By winter’s end, the rumors had settled into something permanent.

  Dagny noticed it in small things.

  Men stepping aside too quickly.

  Women lowering their voices as she passed.

  Children staring until their mothers pulled them away.

  She did not resent it.

  Fear was easier than affection.

  It required less effort to maintain.

  She was alone in the outer yard when he approached her.

  She heard the footsteps first — steady, unhurried.

  Not hesitant.

  That alone was unusual.

  She did not turn.

  “If you’ve come to stare,” she said, adjusting the strap on her bracer, “do it from farther away.”

  “I’m not staring.”

  The voice was calm. Almost amused.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  A boy who looked to be around her age stood a few paces behind her, hands loose at his sides. No weapon drawn. No tension in his posture.

  He was tall, broad-shouldered, but there was something unthreatening about him. Snow clung to his dark hair. His expression held neither awe nor fear.

  “You’re in my space,” she said.

  He shrugged slightly.

  “You don’t own the yard.”

  A bold answer.

  Not aggressive.

  Just true.

  Most people chose their words carefully around her.

  He did not.

  She studied him.

  "Who are you?"

  "My name's Leif."

  “You’ve heard what they say.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you came anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  She narrowed her eyes slightly.

  “Why?”

  He considered the question seriously.

  “Because they weren’t there.”

  Her expression didn’t change.

  “At what?”

  “At whatever happened.”

  A simple answer.

  No accusation.

  No blind defense.

  Just logic.

  She turned fully toward him now.

  “And if they’re right?”

  “Then I’ll find out myself.”

  There was no bravado in it.

  No challenge.

  Just quiet resolve.

  That unsettled her more than anger would have.

  He stepped closer, but not enough to crowd her.

  “I’m training,” he said. “You can join me. Or not.”

  He turned his back to her.

  Just like that.

  No pressure.

  No demand.

  No flinching.

  He began stretching as though she weren’t the most talked-about person in Vestfold.

  Dagny watched him for a long moment.

  Most people approached her with an agenda.

  Fear.

  Flattery.

  Suspicion.

  He approached her with none.

  Interesting.

  She stepped forward and picked up a wooden practice blade.

  “If you hesitate,” she said calmly, “I won’t.”

  He gave a small smile without looking at her.

  “I won’t.”

  They began.

  And for the first time in months, someone struck at her without anger behind it.

  Just effort.

  Just presence.

  Just human warmth in the cold.

  She felt it immediately.

  And she hated that she noticed.

  Because warmth was weakness.

  And weakness had burned once before.

  Leif did not fight like the others.

  He didn’t test her.

  Didn’t try to prove himself.

  He simply met her strikes.

  Where others swung harder after she blocked them, he adjusted.

  Where others lunged, he waited.

  It irritated her.

  “You’re holding back,” she said after their third exchange.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “How you move.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “And?”

  “You don’t waste effort.”

  She stepped in fast, testing him. He barely managed to block in time.

  “Most people don’t,” she said flatly.

  He shook his head, lowering his blade.

  “They do. They fight with anger. Or pride.”

  He met her eyes.

  “You don’t.”

  There was no fear in his voice.

  No admiration either.

  Just observation.

  That unsettled her more than either would have.

  She attacked again.

  Faster.

  He stumbled this time, falling into the snow.

  She stood over him, blade at his throat.

  He didn’t flinch.

  “You hesitate,” she said.

  “No,” he replied evenly. “I chose not to strike your knee when you slipped.”

  Her eyes flickered.

  “I didn’t slip.”

  “You did.”

  A beat of silence.

  “You would have broken it?” she asked.

  “If I wanted to win.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  He gave a small shrug from beneath her blade.

  “I’m not trying to defeat you.”

  She pressed the wood closer to his throat.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re already fighting something else.”

  That made her pause.

  Just a fraction too long.

  She stepped back abruptly and lowered the blade.

  “You assume too much.”

  “Maybe.”

  He sat up slowly, brushing snow from his shoulders.

  “But you look tired sometimes.”

  That struck deeper than anything he had said.

  She didn’t look tired.

  She trained longer than anyone.

  She stood straighter than anyone.

  She did not waver.

  “I don’t,” she said coldly.

  He studied her.

  Then nodded.

  “Alright.”

  No argument.

  No challenge.

  Just acceptance.

  That was worse.

  They trained until the light faded.

  Neither spoke much after that.

  When they finished, she began to walk away.

  “You don’t have to do everything alone,” he said quietly.

  She didn’t stop.

  “I do.”

  “That’s not the same as having to.”

  She turned slowly.

  “You think you understand me.”

  “No,” he said honestly. “I don’t.”

  That surprised her.

  “Then why stay?”

  He hesitated.

  Not from fear.

  From choosing his words.

  “Because I don’t think you’re what they say.”

  “And what do they say?”

  “That you enjoy it.”

  The air went still.

  She looked at him carefully.

  “And if I do?”

  He held her gaze.

  “Then I hope there’s more to you than that.”

  Hope.

  It was such a fragile thing.

  Such a stupid thing.

  And yet it made something tighten in her chest.

  Annoying.

  Unwelcome.

  Human.

  She turned away first.

  “Train tomorrow,” she said.

  It wasn’t an invitation.

  It wasn’t dismissal.

  It was something in between.

  As she walked back toward the hall, she told herself she was observing him.

  Assessing him.

  Learning him.

  Not enjoying the steadiness of his presence.

  Not noticing how he didn’t recoil from her.

  Not caring that when he smiled, it wasn’t forced.

  This was information.

  That was all.

  But later that night, as she lay awake staring at the dark ceiling, she found herself replaying the way he had said:

  I hope there’s more to you than that.

  She pressed her eyes shut.

  Hope was dangerous.

  Hope made people hesitate.

  And hesitation got people killed.

  She would never hesitate.

  Not for him.

  Not for anyone.

  The thought should have been reassuring.

  It wasn’t.

  The next morning, the yard was still half-frozen when Dagny arrived.

  She preferred it that way.

  The cold kept people indoors.

  The cold made thinking easier.

  She began her drills alone — precise, controlled strikes against the wooden post. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

  He wouldn’t come back.

  That would have been the sensible choice.

  She struck again.

  And again.

  Footsteps in snow.

  Steady.

  Unhurried.

  She did not turn.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “I’m not,” Leif replied.

  She glanced at the sky.

  He wasn’t.

  That irritated her more than if he had been.

  He carried no practice blade today. Instead, his hands were tucked loosely into the sleeves of his tunic.

  “You’re not training?” she asked.

  “I will.” He paused. “I brought something first.”

  That alone made her wary.

  He stepped closer and held out his hand.

  Resting in his palm was a small carving.

  Crude.

  Rough-edged.

  But deliberate.

  A wolf.

  Dagny did not move.

  The world narrowed for a moment — not outward, but inward.

  Firelight.

  Smoke.

  Silver melting against skin.

  She forced the memory down before it could finish forming.

  “It’s poorly shaped,” she said evenly.

  Leif glanced at it, turning it over.

  “Probably.”

  “Then why give it to me?”

  He shrugged slightly.

  “It reminded me of you.”

  Her gaze snapped back to him.

  He did not look triumphant.

  Did not look as though he had struck something deep.

  He had no idea what he’d done.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “Wolves survive,” he continued, almost absently. “Even when they’re alone.”

  Alone.

  The word settled between them.

  She stepped forward and took the carving.

  Her fingers brushed his briefly.

  He didn’t pull away.

  The wood was still warm from his hand.

  She closed her fingers around it immediately.

  “You assume too much,” she said.

  “I’ve been told.”

  He smiled faintly.

  It wasn’t mocking.

  It wasn’t flirtatious.

  It was simply… there.

  She studied him carefully.

  “You think I’m alone,” she said.

  “Aren’t you?”

  The question wasn’t cruel.

  That made it worse.

  She slipped the wolf into the folds of her belt.

  “Train,” she said.

  He nodded and retrieved a practice blade from the rack.

  They began again.

  This time he did not hold back.

  He moved with more confidence, adapting to her pace. When she pressed him hard, he pressed back — not with ego, but with intent.

  She tested him.

  A false stumble.

  He didn’t take the opening.

  A delayed parry.

  He noticed.

  Interesting.

  He was not stupid.

  That meant he would be harder to maneuver.

  She adjusted accordingly.

  Their blades clashed again and again, wood cracking in the cold air.

  When she finally disarmed him, sending his weapon skidding across the snow, he only exhaled sharply.

  “You’re improving,” she said.

  “So are you.”

  “I was not measuring myself against you.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  That earned him a narrow look.

  He didn’t lower his eyes.

  Not challenging.

  Just steady.

  She realized something then.

  He was not fearless.

  He was simply unwilling to treat her like something broken.

  That kind of belief could be shaped.

  Directed.

  Weaponized.

  They trained until sweat cut through the winter chill.

  When they stopped, he bent to retrieve his blade.

  “You don’t have to prove yourself to me,” he said quietly.

  “I’m not proving anything.”

  “Then why do you look at everyone like you’re waiting for them to turn?”

  Her grip tightened slightly.

  “Because they do.”

  “Not everyone.”

  She stepped closer again.

  Close enough to feel his breath in the cold air.

  “And if you did?” she asked softly.

  He met her gaze without hesitation.

  “Then I’d deserve whatever you did about it.”

  That was the wrong answer.

  He said it without fear.

  Without calculation.

  Without understanding the weight of it.

  She felt something tighten in her chest again.

  Annoying.

  Persistent.

  She stepped back first.

  “You’re careless,” she said.

  “Probably.”

  “And optimism is a weakness.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “But it’s mine.”

  He retrieved his blade fully and rested it across his shoulder.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  She considered the question.

  She could end it here.

  Tell him not to return.

  Push him away.

  That would be cleaner.

  Simpler.

  Safer.

  Instead, she said:

  “If you hesitate, I won’t.”

  A small smile touched his mouth.

  “I know.”

  He turned and walked toward the hall.

  Dagny remained in the yard long after he left.

  She drew the carving from her belt and examined it properly this time.

  It was rough.

  Uneven.

  The muzzle slightly crooked.

  But it was deliberate.

  Made by hand.

  Made for her.

  She turned it over slowly in her fingers.

  He did not fear her.

  He did not worship her.

  He believed something existed beneath what everyone else saw.

  Belief made people predictable.

  Predictable people could be guided.

  Used.

  Sacrificed.

  If the day ever came when she had to choose between his life and her own…

  She would choose correctly.

  She always did.

  The thought settled comfortably in her mind.

  Only later, when she lay awake that night with the small wooden wolf resting beside her bed, did she realize something unsettling.

  For the first time since she was eight years old—

  She had kept a gift.

  And she had not thrown it into the fire.

  Haakon had begun watching her again.

  Not openly.

  He stood along the upper walkway overlooking the yard, one hand resting on the carved railing, his shoulders heavier than they had once been.

  Dagny noticed him the third day Leif returned.

  She noticed everything.

  She did not look up.

  Leif circled her slowly, wooden blade raised.

  “You’re distracted,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  She shifted her footing and pressed forward, driving him back three steps.

  He recovered well.

  Better than he had a week ago.

  Haakon would approve of that.

  The thought passed through her mind without warmth.

  Their blades struck hard.

  Leif winced when she clipped his wrist.

  She did not apologize.

  When she disarmed him again, she let him fall.

  Only then did she glance up.

  Haakon was still there.

  Watching.

  Measuring.

  His expression was not anger.

  It was pride.

  That look unsettled her more than suspicion ever could.

  After Training —

  Leif leaves first.

  Haakon comes down.

  Not furious.

  Not interrogating.

  Just… heavy.

  “You’ve improved,” Haakon said.

  Dagny wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

  “So has he.”

  “He is not your measure.”

  “No,” she agreed calmly. “He isn’t.”

  Haakon studied her more closely.

  The wind pulled at his cloak.

  For a moment, he looked less like a king and more like a tired father.

  “You should not be alone all the time,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  She let the answer hang there.

  He followed her gaze to where Leif had disappeared inside the hall.

  Haakon’s jaw tightened slightly.

  “He is good for you.”

  Dagny did not respond immediately.

  Good.

  Such a simple word.

  “He is steady,” she said instead.

  Haakon nodded.

  “Steady men are valuable.”

  Yes.

  They were.

  Steady men held lines.

  Steady men stood in doorways.

  Steady men died protecting things that did not hesitate.

  She wondered if her father realized how useful that made Leif.

  “You’re becoming stronger,” Haakon continued quietly.

  “As you asked.”

  He flinched — barely.

  “I never asked you to become hard.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Her voice was calm.

  Not accusing.

  Not bitter.

  Just factual.

  He looked at her then.

  Really looked at her.

  And for the first time, something like doubt flickered in his eyes.

  But it passed.

  Grief replaced it.

  “I asked you to survive,” he said.

  “And I will.”

  He stepped closer.

  “You do not have to carry it alone.”

  There it was again.

  Alone.

  Everyone saw it.

  Everyone named it.

  They mistook solitude for pain.

  She was not alone.

  She was focused.

  There was a difference.

  She met his gaze evenly.

  “I’m not carrying it,” she said.

  That wasn’t entirely true.

  She was sharpening it.

  He reached out — hesitated — then rested a hand briefly on her shoulder.

  A rare gesture.

  “Whatever you become,” he said quietly, “you are still my daughter.”

  Something moved in her chest at that.

  Small.

  Unwanted.

  She did not step away.

  But she did not lean into it either.

  “I know,” she replied.

  And she did.

  That was the problem.

  The hall was quieter at night.

  The torches burned lower. The noise dulled. Even laughter seemed cautious within stone walls that had learned to carry whispers.

  Dagny stood near one of the pillars, the small wooden wolf heavy in her palm.

  She should have left it in her chamber.

  She did not know why she hadn’t.

  Across the hall, her father sat at the long table, staring into the fire as though it might answer something for him.

  He looked older in firelight.

  Not weak.

  Just worn.

  She approached without ceremony.

  He did not turn.

  “You accepted too quickly,” he said.

  No greeting.

  No accusation.

  Just truth.

  Dagny slipped the carving into her belt before answering.

  “You would have refused?”

  “I would have delayed,” Haakon replied.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “You would have.”

  That made him look at her.

  The firelight cut sharp lines across his face.

  “You do not know him,” he said quietly.

  She met his gaze.

  “I know enough.”

  “Ivar is not a man who bargains without cost.”

  “Neither are you.”

  Silence followed that.

  Not hostile.

  Measured.

  “You think this gives us leverage,” he said at last.

  “It gives us time,” she corrected.

  “And what will you do with it?”

  There it was.

  The question beneath the question.

  She stepped closer to the table, resting her fingertips against the wood.

  “He believes we need him,” she said. “Let him.”

  Haakon studied her carefully.

  “And do we?”

  “No.”

  That answer came without hesitation.

  Something flickered in his expression — pride, perhaps. Or concern.

  “Peace is not weakness,” he said.

  “No,” she agreed calmly. “But it is temporary.”

  He leaned back in his chair, watching her with something that was not quite suspicion.

  “You speak like you expect war.”

  “I expect him.”

  That was the most honest thing she had said.

  The hall crackled softly around them.

  Haakon rose slowly and walked toward her.

  “You do not have to carry this alone,” he said.

  Again.

  Always that.

  She held still as he stopped in front of her.

  “I am not carrying it,” she said evenly.

  He frowned slightly.

  “Then what are you doing?”

  She met his eyes.

  “Preparing.”

  He searched her face as if trying to find the eight-year-old girl beneath it.

  Perhaps he still could.

  That was his weakness.

  He placed both hands on her shoulders.

  Firm.

  Grounding.

  “Whatever you become in this world,” he said quietly, “whatever crown you claim, whatever enemies you make…”

  He hesitated only briefly.

  “You are still my daughter.”

  The words did not waver.

  They were not conditional.

  They were not political.

  They were a vow.

  Dagny felt something tighten in her chest.

  Not warmth.

  Recognition.

  He would mean that.

  Even if she stood against him one day.

  Even if blood stood between them.

  She nodded once.

  “And you are still my father.”

  He pulled her into an embrace.

  She allowed it.

  Her hands did not rise to return it.

  Over his shoulder, she watched the fire.

  She imagined another hall.

  Another throne.

  Another king watching flames climb toward the rafters.

  She imagined Ivar’s face in that light.

  Not laughing.

  Not fast.

  Still.

  When Haakon released her, he looked relieved.

  As if something fragile had been preserved.

  “Get rest,” he said. “Tomorrow will come soon enough.”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  It always did.

  Dagny did not sleep.

  She rarely did.

  The hall had long since gone quiet when she stepped into the cold night air. Snow creaked beneath her boots. The sky was a hard, empty black.

  A guard moved to follow her.

  She lifted a hand.

  “Stay.”

  He obeyed.

  She crossed the yard alone and pushed open the stable doors. Warm breath and the scent of hay met her.

  Torvald looked up from brushing down a mare, surprise flashing across his face.

  “My lady?”

  “I need a rider,” she said.

  “At this hour?”

  “Yes.”

  There was no urgency in her tone.

  Which made it worse.

  Minutes later, Torvald stood before her, cloaked and mounted.

  “You’ll ride north,” she said. “You will catch the Frankish emissary before he reaches the fjord.”

  He hesitated — only briefly.

  “And then?”

  “You will give him this.”

  She handed him a narrow strip of parchment.

  No seal.

  No crest.

  Just ink.

  Torvald’s eyes flicked down before he could stop himself.

  His brow tightened slightly.

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  “He won’t.”

  There was no arrogance in her voice.

  Only certainty.

  Torvald nodded once and turned his horse toward the gate.

  Torvald vanished into the dark.

  Dagny stood there long after the sound of hooves faded, staring at the empty gate.

  The yard felt larger now.

  Too quiet.

  The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of pine and cold sea. For a moment she felt something close to satisfaction.

  He will know.

  That thought should have been enough.

  It wasn’t.

  Her chest felt tight.

  She turned away from the gate and walked toward the tree line beyond the palisade, moving without thinking. The guards did not stop her. They rarely did anymore.

  The forest swallowed the sounds of the village quickly.

  Only the wind remained.

  She pressed her hand against the rough bark of a pine and closed her eyes.

  She pictured him reading it.

  four words.

  Tell him I remember the fire.

  She imagined his reaction.

  Shock.

  Recognition.

  Regret.

  Her breathing quickened.

  But then another thought crept in.

  What if he didn’t remember?

  What if it was nothing to him?

  Just another hall.

  Another village.

  Another night.

  Her throat tightened.

  Her nails dug into the bark.

  “I will kill him,” she whispered.

  The words trembled.

  Not with fear.

  With hunger.

  The memory came without mercy — heat against her skin, the crack of beams splitting, her stepmother’s scream cut short. Smoke choking the air. Blood on snow.

  She was eight again.

  Small.

  Helpless.

  Watching Ivar move through flame like it was nothing.

  Like it was ordinary.

  Her vision blurred.

  A tear slipped down her cheek.

  She didn’t notice at first.

  The second one burned.

  Dagny stiffened.

  Another followed.

  Her breath hitched — sharp and raw — and she sucked it back violently, as if someone might hear.

  “No.”

  Her hand flew to her face, wiping the tears away hard enough to sting.

  “No.”

  Emotion is weakness.

  Emotion is what children have.

  Emotion is what makes you hesitate.

  Her shoulders shook once — just once — and she forced them still.

  “I will not cry over him,” she said through clenched teeth.

  She straightened slowly.

  The tears stopped because she willed them to.

  She inhaled deeply, letting the cold air scrape her lungs clean.

  The forest did not answer her.

  It did not comfort her.

  Good.

  She did not want comfort.

  She wanted strength.

  When Dagny stepped back into the yard, her expression was smooth again.

  Calm.

  Unreadable.

  The girl who had cried in the trees was already being buried.

  And something else was taking her place.

  Something harder.

  Something patient.

  Somewhere near the North- Days later

  The wind off the fjord cut like a blade.

  The Frankish emissary had barely made camp when Torvald rode in under the banner of Vestfold. The message changed hands without ceremony.

  By the time it reached Ivar, the sky was already dark.

  He stood near the shoreline, boots half in the surf, watching the tide pull itself in and out like a breathing beast.

  He did not turn when the emissary approached.

  “My lord.”

  Silence.

  “A rider intercepted me. From Vestfold.”

  That earned a glance.

  Ivar took the strip of parchment and unfolded it.

  No seal.

  No crest.

  Just four words.

  "I remember the fire."

  He read it once.

  Then again.

  His expression did not change.

  But he did not hand it back.

  “The fire?” he said lightly.

  The emissary shifted. “It was delivered without explanation.”

  Ivar tilted his head slightly, almost curious.

  “Which fire?”

  A few of his men chuckled.

  There had been many.

  Villages. Keeps. Longhouses.

  Smoke and screaming were not rare companions in his life.

  He folded the parchment once — cleanly — and slipped it into his belt.

  “Vestfold,” he said after a moment.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  His gaze returned to the sea.

  “Interesting.”

  He dismissed the emissary with a flick of his fingers.

  But he did not throw the message away.

  And later that night, when the men drank and laughed, Ivar sat apart from them.

  Thinking.

  A child survived.

  And she remembered.

  He smiled faintly.

  “Good,” he murmured to the dark.

  For Ivar… it was another night.