As Hilda settled onto a nearby bench, children eagerly gathered around her, their small hands tugging at her robes, their eyes filled with excitement for whatever story she had prepared. I turned away from the scene and pushed open the monastery doors.

  The air inside was heavy with the scent of burning candles and old parchment. A few people were kneeling in silent prayer, their heads bowed, lips moving in whispered devotion. At the far end of the hall, sitting in a wooden chair with a book in one hand and a cross in the other, was John, the priest. His brow furrowed slightly as he read, completely immersed in the text.

  I approached quietly, then cleared my throat to get his attention. John glanced up, raised a single finger to signal patience, and finished the passage he was reading before shutting the book with a soft thud. He tucked the cross into his pocket and stood with a faint grunt, stretching his back.

  “You’re up,” he noted, his eyes scanning me briefly. “How do you feel, heathen?”

  I smirked. “Been worse.”

  John turned his gaze to Ela. "And how about you? Your mother was furious that you took her men and ran back to that prison camp."

  Ela lowered her head slightly, shifting her weight. “I know,” she admitted, her voice small. “But we’re alright now.”

  I smiled at the exchange, then met John's eyes. “Thank you, Priest. For saving me.”

  John scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “If it wasn’t God’s will, I’d have left you there to bleed out. You should be thanking Him.”

  I raised a brow. “God’s will?”

  “Heathen or not,” he said, crossing his arms, “it’s my duty to help those in need... unfortunately.”

  I huffed a laugh. “You’re a strange one, Priest.”

  John tilted his head. “Says the fucking Norse—” He froze mid-sentence, realization dawning as his lips clamped shut. His eyes squeezed shut as if already regretting his words. “O Lord, forgive me, for I have sworn on sacred ground,” he murmured, rubbing his temples.

  A chuckle slipped past my lips. “I should go,” I said, amused. “I’ll see you soon, John.”

  “See you soon, Valrik,” he replied, exhaling. “Try not to start any trouble in the city.”

  I turned and pushed open the heavy monastery doors, stepping out into the cool afternoon air. The weight of the city’s hum surrounded me once more. Ela stood beside me, and as our eyes met, I gave her a slight tilt of my head. Without a word, she started walking, and I followed close behind.

  Freydis’ words lingered in my mind—joining another clan that wasn’t mine? The thought gnawed at me. Could I truly belong somewhere else? Would it be a betrayal of my father’s legacy? The burden pressed against me in a way I hadn’t felt before.

  “Valrik,” Ela spoke up, her voice careful. “Your former clan—who’s the Jarl now?”

  “My brother’s uncle. Jeopp,” I answered, my tone neutral. “Why?”

  She hesitated before shifting uncomfortably. “Your father was the Jarl, right?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed, glancing at her. “That’s right.”

  Ela bit her lip. “Then why didn’t you become the Jarl? Was it because you didn’t want to? Like my mother?”

  I didn’t answer immediately. The question dug into a wound that had long since closed but never fully healed. Of course, I had wanted to take the throne. What son wouldn’t? It would’ve been the greatest honor. But I had been too young. Too inexperienced. So instead, Pilddr’s uncle had taken the seat of power.

  “I wanted to,” I admitted finally. “But I was too young when my father died. The next to sit on that throne… wasn’t me.”

  Ela was quiet for a moment, then spoke carefully. “And now? Would you want to be Jarl if you had the chance?”

  A short laugh escaped me, though it lacked humor. “Of course. It’d be my honor.” My expression darkened slightly. “But I doubt they’d accept me.”

  Ela studied me for a moment, then simply nodded. “Right. I understand…”

  We rounded a corner and stepped onto the main street, the sharp clang of metal against metal growing louder with each step. The air carried the scent of burning coal and molten iron. Ahead, the blacksmith, Nitton, stood in front of his shop, hammering away at a greatsword. Sparks flew with every strike, and his young son stood beside him, watching intently, his small hands gripping the edge of the workbench.

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  Nitton paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, and that’s when he spotted us. A broad grin spread across his soot-streaked face. He set the hammer down behind him and crossed his arms, waiting as we approached.

  “Valrik and Ela,” he greeted, his voice as hearty as ever. “What a surprise. How are the axes, drengr? Good as new, eh?”

  I clapped a hand over the handle of one at my waist. “Indeed, friend. Good as new. I even gave sacrifice to Odin with them already.”

  Nitton let out a pleased hum. “Wonderful.” His eyes shifted to Ela. “And you, girl? Last time you were here, you said your mother’s gauntlet was broken—” His gaze dropped to my wrist, and his expression darkened in realization. “Wait a moment… that was the leather gauntlet I fixed. You lied to me, didn’t you?”

  Ela tensed. “Uh…”

  “You knew I’d fix it for free because of your mother,” he accused, eyes narrowing.

  I turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Did you lie that my gauntlet was your mother’s?”

  “She did,” Nitton confirmed, crossing his arms. “You little Loki’s child!” His words held no real anger—only amusement.

  Ela sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m sorry… but it was kind of urgent.”

  “This kid,” I muttered, shaking my head.

  “A-anyway,” Ela rushed on, eager to change the subject. “Nitton, do you have my mother’s deliveries ready?”

  Nitton squinted. “Are we sure they’re your mother’s, you little troll-girl? Or are you lying to me again?”

  “No lies this time!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands.

  The blacksmith let out a deep chuckle. “I know, I know. The weapons are ready. They’re inside.” He turned to his son. “Haldor, go grab them and bring them out.”

  “Yes, father,” the boy responded, running to the shop’s entrance.

  We waited as he disappeared inside. Moments later, he reemerged, dragging a sack nearly twice his size, the heavy load scraping against the ground with a dull thud. I stepped forward instinctively to help, but Nitton held up a hand, stopping me. I hesitated but obeyed, watching as the boy struggled to pull the sack forward.

  When he finally managed to drag it outside, he let out a breathless sigh and straightened, wiping his brow in triumph. Nitton chuckled and ruffled his son’s hair. “That’s my boy.”

  Haldor beamed up at him. “So can I finally drink ale now?”

  Nitton’s laughter rumbled through his chest. “Not until you forge your first weapon,” he said, shaking his head. “After that? Maybe.”

  The boy’s face fell. “Aw.”

  I knelt beside the sack, gripping the rough fabric and hoisting it onto my shoulder. Pain lanced up my back, sharp and biting, but I swallowed down the grimace threatening to surface.

  “So many weapons,” I muttered through clenched teeth.

  Ela stepped closer, eyes flickering with concern. “Your wounds—are you alright?”

  “I can carry it for you,” Nitton offered. “Go fetch your horse, and I’ll bring it to you.”

  His words made my muscles stiffen. He might as well have spat in my face. “Step aside, old man. I’m… not—a weakling.” I managed to say, greeting my teeth.

  Ela placed a cautious hand on my arm. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded stiffly, jaw clenching. “If I drop this sack on the ground, I will never touch my axes again.”

  She blinked. “Huh?”

  “It’s my honor on the line now,” I said, shifting under the weight. My back screamed in protest, but I gritted my teeth and straightened. “I can’t drop this sack… ugh, Odin’s beard. Let’s leave the city quickly. Or rather—go get Mielda. Bring her here.”

  Ela hesitated, then sighed and shook her head. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.” But she didn’t argue. Instead, she turned and sprinted off, weaving through the crowd.

  “Well…” I muttered. “Farewell, Nitton.”

  “Just—be careful there.”

  I let out a breath, adjusting my grip. Each step sent a jolt of pain through my back, and the weapons inside clanked loudly against each other. Thankfully, the blades were sheathed, and the shields hadn’t torn through the fabric.

  The journey to the gates felt longer than it should have, but as I rounded the last corner, relief washed over me. There stood Ela, holding Mielda’s reins, the mare snorting impatiently.

  With the last of my strength, I hoisted the sack up and dumped it over Mielda’s back before sinking to the ground with an exhausted groan.

  “Ohh,” I exhaled, staring up at the sky. “Wow… I need to relax.”

  Ela crossed her arms, unimpressed. “That was a stupid promise.”

  I cracked one eye open. “A stupid promise I kept. You can’t get stronger otherwise.”

  “So that’s why you make stupid promises?”

  “No,” I shot back. “That’s why you push your limits.”

  “By making stupid promises?”

  I groaned, grabbing Mielda’s reins. “I guess so.”

  Ela huffed a laugh. “Great. Noted.”

  “What, you never do that?” I asked, glancing at her.

  “No?” she replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re weird.”

  “And you’re a little thief. Should I tell your mother how you lied to Nitton?”

  “What? No!” she gasped, eyes widening.

  “Then tell me I’m right.”

  She sighed, shaking her head. “Valrik the Wise... you are right.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a grin.

  After four or five steps, we both chuckled and turned toward the city gates, leaving York behind. A little sleep wouldn’t hurt. After all, a raid was coming when the sun dipped, and I needed to gather my senses before the chaos began.

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