Astrid squared her stance, sword in hand, sweat slicking her brow. Svala rolled the spear across her palms, testing its weight, then leveled the point toward her daughter.
They didn't speak.
Svala moved first, a sharp thrust aimed at Astrid's midsection. Astrid twisted aside, blade coming down in a hard parry that smacked the shaft away. The sound cracked against the chamber walls.
Astrid countered fast, swinging low at Svala's leg. Svala pivoted, spear haft slamming down to catch the blade before it could bite. The block jolted up Astrid's arms.
Another thrust, faster. Astrid met it, teeth clenched, sparks flaring where steel kissed steel. Svala pressed forward, her reach forcing Astrid back step by step.
Astrid ducked under the next sweep and drove her shoulder forward, shoving Svala off balance for a heartbeat. She slashed up, the edge of her blade stopping a hair's breadth from her mother's ribs.
Svala knocked it aside with the butt of her spear and shoved Astrid back with one arm. Astrid stumbled, caught herself, and came in again without hesitation.
Steel rang. Wood cracked. Their movements grew faster, sharper—Astrid's frustration bleeding out through every strike, Svala's calm force answering each one with precision. The spear swept low; Astrid jumped it. The sword carved down; Svala caught it, twisted, and nearly tore it from Astrid's grip.
Astrid hissed through her teeth, tightened her hold, and shoved back harder.
They locked—sword against spear—breath harsh in the silence. Astrid's lilac eyes burned, but Svala's pale gaze stayed steady, unshaken. With a sharp twist, Svala broke the lock, spun the spear, and slammed its haft against Astrid's shoulder, knocking her back.
Astrid staggered, then reset her stance.
Still, neither spoke.
The clash continued, each impact echoing off stone. Astrid's breath came hard and fast, sweat dampening her tunic, arms burning from the weight of her swings. Svala pressed her without pause, spear darting forward in sharp, efficient thrusts that forced Astrid to guard high, then low, then high again.
Astrid gritted her teeth. Not this time.
Another thrust came, straight for her chest. Instead of stepping back, Astrid pivoted in, letting the spear graze past her ribs. She caught the haft with her free hand, yanked it sideways, and brought her sword down hard across Svala's arm.
The flat of the blade struck clean.
Svala's grip broke. The spear clattered to the floor and skidded across the stone.
Astrid held her stance, blade leveled, chest heaving. For the first time since they started, her lips pulled into the faintest, sharpest of smiles.
Svala flexed her arm once where the blow had landed, then looked at her daughter—eyes cool, unreadable. Slowly, she bent, picked up the spear, and straightened.
She gave Astrid a short nod. Approval.
Then, without warning, she shifted her grip and came at Astrid again.
The spear blurred in her hands, a sudden sweep aimed at Astrid's legs. Astrid jumped back, barely clearing the strike, her blade swinging down to deflect the follow-up thrust. Steel rang, sharp and loud.
Svala pressed harder, driving Astrid across the floor with relentless precision. No hesitation. No pause. Each thrust was measured, every sweep meant to test whether Astrid's earlier success had been earned or luck.
Astrid tightened her jaw, forcing her tired arms to move faster. Her sword darted up, down, left, right—parrying blow after blow. She slipped once, her boot skidding on scattered sand, but she caught herself and lunged, slashing high at Svala's shoulder.
The spear twisted, knocking it aside, but Astrid didn't retreat. She pushed in close, shoulder to shoulder, her blade hammering the spear haft in rapid succession. One strike. Two. Three. The last came down hard enough to force Svala back a pace.
Astrid's chest heaved, her lilac eyes bright with determination.
Svala steadied, spear angled low, gaze fixed on her daughter. She let out a faint, sharp exhale that might have been approval. Or warning.
"Again," she said, voice clipped.
Astrid reset her stance, sword raised.
Steel and wood cracked against each other in sharp succession, echoing through the chamber. Astrid drove forward with everything she had—blade striking again and again, each blow sharper, faster, more desperate.
Svala gave no ground easily. Her spear turned aside each slash, haft meeting steel with clean efficiency. Yet Astrid's pressure mounted, forcing her mother back step by step. Astrid's breath grew ragged, muscles burning, but she pressed harder.
For a moment, she almost had her. Her blade slipped past the guard, grazing Svala's arm before the spear twisted away. Astrid lunged to follow through—
—and that was when Svala ended it.
The spear spun in her hands, a blur of wood and steel. The butt slammed against Astrid's wrist, jolting her sword free. Before the blade even hit the floor, the spearpoint stopped just shy of Astrid's chest.
Astrid froze, chest heaving, sweat dripping down her temple.
Silence filled the chamber.
Svala held the spear steady for a heartbeat longer, then lowered it. She looked at Astrid—face stern, pale eyes sharp—but something lay beneath it. Not softness. Not indulgence.
Respect.
"You've come far," she said simply.
Astrid's jaw tightened, her lilac eyes still burning. She bent to retrieve her sword, gripping the hilt as if it might steady the frustration pounding in her chest.
Svala watched her a moment longer, then rested the spear against the rack.
"But not far enough."
It wasn't dismissal. It was challenge.
She turned and strode for the door, cloak shifting behind her, leaving Astrid alone in the chamber with her blade and her thoughts.
The door hadn't fully closed behind Svala before it opened again, softer this time.
Signe slipped inside, her steps measured, almost soundless on the froststone floor. She carried no lantern, no tray—only a folded cloth and a waterskin held neatly in her hands.
Astrid still stood in the center of the chamber, sword hanging loosely at her side, chest rising and falling with the aftershock of the fight. Sweat dampened her pale hair, clinging in strands to her temples.
Signe approached without a word. She set the waterskin on the bench by the wall, then stepped forward and offered the cloth.
Astrid glanced at her, jaw tight, then looked away. But she didn't refuse. She let Signe press the cloth gently to her brow, dabbing away the sweat.
"You overexerted yourself again," Signe said quietly, her tone calm and even—more observation than rebuke.
Astrid huffed, breath sharp through her nose. "Better that than sit in that hall a moment longer."
Signe's pale gray eyes flickered, but her expression remained composed. She dipped the cloth into the waterskin, wrung it out with careful hands, then offered it again.
Astrid took it this time, wiping her own face with a quick, rough motion. "Grandfather thinks I'm a pawn. Leif thinks silence makes him clever. And the rest of them—" She broke off, shaking her head. "All of them treat me like I should be grateful for chains."
Signe folded her hands neatly in front of her apron, her voice as steady as ever. "And yet, you keep fighting."
Astrid paused, her gaze shifting to her handmaiden. Signe's tone hadn't changed; it was calm, respectful. But the words lingered.
Astrid let out a sharp exhale and dropped onto the bench, resting her sword across her knees. "Of course I do," she muttered. "What else is there?"
Signe didn't answer. She only reached for the laces of Astrid's bracers, loosening the straps with practiced, careful fingers.
The silence was not empty. It was steady.
Signe slipped the last strap free and set the bracers neatly on the bench beside the waterskin. She wrung out the cloth again, wiping the remaining sweat from Astrid's temple with quiet efficiency.
Astrid exhaled slowly, her grip relaxing on the sword. For the first time since entering the training chamber, she let it rest fully against the wall.
"Come, my lady," Signe said quietly. "The bathing chambers are ready. You'll want to be presentable before the feast."
Astrid's jaw tightened at the word feast, but she didn't argue. She rose, gathering the edges of her damp tunic. Signe retrieved a fresh towel and draped it neatly over her arm before leading the way out.
The halls were quieter here, torches burning low along the froststone walls. Their footsteps echoed together—Astrid's heavier, slowed by fatigue; Signe's lighter, measured. Neither spoke, but the silence between them was companionable.
The doors of the bathing chambers swung open to warm steam curling into the air. Pools fed by heated springs shimmered beneath the glow of rune-lamps set high in the walls. Carved stone benches ringed the edges, and folded linen towels sat stacked in orderly rows. The faint scent of pine resin and juniper hung in the mist.
Astrid pulled the ties of her tunic loose, stripping down with little care for ceremony. Signe averted her eyes, as always, but remained at her side, collecting each garment neatly into a woven basket.
Astrid stepped into the water with a sharp inhale. Heat enveloped her at once, pulling the ache from her arms, the burn from her shoulders. She sank lower, submerging to her chin, eyes closing. For the first time since leaving the Winter Hall, her body eased.
Signe set the towel on a bench within reach and moved to the wall, hands folded neatly before her apron. She did not intrude, did not fuss. She simply kept her post: quiet, attentive.
Astrid let her head rest against the smooth stone edge, the water lapping at her collarbones. Her breath slowed as the warmth leached tension from her muscles. The silence held, broken only by the drip of water from the high ceiling and the faint ripple of the spring-fed pool.
Signe remained nearby, still as carved stone, pale eyes attentive but never prying. She did not look away out of discomfort nor lean closer out of concern. She simply stayed, as she always did—a steady presence at Astrid's side.
Astrid finally opened her eyes, staring up at the rune-lit ceiling. A feast, she thought bitterly. They'll drink, laugh, and toast this cursed Accord as if I were already wearing his ring. They'll forget my words in the hall, but remember every curve of the bargain.
Her jaw tightened, but the water softened her hands before her nails could dig into her palms. She closed her eyes again.
Across the chamber, Signe shifted just enough to take a folded towel from the stack and set it neatly on the bench beside the pool. Then she resumed her quiet stance, hands folded once more.
Astrid let out a long breath through her nose, sinking deeper into the warmth until only her eyes and the pale line of her forehead broke the surface. She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
Signe would wait until she was ready. She always did.
The feast was coming, whether Astrid wished it or not. But for now—for this brief, stolen span—there was only heat, steam, and silence.
The steam clung to the walls, curling in slow coils through the rune-light. Astrid grew still, half-lulled by the warmth. She let her chin rest on her folded arms against the stone edge of the pool, lilac eyes half-closed, pale hair floating around her like threads of silver.
Across the chamber, Signe moved with the same measured precision as always. From a cedar chest tucked against the wall, she drew out fresh garments chosen for the evening. She shook them out gently, ensuring no creases marred the fabric, then laid them across the bench. Beside them, she set a circlet and a pair of slippers, their soles lined with soft hide for quiet steps.
Astrid cracked one eye open at the soft rustle of cloth. "You're already fussing."
"Not fussing, my lady," Signe replied evenly, smoothing the fabric flat with her hands. "Preparing. The feast will begin as soon as the horns are sounded. You will want everything ready."
Astrid let her head tip back with a quiet groan. "Feasts. Horns. Oaths. Always the same noise."
Signe did not answer, but her pale gray eyes flickered briefly toward Astrid—just enough to note the fatigue beneath the frustration. She moved on, arranging combs, pins, and oil vials neatly along the bench. The faint scent of lavender and juniper drifted up as she uncorked them, ready for Astrid's hair.
Astrid finally sat up, water dripping from her pale shoulders. "I suppose I can't arrive soaked and armed."
"No, my lady," Signe said softly, offering the towel with both hands.
Astrid took it, drying her face and arms briskly before wrapping it around herself. She stood, water streaming down her legs, and stepped out onto the stone floor where Signe waited, basket in hand, garments already laid out.
The steam still curled in the air when Astrid stepped from the pool, towel wrapped loosely around her frame. Drops of water traced lines down her skin, glistening in the rune-lamp glow. She moved with no ceremony, only the weary acceptance of someone already bracing for the next battle, even if this one would be fought with smiles and politics instead of steel.
Signe was ready with her usual quiet precision. She had laid out the feast gown carefully: a garment of pale ivory silk trimmed in gold, embroidered with intricate scrollwork that shimmered faintly in the lamplight. Beside it lay a mantle of fur, its weight meant for the shoulders of Vinterhall's heir. A slender circlet, polished to gleam like ice, rested in a velvet-lined case.
Astrid stood before her handmaiden, arms lifting without being asked. Signe dried her quickly and efficiently, then slipped the gown over her head, tugging it into place with practiced ease. The fabric settled like water over Astrid's frame, falling in clean, perfect lines.
The mantle followed, fastened at the collar with a clasp shaped like a stag's head, its antlers etched in froststeel.
Signe adjusted the fall of the fur, then knelt briefly to smooth the hem until it flowed evenly. She worked in silence, fingers steady, movements exact.
Astrid watched through the polished-steel mirror set into the wall. Her lilac eyes stared back, framed now not in sweat and exhaustion but in regal finery—every inch the heir her grandfather demanded she be.
Signe fastened the circlet last, her cool fingers brushing briefly against Astrid's temple before she stepped back and folded her hands before her apron.
"It is done, my lady," she said softly.
Astrid exhaled, a slow, sharp breath. She turned her gaze once more to her reflection: pale skin framed by fur, gold embroidery gleaming across her bodice, the sword of Vinterhall resting in her hands where Signe had placed it.
She looked like a queen.
She felt like a prisoner.
Astrid's grip tightened on the sword hilt, but her face remained perfectly composed.
"Let's get this over with," she said quietly.
Signe inclined her head. "As you wish."
Together, they left the bathing chambers, the sound of distant horns beginning to rise through the stone halls, summoning the household to feast.