Her father held back. "Not yet. Let dawn rise. Let her feel the cold of her final night. Her death must mean something."
"Let's wait," Eirik's voice deepened. "I want a duel. A fight. I want her to scream in her own blood."
"She's weak." Freya snapped. "She's not worth the honor of battle."
The men dragged her away, her wrist bound tightly, her legs barely carrying her. They shoved her into a damp cell, tossing her into the straw.
She sat alone, the bruise on her cheek pulsing with every heartbeat. The ache in her ribs returned with vengeance. Curling slightly forward, she pressed trembling hands to her stomach.
"You didn't ask for this," she whispered into the stillness.
Her hands moved to the edge of her torn skirts. Gritting her teeth, she wrenched a strip of fabric free, then another, until the lining of her tunic hung jagged. Pain laced through her side, but she endured it.
She folded the cloth, layering them over her belly, then wrapped them enough to shield her ribs.
The sky was still grey, morning barely breaking as fog clung to the earth like death's breath. Isabelle's legs scraped against rough gravel as they dragged her to the ring. She saw Eirik eating meat and smiling to Freya.
Surrounding her, a circle of shouting warriors roared their amusement, blades clanging against shields.
A tall man entered the ring. He tossed Isabelle a dagger. Pathetically small. Meant for butchering, not fighting.
"Fight well," Freya called out with mockery. "If you make it entertaining, your neck might be intact when we send it to your people."
She recalled Ewan's voice during training, when he pressed her backward with a wooden sword.
"Never fight a tall man with brute strength. You're smaller but quicker. Make him fall and let the ground break him for you."
The giant lunged. She ducked, the blade slicing past her shoulder. She turned, trying to strike, but he was fast. A heavy hand struck her cheek, sending her tumbling.
She rose, blood dripping down her neck. She ran forward, leapt, using his thigh as a spring, and drove her dagger into his skull with all the weight of her fear, fury, and her child.
The man staggered, then dropped.
Dead.
Freya walked toward her slowly, surrounded by two warriors.
"No more games. I'll kill you myself."
Isabelle tried to stand to brace herself, but her legs were weak.
A horn split the morning. Arrows rained from the trees. Screams erupted as men fell around her. One of the warriors fell, an arrow in his throat. Freya cursed, retreating.
From the hills, a roar came.
Ewan.
Clad in a blackened armor, his wolf-etched axe gleaming, he surged forward with King Edmund's forces. Steel met flesh as enemies scrambled for defense. Rollo fought like a storm, cleaving his way through.
"My lady!" he bellowed.
Ewan reached her first, slicing down a charging warrior without pause. He caught her by the arm, supporting her weight.
"You're bleeding," he growled.
"You should see the man I just killed," she rasped, half-smiling.
He kissed her cheeks, lifting her to safety while chaos blazed behind.
The war was over.
He stood in front, his posture straight, his blood humming with anger. Before him, bound in chains was Eirik, Hrothgar and his daughter. The three who once threatened to tear the clan apart. Hrothgar's face was hard, but his eyes flickered with a hollow kind of dread. He had instilled fear on people that he had forgotten what fear actually felt like.
"Judgement has been passed," Ewan said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the yard. "The blood war ends today."
Eirik spat to the ground. "You think you've won? You think this peace will last?"
"You will pay for this Jarl," Hrothgar added smiling.
"No," Isabelle said, walking towards Ewan. "These betrayers shouldn't be shown any mercy."
Eirik smiled. "And what do you have to say noble brat?"
"Stripping them isn't enough," she added, eyes fixed on Eirik. "Peace will not last if we throw them into exile and pretend it's over. They'll claw their way back."
"And what will you do? Kill us?" Freya asked with arrogance.
"We give them as gift to King Edmund."
The crowd gasped.
Hrothgar snarled, pulling against the chains. "He'll kill us!"
Ewan exhaled slowly, realizing she was right.
"So be it."
Ash clung to the earth like patches, but spring crept steadily, coaxing green shoots through battle-scarred soil. Peace had settled over the clan like a warm bed. Songs had returned to the houses, laughter rising from the fields, and no war horns sounded through the trees.
Isabelle stood barefoot on the wooden balcony, wrapped in a wool cloak, wind teased her hair loose. Her hands cupped her growing belly, rounder now, firm beneath her palm.
Behind her, the low crackle of fire and the scent of pine resin welcomed her back inside.
"You're still standing?" came his voice, rough, silk, deep, and warm.
She smiled, turning to him, walking toward her bare-chested, his broad frame casting long shadows against the frame-lit walls.
"I like the air," she murmured. "And the silence."
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing a kiss to the crook of her neck. "There's silence...and then there's absence from our bed. That, I do not like."
"Did you see Moira? She asked me for a month off."
He grunted. "Looks like they can't keep their hands off each other. Now and then, they ask the old carpenter to fix their bed."
She laughed. "You noticed that? You're so wicked."
"As do we," he murmured, turning her in his arms. "We might have to change ours, too."
He cupped her face gently and kissed her slowly.
"You shouldn't kiss me like that," she whispered breathlessly.
He lifted her to the bed, kneeling beside her, and kissed her belly. "This child will have a kingdom born of two worlds. And I will guard you both with fire and blade."
"And I will raise it with wisdom."
The storm had passed. She was Isabelle.
And this is her home.