Sigrida was jolted from her uneasy sleep by an insistent shaking of her shoulder. Astrid's voice, pitched low but thrumming with excitement, cut through the darkness. "Sigrida! Oh gods, I have so much to tell you! Are you awake, Sigrida?"

  Groaning, Sigrida rolled over, her eyes struggling to focus in the dim light. "I am now," she mumbled, a hint of irritation in her voice.

  Oblivious to Sigrida's mood, Astrid perched on the edge of the bed roll, her face aglow with barely contained joy. She clutched a small oil lamp, its flickering light casting dancing shadows across her features. "Oh, Sigrida, I have to tell you about my night with Erik!" she whispered loudly, her words tumbling out in a rush.

  "It was absolutely magical! We snuck away after the Blót and wandered through the sacred grove. The music from the feast drifted through the trees, and the moonlight made everything look so ethereal." Astrid's eyes sparkled as she recounted her tale. "And then, Erik gave me the most beautiful bouquet of wildflowers. He picked each one himself. Look!"

  Astrid paused, her excitement momentarily waning. The brief silence was a welcome respite for Sigrida, who had been struggling to process the torrent of words. But before Sigrida could fully appreciate the quiet, Astrid's voice softened with wonder. "I can't help but think... would this have happened if we hadn't run away?"

  The question twisted something deep inside Sigrida, each word pulling at threads of memory she'd tried to bury. Her mind wandered down paths best left untrodden. Had she stayed in Skogstrand, she would have been Gunnar's concubine by now. Here in Fjell?rn, she faced the same fate with Brandr. The cruel irony of it burned - her dreams of freedom had led her right back to where she started. The carefree companion she'd known in Honningdal had transformed into yet another nobleman who saw her as property. That brief taste of hope now seemed like a cruel joke.

  As Sigrida grappled with these thoughts, Astrid's voice faded into a background hum, her words about Erik blurring together. Sigrida's focus snapped back when Astrid thrust a cluster of delicate pink blossoms towards her face. "Oh, and look at these! I think they only grow here in Veldefold. I've never seen anything like them before."

  Sigrida mumbled a noncommittal response, her mind already drifting. She realized with a pang that she would never receive flowers, never be courted or wooed. As a free woman, Astrid could expect such gestures of respect and affection. But Sigrida, a thrall, had no such expectations or rights.

  Overwhelmed, Sigrida rolled over, pulling the blanket tightly around herself. A surge of anger towards Astrid welled up inside her. The sweet perfume of the flowers filled the air, mingling with Astrid's increasingly drowsy declarations of love for Erik. Each word, each dreamy sigh, felt like a deliberate reminder of everything Sigrida could never have. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing sleep to come, but the scent of the blossoms seemed to grow stronger, mocking her with promises of romance she dared not dream of.

  The distant clatter of practice swords and shouted commands roused Sigrida from her restless sleep. Beside her, Astrid slept peacefully, an almost imperceptible smile gracing her lips. Rannveig's soft, rhythmic breathing filled the quiet room. Bloodpaws had curled up next to Rannveig, his enormous furry form rising and falling with each breath.

  Noticing Rannveig's presence, Sigrida realized she must have crept in during the night. A pang of guilt tugged at her heart for storming out on Rannveig the morning before, quickly followed by a wave of frustration as she recalled Rannveig's pointed reminders of her thrall status.

  For a moment, Sigrida considered closing her eyes again, but the sight of Astrid's contentment stirred a restless energy within her. Her gaze caught on the bouquet of wildflowers, still fresh in their cup of water on the small wooden table. The events of the previous night came rushing back, bringing with them a tide of confusion and loss that threatened to overwhelm her. Where did she fit in this world of warriors and nobles? The dreams of freedom and adventure that had sustained her now seemed to slip further from her grasp.

  She couldn't stay here, trapped in this room with Astrid's blissful ignorance and Rannveig's well-intentioned but stifling presence. The walls seemed to close in, amplifying her turbulent emotions. With careful, deliberate movements, Sigrida slipped from beneath the wool blankets and dressed quickly, her mind a whirlpool of conflicting thoughts.

  As she reached for the door, Sigrida paused, remembering her mistake from the night before. She quietly retrieved her dagger, securing it to her belt. The familiar weight of the weapon against her hip provided a small measure of comfort. Her shield leaned against the table where Astrid's flowers stood guard. She took it up, hoping some practice would help clear her mind.

  Sigrida cast one last glance at her sleeping companions. The contrast between their peaceful expressions and her own inner turmoil was almost too much to bear. Without a sound, she slipped out of the room, shield in hand, and made her way towards the longhouse exit, desperate for fresh air and solitude.

  As she stepped into the outside, Sigrida took a deep breath, adjusting her grip on the shield and steeling herself for whatever the day might bring. She blinked as the bright morning light hit her eyes. She had hoped for a quiet escape, but her heart sank as she took in the scene before her. The courtyard was far from empty.

  Warriors lounged about, some sharpening weapons while others engaged in animated conversation. Brandr stood tall, deep in discussion with his uncle Kjell. Nearby, Kol reclined against a wooden post, lazily twirling a knife between his fingers. Helga's booming laugh rang out as she joked with her husbands.

  Sigrida froze in the doorway, her body tensing as she realized her quiet exit was now impossible. Her eyes darted around, searching for an escape route, when she noticed Kol's gaze lazily drifting in her direction.

  Their eyes met, and Sigrida's breath caught in her throat. Kol's lips curled into a smirk, his eyes glinting with recognition.

  "Well, well," Kol drawled, loud enough for all to hear. "Look who's gracing us with her presence. Brandr, you shouldn't keep this little beauty all to yourself."

  Ivar the Stout, chimed in with a sly grin. "Best watch yourself with this one, Brandr. I've plowed many a field in my day. Takes more than one man to tame a wild little seedling like her!"

  The courtyard erupted in raucous laughter. Helga's voice boomed over the others, "The man's right! A young girl needs variety. Brandr, you might need some help keeping up with her appetites!"

  Brandr's face flushed red with anger and he began to draw his sword, but Kjell subtly placed a hand on his arm to stop him. The Stallari's grip was firm, his eyes conveying a silent warning. Kjell understood the delicate balance of alliances and the consequences of creating discord over a thrall, no matter how valued she might be to his nephew. Brandr's jaw clenched as he struggled to contain his rage, acutely aware of the wisdom in his uncle's restraint. Kjell's presence, both protective and cautionary, reminded Brandr of the broader implications his actions could have on their clan's stability.

  Sigrida remained frozen in humiliated shock, unable to move or respond. The lewd jokes continued as the warriors took delight in her discomfort. She desperately wished to flee but could not tear her eyes away or regain control of her trembling limbs.

  The laughter grew louder, as Kol made a crude gesture, suggesting they all take turns with Sigrida. Her face burned with horror, but still her feet would not move.

  "Enough!" Kjell's voice cut through the courtyard like a blade. Sudden silence fell. "The girl belongs to Torbjorn and is under our protection. It is not for us to determine her usage."

  Kol, emboldened by the laughter, sneered. "But Brandr's been having his way with her, hasn't he?"

  Kjell's eyes flashed dangerously. "The privileges of the Jarl's son are far above yours, Kol. Mind your tongue, or you'll find yourself without one."

  As the exchange continued, something shifted within Sigrida. The humiliation that had paralyzed her began to transform into a cold, focused fury. Her body tensed, eyes narrowing to steel-hard slits. Years of suppressed rage—at being a thrall, at being controlled, at being at the mercy of others—coalesced into a single, burning point of icy wrath.

  The sudden silence was deafening, but it barely registered with Sigrida as her anger crystallized into a single, driving purpose: destroy Kol.

  Without a word, Sigrida began to stalk across the courtyard towards Kol, her movements focused and predatory. Her shield, once a training tool, now became a weapon of vengeance. Kol, caught up in his own boasting, finally noticed Sigrida's approach. His laughter died in his throat as he saw the murderous intent in her gaze.

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  Before Kol could react, Sigrida swung her shield with all her might, catching him off guard and sending him sprawling to the ground. In one fluid motion, she brought the shield's face down, pinning him beneath its weight as he gasped for air. Her hand moved to the hilt of her dagger, grip tightening as she loomed over him. The icy rage in her eyes promised swift, merciless retribution.

  Just as Sigrida's dagger was mere inches from Kol's throat, a strong hand grasped her wrist. Brandr had broken free of Kjell's restraint, his body a blur of motion as he intercepted her with lightning speed.

  Sigrida's eyes flicked to Brandr's face. In his gaze, she saw a desperate plea mingled with something deeper – respect, fear, perhaps even love. The unexpected connection jarred her thoughts, shifted something in her mind.

  "Sigrida," Brandr whispered, his voice cutting through her haze of rage.

  Reality crashed back. Sigrida's eyes refocused on Kol, cowering beneath her. This pathetic, wealthy coward wasn't worth the breath it would take to kill him. Her fury ebbed, replaced by cool clarity.

  Kjell watched in surprise. This wasn't just Brandr's pretty companion playing at being a warrior. The girl had sent a larger man sprawling with raw, unexpected strength. It challenged the order of their world, yet he couldn't help but feel a spark of admiration.

  Helga, too, sat forward, her interest piqued. She had dismissed Sigrida as Brandr's plaything but now saw something entirely different.

  Sigrida yanked her arm free and strode away, leaving stunned silence behind her. Her anger drove her towards the barn, a place where neither warriors nor nobles would seek her out.

  As she pushed open the heavy barn door, the familiar scents of hay and livestock washed over her. Once a reminder of her lowly status, now it offered an odd comfort.

  Inside, the barn was cool and dim, a stark contrast to the summer day. Shafts of light filtered through gaps in the wooden slats, while the soft lowing of cattle and rustle of chickens created a soothing backdrop.

  She sank down in a secluded corner, her back against a wooden post. The Thor's hammer at her throat seemed to burn - a reminder of foolish dreams. She yanked the amulet off, letting it fall to the straw beside her. Unlike Jorunn and Svanhild, she couldn't resign herself to a life without freedom, without choices. Without love.

  Love. The word stirred something deep within her - faint memories of her mother's arms around her, a gentle voice singing her to sleep. So few memories remained, each one precious. Her mother had died serving Torbjorn's household, just as Sigrida was destined to do. Torbjorn - the whispers had followed her since childhood. The way he'd protected her from the harshest work, how he'd stayed Yrsa's sharp tongue. The rumors that she was his blood.

  But what father would keep his own child enslaved? What father would threaten to maim his daughter for seeking freedom? Sigrida shook her head, pushing the thoughts away. Just another foolish dream, like all the others - trying to believe she had a place in this world beyond servitude.

  A soft bleating caught her attention. In the corner of the barn, two kid goats chased each other through the straw, their tiny hooves kicking up dust. Their game soon ended as they pressed close to their mother, who nuzzled them gently, protectively. Even animals knew to cherish their young, to keep them safe, to give them the freedom to grow strong. Sigrida's throat tightened as she watched them.

  Her thoughts drifted to Honningdal, where for the first time she'd known what it meant to belong. Leif and Freya had welcomed her without question, without judgment. Perhaps she could disguise herself, slip through Skipavik, make her way back to their cottage. But would she bring danger to their door? Make herself their burden?

  South then. The thought sent a shiver through her - a vast unknown world beyond the northern fjords. Where would she go? What would she find? For a moment, the weight of uncertainty crushed her. She bent forward, arms wrapped around herself, nearly overwhelmed by the vastness of her solitude.

  But no. She wouldn't let fear defeat her. Freya's words came back to her: Honningdal wasn't just a place, but a feeling she carried in her heart. The warmth of acceptance, the strength of belonging - she could find that again, build it for herself.

  Sigrida's hand found the Thor's hammer in the straw. She'd earned this amulet through hard work and determination. Maybe the freedom she sought wasn't in a place, but in having the courage to keep searching for it. Her fingers closed around the pendant. She would find her way, whatever the cost.

  As Sigrida's footsteps faded, Kjell's eyes swept over the courtyard, his gaze lingering on Kol before settling on Brandr. He saw the pain and passion etched on his nephew's face, a mix of emotions that spoke volumes about his feelings for the girl.

  With a barely perceptible nod to Helga, who understood the silent command to keep order among the warriors, Kjell turned his attention to Brandr. He beckoned the young man towards the longhouse, his movements fluid yet purposeful.

  Brandr hesitated for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the path Sigrida had taken. Then, with a deep breath, he followed his uncle.

  The heavy oak door shut with a soft thud, sealing them away from the prying eyes and ears of the courtyard. Kjell led Brandr to the smaller hall, closing the door behind them for privacy. He turned to face his nephew, his eyes softening as he saw not the future Jarl, but a young man grappling with the weight of his world.

  "Brandr," Kjell began, his voice low and compassionate, "two paths lie before you. And I'll speak plain truth."

  He placed a hand on Brandr's shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. "You must make a choice, and it won't be easy. You cannot have both Sigrida and your birthright as Jarl. The clan won't accept it."

  Kjell's eyes met Brandr's, unflinching in their honesty. "If you choose Sigrida over your duty, know this: forgiveness won't come easily, if at all. You'll lose your status, your home. The clan will suffer for it, and your name will be cursed long after you're gone."

  He paused, allowing his words to sink in. "I'm not telling you what's right or wrong. That's for you to decide. But you need to understand the consequences of your choice, whatever it may be."

  Brandr lowered his head, the weight of Kjell's words crushing down on him. He knew his uncle was right, but the choice seemed impossible. His feelings for Sigrida warred with his loyalty to the clan, both equally fierce, equally integral to who he was.

  Recognizing the turmoil in his nephew's eyes, Kjell squeezed Brandr's shoulder one last time. "Take some time. Think on it," he said quietly. Without another word, he turned and left the hall, leaving Brandr alone with his thoughts and the impossible decision before him.

  Brandr stood alone in the dimming hall, his uncle's words cutting deep. His love for his family and for their clan's proud legacy filled his heart. Yet his mind drifted to Sigrida in the courtyard - her rigid posture as she endured the warriors' crude jests, her isolation at feasts, the way even now she had to fight for basic respect. For the first time, he truly saw her world through her eyes: a thrall in a fortress full of free people, forever marked as lesser, no matter her worth. The truth of it sat in his gut like a blade.

  He could not abandon his clan's future. Yet the thought of watching Sigrida suffer, day after day, knowing he had the power to prevent it - that would destroy whatever honor remained in him. There was no path forward that didn't end in pain.

  Hours passed in the quiet of the barn. As shadows lengthened across the straw-strewn floor, Sigrida's rage gave way to reflection. She lifted the Thor's hammer from her lap, slowly replacing it around her neck. Her thoughts turned to Astrid, earlier a source of resentment, now finding happiness with Erik despite the steep cost. Sigrida felt a bittersweet gladness for her friend's newfound joy.

  Her mind wandered to Rannveig, whose actions, though hurtful, stemmed from a desire to protect both her family and Sigrida herself. Even Brandr's impossible choice between his clan's legacy and his feelings for her became clearer, though his inability to truly understand her need for freedom still stung.

  Jorunn and Svanhild, once viewed as manipulators, now appeared as fellow survivors in a world that rejected them. Their loneliness in a fortress full of scorn became painfully apparent. Sigrida realized her own anger had blinded her to the complexities of others' lives.

  As forgiveness slowly blossomed, Sigrida recognized the true injustice: a world that placed some at the mercy of others. This was the enemy she faced, the root of her anger.

  The young goats had woken from their nap and were now leaping across hay bales, butting heads in mock battle. Their antics brought a faint smile to Sigrida's lips as she watched them dart and weave, testing their strength against each other while their mother looked on. When they noticed her watching, they bounded over, their tiny hooves skittering on the packed earth. One pressed its warm head against her hand while the other attempted to climb onto her lap.

  As she stroked their soft fur, feeling their vibrant energy, a steely resolve formed within her. She would forge her own path to freedom, whatever the cost. Their innocent playfulness, their unrestrained joy in simply being alive, reminded her of what she fought for - the right to move through the world as freely as these young creatures.

  Voices murmured outside the barn door before it creaked open. Two tall figures entered, pausing at the threshold. Sigrida tensed, the goat kids skittering behind her.

  "Hope you don't mind us intruding," said the taller of the two. "I'm Agnar, and this is Beowulf." He chuckled, a hint of admiration in his voice. "That was some nice shield work you did in the courtyard."

  There was a pause as Agnar cleared his throat. "We didn't mean to upset you," he said, his deep voice gentle. "The men can get boisterous before battle. It's easy for words to get out of hand."

  Sigrida met his gaze steadily, her silence making it clear that Kol's behavior had gone far beyond mere boisterousness. His threats the night before and today's humiliation weren't so easily dismissed.

  Agnar shook his head. "Look, everyone knows Kol's a fool. But his grain stores and livestock will be needed after the battle. Best not to let him get under your skin."

  "Why not come back to eat and drink with us?" Beowulf added. "Helga was asking about you."

  Sigrida regarded them warily, weighing her options. She had no desire to see the leering warriors again, but to refuse Helga's hospitality would be rude and foolish.

  "Very well," she said, rising to her feet. The two men stepped back, giving her space.

  As they led her from the barn, the lengthening shadows of early evening stretched across the courtyard. The scent of roasted meat drifted from the warriors' longhouse, where torchlight spilled from its open doors. Inside, long tables had been arranged for the evening meal, the buzz of voices and clatter of plates echoing off the timber walls.

  She knew more jeers might await her at Helga's table, but she was prepared to weather them. Each taunt, each sideways glance would be one step closer to her goal. Let them underestimate her if they had to – it would only make her eventual departure all the sweeter.