"You don't have to walk me all the way home," Isabelle said, pulling her cloak tighter.
Rollo, one of the warriors, known for his wide face and scary look, gave a low chuckle. "And have the Jarl skin me alive? Not pairing you with me is enough. I'll take my chances with the cold."
They walked in silence for a few steps, their boots crunching through the dusted earth. Then, he glanced sideways at her.
"Don't ever think Freya is better than you. You fought well today. That was a clean sweep with the axe," he said, smiling. "I wouldn't have stepped in your way either."
She smirked. "You would have if the Jarl had told you to."
"Aye," Rollo admitted. "But only because he was worried. That's all."
She raised an eyebrow. "Worried? About me?"
He nodded. "He watches over all of us, especially those who show fire. He's not angry. Just...cautious."
"He's not like what I thought," she said quietly.
"No, he's a good man. Tough, but fair." Rollo grinned. "He sees something in you. We all do."
She looked up at him, the moonlight making her eyes gleam. "Even you?"
Rollo shrugged, but his voice was low, almost shy. "I suppose I like watching someone who reminds me that warriors don't have to be six-feet tall and covered in scars."
She laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should." he said, stopping at the edge of her homestead. "Now go inside before I say something that would make me look soft."
She stepped through the door, then turned, lingering for a breath. "Thanks Rollo. For the walk."
He gave her a half smile. "Anytime. You fight like thunder and walk like snow. The Jarl was right to worry you'll shake the whole village one day."
The torchlight trembled on the damp walls, casting long, flickering shadows across the narrow stone cell. The scent of iron, blood, and rot hung thick in the air. Varg sat against the cold wall, wrist shackled, his once-proud shoulders weighed down more by time than chains. His mouth was cracked and dry, and bruises across his ribs pulsed with every breath.
He heard footsteps before he saw the man.
Slow, heavy, and intentional.
In stepped War Chief Hrothgar, his presence so thick that it silenced the rats. He wore no armor —only a cloak, a tunic soaked in sea salt and smoke, and the quiet confidence of a man who had never lost a war he wanted to win.
Varg raised an eyebrow, forcing a smirk through split lips. "Come to kill me yourself? Thought you preferred to sent one of your dogs."
Hrothgar didn't rise to the bait. He stepped into the cell and crouched down, eyeing Varg like a weapon dulled by rust but still dangerous.
"No," he said. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be rotting by now."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a flask, settling it down between them.
"You'll need your strength."
"For what?" Varg muttered. "Execution day?"
He smiled.
"A fight to the death."
Varg laughed, the sound dry and brittle.
"You want me to entertain your brats before they bury me?"
"No." he stood slowly. "Someone has asked for you. The clan agreed."
Varg's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"A girl."
He laughed, his crooked teeth bright in the darkness.
"You'd let a girl face me?"
Hrothgar shrugged. "She wants your blood. Kill her and I'll give you a boat, a blade and warriors at your back. You'll vanish and no one will chase."
Varg stared at the flask for a long moment, then dragged it toward him with a bloodied hand.
He drank deep, wiped his mouth, and whispered into the shadows.
"Tomorrow, I'll give you a show."
The ring had been drawn, a wide circle surrounded by villagers —men, women, and elders who clung to their cloaks and whispered the gods' names under their breath. The crowd pulsed with tension, breath fogging in the cold morning air. Above them, the mountains stood silent, watching.
In the center stood Isabelle, her sharp eyes fixed, her braids tied back. She rolled her shoulders once, then again. She wore no armor, only leather at her chest and wrists.
Across from her stood Varg. Broad as an ox, with shoulders like stone and a beard that hung like a war banner. His axe was almost as long as her arm. He looked at her with contempt, lips curling into a grin.
"A girl?" he barked, voice like gravel and fire. "You've run out of warriors."
Isabelle smiled. "I'm just the last one you'll ever see."
The crowd murmured. Laughter. Some nervous, and some vicious. But not from the high seat.
The Jarl, seated above the ring on a carved wooden throne, said nothing. And Rollo, his best warrior and advisor, did. He noticed the slight narrowing of the Jarl's eyes. Fingers tightening slowly on the carved armrest. A flicker of breath held in the throat.
He was worried.
"Begin!" A warrior shouted.
Varg charged like a bear, axe raised, brute power in every stump. Isabelle moved like smoke, ducking under his swing as she was taught and landing a slash along his ribs. It wasn't deep but it stung.
He roared and came again, faster, driving her back. She blocked a blow, but the force sent her stumbling. She rolled to avoid a crushing stomp and jabbed upward with her blade that caught his thigh.
Another cut. But small.
Sweat beaded in her brow. Her breath came faster, her heart rapid. She was wearing him down but not fast enough.
Then she slipped.
Just for a second, her heel caught a rut in the earth.
Varg's axe came down.
She twisted, barely dodging the full blow, but the edge sliced deep into her side. Blood poured hot and fast. She screamed and fell to her knees.
In the silence that followed, Rollo saw it.
Ewan had risen halfway from his seat. His fist clenched white. His lips clenched to a thin, bloodless line.
Vrag raised his axe, grinning.
"Any last words, girl?"
She looked up through her pain, eyes blazing. She spat blood into his face. With her last ounce of strength she drove her blade up straight through his groin.
The crowd gasped. Varg staggered back, eyes wide then collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.
Isabelle stood, sword still in hand. She looked at the Jarl, met his eyes.
Then collapsed.
The crowd surged, but no one reached her faster than the Jarl himself.
He was on his knees in the dirt, gathering her into his arms like something precious. Her blood soaked his tunic but he didn't flinch.
"Get the healer." he barked. "Now."
Rollo stepped aside, eyebrows raised.
Ewan lifted Isabelle, limp and bloodied and carried her to his room. Not the healer's tent, not the infirmary.
But to his own chamber.
And watching from a distance, standing stiff as stone, was Freya. Her knuckles white around the haft of her spear.
She had never seen the Jarl move like that. Not even for her.