The hall was thick with firelight, smoke, and the mingled scents of roasted meat and spilt ale when Vesaria stepped inside. Heat pressed against her skin as she passed between the crowded tables, where men and women ate from wooden bowls and spoke over one another in a language she had grown thoroughly tired of hearing without understanding. She made her way to a bench near the back, far from the head table where Azgar sat among his people. Laughter rolled easily there, his voice a low, steady thread through the louder bursts, his shoulders loose in a way she had not seen before.
He did not call her forward, although their eyes met briefly across the rows of men and women. His mouth moved in conversation, but for that heartbeat, his attention rested on her before returning to the man beside him.
Vesaria looked away and reached for the bowl someone had placed before her. The meal consisted of coarse cuts of meat boiled with dark, bitter roots until the broth had turned thick with grease, and although she had eaten little since morning, the smell made her stomach tighten. She tried a spoonful, chewed through a piece of meat that seemed determined to resist her teeth, and swallowed with difficulty. The roots were worse, leaving an unpleasant bitterness at the back of her tongue that even the lukewarm water beside her could not wash away.
She managed another mouthful before setting down her spoon. Around her, people ate with obvious enjoyment, tearing bread into their bowls and scraping up the last of the broth. Vesaria stared at the pale lumps floating beneath the grease and wondered whether the Northerners had ever considered seasoning their food with something other than suffering.
She was contemplating whether she could leave without attracting attention when someone settled onto the bench beside her.
A young woman with a thick braid of red hair and a scattering of freckles across her nose sat beside her, carrying a second bowl between her hands. She glanced at Vesaria's nearly untouched supper, wrinkled her nose in apparent understanding, and pushed the new bowl toward her with a hopeful smile.
The contents looked much less threatening. A pale broth held pieces of soft barley and finely shredded meat, with none of the dark roots that had made the first dish so difficult to stomach. Steam rose gently from its surface, carrying the familiar scent of salt and cooked grain.
The girl pointed at the original bowl, made an exaggerated face, and shook her head before gesturing toward the new one.
Vesaria regarded her suspiciously. She had learned that accepting things from these people usually came with some expectation she could neither understand nor refuse, but the girl merely picked up a spoon, pretended to taste the soup, and nodded encouragingly.
"I understand what a spoon is," Vesaria muttered in Southern, although she doubted the girl understood a word.
The girl grinned as though she had been thanked.
Vesaria hesitated before taking a small mouthful. The soup was warm, mild, and blessedly free of whatever bitter roots the Northerners seemed determined to put into everything. She swallowed, waited for her stomach to protest, and took another spoonful.
Beside her, the girl looked pleased enough to have accomplished something remarkable.
She began speaking, pointing first toward the bowl and then toward herself, her words running together in a cheerful stream Vesaria could make nothing of. When she received no answer, she slowed down and touched her own chest.
"Freya."
Vesaria glanced at her.
The girl repeated the name, more carefully this time. "Freya."
So that was what she had been trying to say. Vesaria gave a small nod and returned to her soup, hoping that would satisfy her, but Freya leaned forward slightly and pointed toward Vesaria with an expectant expression.
Vesaria understood the question well enough. For a moment she considered ignoring it, as she had ignored so many attempts at conversation since arriving, but Freya had brought her something she could actually eat and was looking at her with such open curiosity that refusing seemed unnecessarily discourteous.
"Vesaria," she said at last.
Freya's smile widened. "Ve-sa-ria?"
"Vesaria," she repeated, correcting the emphasis.
"Vesaria," Freya tried again, coming closer this time.
Vesaria inclined her head in approval, and the girl looked delighted. She repeated the name once more, almost to herself, before launching into another stream of Northern words, occasionally gesturing toward the soup as though explaining its contents.
*****
At the head table, Azgar had been listening to Varn complain about a disagreement between two warriors over a missing saddle when a familiar voice carried through a brief lull in the hall's conversation.
"Vesaria."
His attention shifted toward the benches near the back.
The red-haired girl from the workhouse, Freya, sat beside his wife, smiling broadly as she repeated the unfamiliar name. Across from her, the little rabbit held a spoon above her bowl and corrected something in the girl's pronunciation, her expression composed but noticeably less hostile than the one she usually reserved for him.
Azgar watched her mouth form the word again.
Vesaria.
He repeated it silently, testing the unfamiliar arrangement of sounds. The name suited her, though he could not explain why, and he found himself faintly irritated that the girl had obtained it so easily when his wife had spent every conversation with him acting as though even the smallest piece of information about herself were a clan secret.
"Are you listening?" Varn asked.
Azgar turned back toward him. "The saddle."
"I finished talking about the saddle."
"Then you've spared us both."
Varn gave him a long look before following his gaze to the rear of the hall, where Freya had begun demonstrating something with her spoon, and Vesaria watched her with restrained bewilderment.
"Ah," Varn said.
Azgar reached for his cup. "What?"
"Nothing."
The smile spreading across Varn's face suggested otherwise, but Azgar had no intention of encouraging him. He took a drink and returned his attention to the conversation, committing the name to memory without allowing himself the satisfaction of saying it aloud.
*****
Across the hall, Vesaria continued eating, unaware that her husband had finally learned what he ought to have known before marrying her.
By the time she finished, Freya had apparently decided they were acquainted. She collected the abandoned bowl, said something else Vesaria did not understand, and gave her arm a friendly pat before disappearing into the crowd.
Vesaria watched her go, then rose and made her way through the settling dark toward her quarters.
But when she reached the door, the latch did not yield beneath her hand.
She tried again. Solid. A prickle of heat rose in her chest before the thought formed — had she been cast out already?
Snow had begun to fall—thin, sharp flakes that caught in her hair and stung her cheeks. Cold pressed through her furs. The thought of going to anyone for help was a humiliation she would not invite. She did not even know which door to knock on.
She stood there until her fingers numbed, the village lights blurring through the snow. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and fell silent.
The cold deepened.
She pulled her cloak tighter and turned back toward the longhouse. She could sleep there, near the fire, if no one sent her away.
That night, after the hall had gone still and the fires burned low, a knock came at the door. A young girl stood there, holding a small clay lamp. She said nothing, only gestured. Vesaria, wrapped in furs and suspicion, rose without a word and followed.
They walked through snow-muted paths, past yawning, darkened windows and the shapes of guards with axes slung across their backs. No one stopped them. No one looked twice.
Then came the room.
Bigger, cleaner, a cot with proper furs. Two windows, both unbarred—one gazing east toward a steep mountain ridge, the other facing inward, toward the training yard where men shouted and swung steel at dawn. A small basin sat near the hearth. A jug of water. No lock on the outside of the door.
The girl had pointed once, given a half-bow, then vanished into the dark.
Vesaria had slept with one eye open.