Sigrida sat on the edge of the bed in Rannveig's room, her fingers idly tracing the embroidered patterns on a cushion. Outside, the longhouse bustled with preparations for the evening's Blót ceremony. Voices and footsteps echoed through the halls, but she found herself unable to leave the relative safety of these walls. The thought of Brandr's warriors smirking at her after he'd introduced her as his "personal guardian" made her stomach turn. His suggestion that she learn from Helga the Hussy still rang in her ears, transforming his talk of her warrior potential into something altogether different—a fantasy to be played out for his amusement, just as Jorunn and Svanhild had said.

  Bloodpaws sprawled beside her on the bed, his massive form taking up most of the space. His steady breathing provided the only comfort in her isolation. Earlier, Astrid had hurried past with barely a glance, eager to find Erik. Her friend's joy, though well-deserved, only emphasized Sigrida's own solitude.

  Sigrida longed for answers, for a clear understanding of her place in this new world. But each interaction seemed to leave her more confused than before. Was she a warrior or a conquest? A friend or an afterthought? A free woman, or one still bound by invisible chains?

  The door creaked open, and Rannveig stepped in, surprise flickering across her face. "Sigrida? You're still here?" Bloodpaws lifted his head briefly at the interruption before settling back into his comfortable spot with a heavy sigh.

  Sigrida straightened, trying to mask her unease. "I was just... resting a bit longer," she said, her voice not quite steady. "It's been a busy few days."

  Rannveig's brow furrowed, not believing Sigrida's evasive response. As she recalled the previous night's events, she realized she couldn't remember seeing Sigrida during the sacred preparations, nor had Brandr been present for the boar-blessing. Her mind raced, piecing together Sigrida's current reluctance and her absence last night. Suspecting a lover's quarrel between Sigrida and Brandr, Rannveig resolved to address the issue before the evening's ceremonies.

  Rannveig settled on the edge of the bed, her expression growing serious. "Sigrida, we need to discuss something... about Brandr."

  Sigrida tensed, sensing the weight in Rannveig's words.

  "I care for you, and I don't wish to see you hurt," Rannveig began, her voice gentle but firm. "But you must understand that any... involvement with Brandr can't lead to more than a temporary arrangement."

  Sigrida's face paled, a mix of shock and indignation crossing her features.

  Rannveig continued, her tone softening, "I'm not trying to be cruel. It's just... our father has plans for Brandr. A marriage alliance with a powerful clan. It's the reality of our position, Sigrida. I want you to be prepared for that."

  Sigrida's jaw clenched, her eyes flashing with an emotion Rannveig couldn't quite read. Rannveig steeled herself, expecting a passionate defense or a declaration of undying love.

  Instead, Sigrida's voice was sharp, almost bitter. "Brandr is the last man in this fortress I'd ever consider falling in love with."

  Rannveig blinked, momentarily stunned by the vehemence in Sigrida's tone. Her mind quickly reframed the response, interpreting it as further evidence of a lover's quarrel. Clearly, something significant had transpired between Sigrida and Brandr, something more complex than she'd initially suspected.

  Rannveig softened her approach, trying again. "I understand, Sigrida. Brandr can be... charming. It must be easy for someone like you to be drawn to him." As she spoke, she thought of how openly Sigrida seemed to feel everything, sincere in her emotions and interactions.

  Sigrida's eyes narrowed. "'Someone like me?'" she asked, her voice sharp. "A poor, desperate thrall, you mean?"

  Realizing her misstep, Rannveig quickly attempted to clarify. "Sigrida, what I mean is—"

  But Sigrida was already on her feet, cutting Rannveig off with a cool, clipped tone. "You don’t need to explain, Rannveig, I know what you mean." Without another word, she stalked towards the door. Bloodpaws leapt off the bed and followed, his tail twitching with agitation as he abandoned his mistress.

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  Rannveig watched them go, a mixture of frustration and concern etched on her face. These lovers and their emotional tantrums, she thought, shaking her head. It was clear she needed to have a firm conversation with her brother.

  With a final glance at Sigrida's retreating form, Rannveig stood. She stalked out of the room, intent on finding Brandr and putting an end to this nonsense once and for all. Whatever had transpired between them, it was time to make things clear and protect both Sigrida and the family's interests.

  After Sigrida's abrupt departure, Rannveig wasted no time. She made her way through the longhouse, pushing past servants carrying ritual bowls and warriors donning ceremonial garb. The preparations for the Blót spilled into the courtyard, where she finally spotted Brandr deep in conversation with a group of warriors. Without hesitation, she made her way toward him.

  "Brandr," she called, grasping his arm. "I need to speak with you."

  Confusion flickered across Brandr's face, but he allowed his sister to steer him indoors towards a quiet corner of the longhouse. As they reached a secluded spot, away from the busy preparations and prying ears, Rannveig turned to face her brother, her expression serious.

  Her voice lowered, urgent. "This involvement with Sigrida must end, Brandr. The clan whispers constantly, and it's the last thing we need before facing Gunnar's forces."

  Brandr's jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "Now, Rannveig? I have a lot to get done before tonight's Blót. Can't this wait?"

  "No, it can't," Rannveig insisted firmly. "You need to end this before it becomes more complicated."

  Brandr shrugged off her concern. "There's nothing complicated about it, Rannveig. What Sigrida and I have is pure and simple love."

  Rannveig barely managed to suppress her incredulous expression. She pressed on, her voice low and intense. "And how do you think Chief Torbjorn will react when he learns his ally is carrying on an affair with his runaway thrall?"

  She leaned in closer, her words barely above a whisper. "Especially when we have such an advantage in the terms of our agreement for providing support."

  Brandr shifted uncomfortably, the reality of the situation beginning to dawn on him. He remained silent, unwilling to acknowledge the potential challenge his actions posed.

  Rannveig pressed on, her voice growing more insistent. "And what about when Father arranges a marriage for you, Brandr? Have you considered that? What will you tell Sigrida then?"

  She paused, letting her words sink in. "Have you even thought about how she might feel when that happens?"

  Brandr squirmed visibly, his discomfort growing. The prospect of an arranged marriage was something he dreaded even more than disrupting the fragile alliance between their clans. He averted his gaze, struggling to find a response that wouldn't reveal his lack of foresight.

  Clinging to denial, Brandr finally spoke, his voice a mixture of defiance and uncertainty. "I'll... I'll talk to Father when the time comes. He'll understand. Our love is special, Rannveig. Surely he'll see that."

  Rannveig stared at her brother, disbelief etched across her face. She shook her head, as if trying to comprehend the depth of his delusion.

  Brandr's irritation flared, and wanting to end the conversation, he lashed out. "Listen, Rannveig, just because you'll never be loved doesn't mean you can meddle in my relationship."

  The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them, but it was too late.

  The cruel words struck Rannveig painfully. Her carefully constructed composure crumbled, the pain of her impending loveless marriage laid bare. She recoiled, her face a canvas of shock and hurt, her body rigid with the sudden onslaught of emotion.

  Brandr's eyes widened as he realized the impact of his words. "Rannveig, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

  But Rannveig's shock quickly morphed into fury. She cut off his apologies, her voice low and quivering with long-suppressed anger. "Sometimes I wonder if Odin made a mistake in choosing you as the firstborn," she said. "You've been gifted with so much, yet you squander it on fleeting pleasures. While I sacrifice my future for our clan, you chase after a vulnerable thrall, heedless of the consequences."

  "Sister, I—" Brandr began, his voice laden with regret, but Rannveig cut him off with a sharp shake of her head. Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched away, leaving Brandr rooted to the spot, the weight of his cruel words hanging in the air.

  As Rannveig marched through the bustling courtyard, her anger gradually gave way to frustration. Why had she even bothered to step between these two lovelorn idiots? She dealt in reason and strategy, in the measured dance of alliances and negotiations; she'd rather broker peace between Gunnar and a starving dragon than navigate the treacherous waters of the heart. At least then she'd be in her element.

  The preparations for the Blót ceremony swirled around her, a welcome distraction from the emotional tempest. As she immersed herself once more in her duties, Rannveig silently vowed to leave Brandr and Sigrida to their own devices. Let them learn the hard way, she thought grimly. She had a clan to protect and alliances to forge. The affairs of their hearts would have to sort themselves out without her.