There were no boisterous conversations. No metal clinking as the women forged weapons. No clattering of plates or children screaming as they ran from the roaring river beneath the moss-covered homes. No shouts as the young honed their skills in battle and weaponry.
The wind whistling through the thick forest circling the village had died down, and even the river ran smoothly today—in stark contrast to the storm battling within me, despite my attempt at a calm surface. People lifted their heads from their tasks as I passed them, and once more my vision went cloudy at the fear tightening their features.
“You know what you need to do,” I whispered to myself when my stride wavered. “You knew from the moment they went missing. This is your wyrd now.”
“Get that chin up,” Viljan said under his breath, his tone as urgent as the pain stabbing at my heart. “We’ll be out of here in no time.”
After taking a shallow breath, I did as he told me. I was glad for the cold that remained in my limbs. It kept my steps steady and my back straight as I walked up to my mother and siblings, who were standing outside the longhouse—the place where our village ate and spent time together and where my father would host his weekly meetings, discussing war and trade and everything day to day for our people.
Silva and Hera were pale, their hair looking like burning flames to their blanched cheeks, and the twins held on to our mother’s skirts as if she’d disappear like our father had if they let go. None of them cried, though, and neither did my mother as she lifted a small hand and placed it over her heart.
“Viljan and I are leaving,” I said, my voice bouncing against the stone homes.
No emotions shadowed my mother’s features. “Is that so?”
“I have to try,” I said, the weight of my people’s gazes on me. “I have to try to save us.” I blew out a trembling breath. “We will tell the king and the other heirs that Lika and my father are waging war and that I was sent in Lika’s stead.”
“The gods are watching the Hird. You know that,” my mother said. “They’ll know the truth, and even if by some wyrd you survive until the end, you will have to answer to them.”
“They will see the courage in her heart,” Viljan said. “They will reward her for it.”
“Or they will punish her for the lie.” My mother pulled my siblings closer. “Then they’ll come for us.”
“I will be brave, Mother.” I did my best to mirror her blank features. “I will honor our people so that the gods see that our lineage deserves to live on. I will not allow the Hird to find out we have no magic. I will not let them come here.”
“We will see,” my mother said, her voice echoing with a familiar distance.
“I will survive this,” I said through clenched teeth. “Iwill. I will protect our people and earn a rune before anyone finds out father and Lika are dead.”
“I’ll make sure she lives,” Viljan added. “I will protect her every step.”
“And won’t she need it,” my mother mumbled. “As ifyoucould take Lika’s place.”
“Mother,” I started when my stomach knitted, but she held up a hand.
“Elvara Sweengard,” she hissed. “You will not dishonor our family today. Not with your father and brother in Valhalla.”
My neck stiffened, my eyes going unseeing as I forced my body to display everything I didn’t feel—strength, conviction, and a power that no longer thrummed through my veins.
“May Odin protect you. May Thor give you strength. May Frigg offer you his knowledge. And may Tyr steer you right,” my mother said, her voice flat as she offeredme our gods’ blessings.
I waited a beat, but she had no other words than the formal ones used to send off warriors into battle. As the leaders of our people—our fylki—we were expected to remain strong, not betray the emotions that wanted to burst through our skin. My mother had beaten this into my bones since I was young. Hugs and warmth and emotions were not to be expected from Seindra Sweengard. Vikings were not weak. Sacrifice came with our manner of living, and death was as familiar to us as the turn of the tide.
Still, she must feel it. The sorrow. The heartache.
Not for me—never for me—but for the husband and beloved son she’d lost.
Turning my back on the silent crowd that circled us, I reached out a shaking hand toward her, seeking hidden comfort. But a ripple of shame, like a rushing river in summer, wove across my skin when my mother shook her head and wrapped her arms around my younger siblings, steering them backward.
I hid my trembling inhale with a cough.
I shoulddefinitelyhave known better. She might be hurting as much as I was. Perhaps even more. But all that would have to wait until the dark of night—when we could cry into blankets and pretend for a while that our entire existence wasn’t to further our fylki’s territory.
Gravel crunched beneath my boots when I spun to make my way to the harbor.
Leather-clad people lined up on either side of the path, silently watching me leave. Their faces were marred by sorrow, the lines deepening for every step I took toward the wooden docks, and tears glistened on more than one pair of cheeks.
They weren’t crying only for the dead chief and the heir who’d been raised to rule them, or for the magic that no longer roared in our blood, but for me—for the daughter of the fylki—who would likely never return, and as such would force them into a new life.
