halberds crossed in silent salute before parting to allow Leif and his men through.
Inside, the chambers given to the southern prince glowed with firelight. Twin hearths blazed at either end of the room, their flames throwing warm light across stone walls and thick timber beams overhead. Furs and woven rugs softened the froststone floors, and carved oak furniture filled the space—tables set with goblets and bread, benches piled with folded pelts, a broad bed draped in deep crimson cloth. The air smelled of pine resin, smoke, and fresh bread.
The moment the door shut behind them, Leif's men moved.
One knelt at the threshold, running a gloved hand across the stone and muttering a low incantation to test for sigils. Another circled the room's edges, brushing his palm along the walls, pausing to inspect candle sconces, carvings in the beams, even the seams of the hearthstone. The third swept a small copper mirror through the air, angling it toward the firelight to catch any hidden etchings.
"Listening runes?" one murmured.
"None that I can see," another answered, brow furrowed. "If they're here, they're buried deeper than surface wards."
Leif walked further in without hesitation, unfastening his fox-fur cloak and casting it across the arm of a chair near the nearer hearth. Firelight caught the embroidery of his coat as he lowered himself into the seat with deliberate calm, resting one gloved hand on the carved armrest.
His men completed their sweep and turned back toward him. The leader stepped forward, bowing his head slightly. "The room is clear, my prince."
Leif's eyes—blue and steady as lantern flame—shifted to him.
"Good," he said softly.
He removed one glove with a slow, precise tug, revealing long fingers, then steepled his hands before his mouth. For the first time since stepping into Vinterhall, he allowed himself the faintest exhale.
"Now we may speak freely."
He paused, blue-fire gaze narrowing as he swept the chamber once more—the rafters, the hearths, the heavy tapestries along the walls. Even cleared, the room still bore the weight of Vinterhall's stone silence.
"But just in case," he added, his voice sharpening, "Ivan—put up one of your barriers."
The tallest of his retainers, broad-shouldered and marked by a faint scar along his jaw, gave a curt nod. "At once, my prince."
Ivan stepped to the center of the room and pressed a gloved hand to the froststone floor. His lips moved in a low murmur, syllables of an old southern dialect carrying like whispers through wood and stone. The air thickened as faint golden threads of light spread from beneath his palm, spiderwebbing outward across the chamber.
They stretched to the corners, climbed the walls, and wound through the beams before settling into a translucent dome that shimmered for a heartbeat, then faded from sight.
A subtle hum followed—a low vibration, almost inaudible, like the hush before thunder.
"No sound will pass beyond these walls now," Ivan said as he rose. "Not by rune, not by ear."
Leif inclined his head slightly. "Good."
He leaned back in the chair, removing his second glove and setting it neatly on the armrest. His expression remained composed, though his eyes flicked once toward the door through which Astrid had left the hall not long ago.
At his glance, the others stirred. One by one, each man reached for his hand and slipped free the heavy signet ring gleaming on his finger. Leif did the same, twisting the Verdelund crest until the enchantment unspooled with a faint crackle of hidden magic.
The chamber seemed to shiver.
The moment the rings lifted away, the illusion fell. The southern witch's craft—designed to soften their presence, dull their edges, and hide what they truly were—dissolved into the air like smoke snuffed by wind.
The change was immediate.
Eyes that had appeared a steady human shade now burned crimson in the firelight, catching and holding it like molten rubies. Their skin, pale before, settled into pure alabaster, smooth and flawless, unnaturally cold in its beauty. Their features sharpened, symmetry tipping from handsome into something inhuman—striking, predatory, breathtaking in a way that unsettled mortal senses.
The air itself grew heavier, thick with the presence of predators no longer veiled. The twin hearths threw their shadows long and lean across the stone walls.
Leif changed the most. His jawline refined into a sharper cut, his cheekbones carved into something almost royal in their severity. His crimson eyes caught the firelight, burning with restrained hunger and command. Where moments ago he had been a southern prince, now he sat revealed as something far more dangerous—an apex creature wrapped in silk and diplomacy.
None of them seemed rushed. None of them seemed ashamed. This was their truth, their comfort.
Leif rested his bare hands on the carved arms of the chair, steepling his fingers lightly once more. His gaze flicked over his men, each restored to his true form, before he spoke again—voice calm, but resonant, carrying the weight of what they were.
"Now," he said, crimson eyes narrowing faintly, "about tomorrow's fun."
His voice slid like silk over steel.
"Are the wolves ready? I want these Viking barbarians primed for feeding. Their hearts should be pounding with excitement. That way their blood will be all the richer when we drain them dry." He licked his lips, slow and deliberate. "Remember, the girl is mine. You may have the rest of the lesser vermin."
There was no mistaking the intent behind his words. Ivan inclined his head, a thin smile exposing teeth a shade too sharp for a mere courtier.
"They'll be set," he said. "We have men among the Shieldguard and several of your nearer hosts. A few carefully worded wagers and a thinned mead before the feast will put them where you want them. No runes, no overseers. Just warm blood and quick blades."
A second man, younger and more fervent, cracked his knuckles and laughed softly. "Let them come hungry. Give them fires, drums, strong ale—get them roaring. When they dance for us, they won't notice the teeth at their necks until it's too late."
Leif's eyes glittered. "Good. Take care: leave Bjorn a show of respect, but do not let him stand between you and the prey if he sours the mood. The Jarl's pride is manageable. It's the men who follow him we must thin."
Ivan bowed. "We will stage the hunters—two on the east ramp, three by the long table, and a pair near the guest doors. When the signal goes—" He tapped his throat lightly, the gesture both ritual and practical. "—we move as one."
Leif sat very still, the cold calm of his command making the room feel smaller.
"And Astrid," he said, his voice dropping so the others leaned in, "she lives. Bring her to me unbroken. I have no pleasure in ruin. I prefer possession to wreckage. You will feed on those who celebrate too loudly, those who revel in our bargain. Make it clean. Make it swift. And when you return… bring me trophies."
A low assent passed between them like a tide. They began to trade finer details—who would guard which table, which servants to distract, what sign Ivan would give. The barrier hummed faintly at their feet, invisible and sure, a dome against unwelcome ears. Outside the chamber door, Vinterhall breathed easy, its hearths burning bright and ignorant beneath the weight of the Accord.
Leif folded his hands again, a slow breath leaving him like a promise. In the reflected blaze of the hearth, his crimson eyes shone with something that was not merely hunger. It was appetite, of body and of claim—an appetite that would not be sated by gold or treaties, only by taking what he believed was owed.
Meanwhile, in the training hall, the rhythmic crack of steel against oak echoed through the air. Astrid's pale hair clung in damp strands to her neck and shoulders, her body moving in sharp, precise arcs as she drove her blade into the practice dummy again and again. The thrum of her breath and the scrape of her boots over the froststone floor filled the space.
She had come here the moment she shed the weight of her gown, trading silks and crystal pins for a fitted tunic, bracers, and worn boots. The sword in her hand was not ceremonial, nor forged for show—it was her own, balanced to her arm, the fuller scarred from years of practice.
Her strikes were clean but forceful, each one carrying the frustration she had swallowed in the Winter Hall. The dummy rocked, splinters chipping from its wooden frame, yet still she pressed on, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.
Bjorn. Always Bjorn. The old man's voice still rang in her ears, heavy as stone: You will take the blade. You will take the hand that comes with it. His decree left no space for her voice, no room for her will. Even after all her training, all her victories against her brothers, even after Freyja's blessing marked her as heir, she was still nothing more than a piece on his board.
The blade cracked harder against the dummy, its head snapping sideways on its post.
And Leif—standing there with that calm, unreadable face. He hadn't risen to her challenge, hadn't bitten back like she expected. He just stood there, watching, as though he had all the time in the world. That faint curve of his mouth lingered in her mind—mockery, promise, threat. She hated that she couldn't tell which.
Her arms ached, but she did not stop.
They talk of oaths, of Accord, of union. But none of them care what I want. Not Grandfather, not Father, not the South. I am their bridge. Their bond. Their bargaining piece.
The edge of her sword buried deep in the dummy's chest. Wood splintered, the post shuddering.
Astrid ripped the blade free, breath sharp, chest rising and falling. She tightened her grip and struck again, faster this time, her frustration turning into rhythm, each blow punctuated by the thoughts she hadn't been allowed to voice in the hall.
I am not an ornament. I am not a prize. And if they think I will smile through this marriage, they are fools.
Steel cracked again, loud and final, the dummy's chest splitting beneath the force of her last blow. Her breath came in sharp pulls, white in the cool air, but her hands didn't loosen. She raised her blade again—only to feel eyes on her.
Astrid stilled, chest heaving.
From the shadow of the stone wall, Svala leaned with her arms crossed, gaze sharp and unreadable. She had been there long enough to see every strike, every ounce of frustration driven into the wood. The faintest curve touched her mouth—not amusement, not mockery, something nearer to pride.
For a while, she did not move. She simply watched, content to let Astrid burn the storm from her blood. Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the crack of steel, the splinter of wood, and Astrid's steady breaths.
Then Svala pushed away from the wall.
Her boots thudded against the froststone as she crossed the chamber, the fur of her cloak whispering behind her. She did not speak at first, only reached for the weapon rack at her side. Her fingers closed around the shaft of a heavy spear, the polished oak worn smooth from years of drills. She spun it once, testing its balance, before stepping into Astrid's path.
Astrid's blade froze mid-swing, lilac eyes flashing toward her mother.
Svala rested the spear across her shoulder, her stance easy but firm, the grin now clear in her voice.
"You'll dull that edge before tomorrow, girl, if you keep hacking at dead wood." She lowered the spear to her side, tilting the haft toward Astrid like an invitation. "Come. If you've frustration to spend, best you spend it on someone who'll strike back."