The enemy clan had almost seized the village. Their warriors pushed forward, overwhelming them.
Grabbing a fallen sword, she ran towards the battle.
She fought alongside the men, her strikes swift and brutal. She took down one invader with effort, blocking a blow with one of their men. But it wasn't enough. The enemy had numbers.
Then, an idea struck her.
She abandoned the fight, sprinting through the village, ducking past flames and fallen warriors. If they couldn't outmatch the enemy in strength, they could outwit them.
She reached the signal tower, the wooden structure meant for emergencies. Climbing up, she grabbed a torch and threw it onto the stack of prepped firewood. Flames roared to life, sending a thick column of smoke into the night sky. The signal for reinforcements.
Then she ran towards the livestock pens. With thick, sharp cuts, she sliced through the ropes, releasing the cattle and horses.
Panic erupted.
The enemy warriors stumbled as the frightened beast stampeded though the village, breaking their formations, trampling over them. The distraction was enough. The men pushed forward, striking down their now-scattered foes.
A war horn sounded in the distance. Their leader barked an order, and within moments, they were retreating, disappearing into the darkness.
Isabelle fell to her knees, panting, gripping the the hilt of her sword. Around her, the clan stood victorious.
She had saved them.
And for the first time, when the warriors looked at her, they did not see the girl who did not belong.
They saw the woman who had turned the tide of war.
The Elders stood before the leader in a half-circle, voices low, brows furrowed in thought.
"The stables." Elder Morag said, his voice gravel rough. "It began there. Chaos spread like fire. Horses broke through the northern gate, chickens underfoot. Our enemies scattered in confusion."
Ewan nodded at once. "A tactic?"
"No one admits to it," Elder Cormac muttered. "We assumed it was an accident."
"It wasn't," Isabelle said, walking to the room.
Ewan's brows drew together. "Speak."
She stopped before the throne and looked up with resolve.
"I cut the ropes," she said, "I unlatched the pens. I drew them off course so your warriors could regroup." Her voice didn't shake. "I saved this clan."
Gasp fluttered through the hall like startled birds.
A heartbeat passed. And someone laughed sharply from the right.
Freya stepped forward, her leather armor still dusted in ash, her braid swinging over one shoulder. Daughter of the war chief and favored in the training yards. She looked down on Isabelle like one would an insect on a dinner plate.
"You?" Freya scoffed. "A warrior? Releasing chickens and horses like some barn wrench? That's not battle. That's cowardice dressed as cleverness."
A ripple of unease passed through the elders, but no one dared to interrupt. Ewan remained silent, watching.
Isabelle's gaze didn't waver. "And what did you do when the gates fell, Freya? I saw you run."
Freya jaw clenched. "Careful, little rat."
But she didn't flinch. She moved like a whip. Her shoulder slam into Freya's chest, knocking the woman backwards. Before Freya could react, Isabelle had her pinned, face to stone, arm twisted behind her.
"Enough," Ewan said, voice cutting though the noise like a blade.
Isabelle let go and stepped back. Freya scrambled to her feet, face red with fury, fist clenched but said nothing.
Ewan rose slowly. He stepped down from the throne and looked at Isabelle with interest.
"You acted with courage," he said, voice quiet but carrying. "And wit. You faced the enemy with what you had and saved lives doing so."
He turned to the elders.
"Prepare the oath ceremony."
He raised his voice. "She saved us all. Tonight, she becomes one of us."
Later that day, the grand hall echoed with the murmurs of the assembled warriors and council members. She took her place among them, her presence a testament to her growing influence within the clan. Her sisters ate slowly, flinching at the sight of sweat and men who spoke without worry.
Hrothgar's voice resonated through the hall. "Our enemies has struck at us with impunity. Since we captured their leader, it is time we end his life and send a clear message."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the council.
"Eliminating their leader would indeed send a message, it is our leader who must demonstrate ruthlessness, showing them the strength of our clan."
The hall fell silent, all eyes turning to Isabelle.
"Let one among us challenge the leader openly. A duel to the death. Let it be known that we do not hide behind assassins but face our foes with honor."
"This is purely nonsense." Hrothgar disagreed.
Ewan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And who would you suggest undertake this challenge?"
Without hesitation, she met his gaze. "I volunteer."
A collective intake of breath swept through the assembly.
Freya's voice was laced with skepticism. " Are you mad? You want to face the leader yourself?"
"I do."
Ewan's gaze bore into hers. Finally, he nodded.
"Prepare yourself."
She stood near the window. Her dark hair clung to her cheeks from training, but she made no move to brush it away.
"You offered your life?" Moira growled, slamming the wooden door shut behind her. "Are you possessed? To fight to the death? By Thor's hammer, have you lost your wits, woman?"
She didn't flinch, she turned her gaze back to the mist-shrouded hills beyond the window.
"I made the choice,"
"Why? You barely know how to lift an axe! And what of the leader? What did he say to this madness?"
Isabelle looked up, calm and unmoved. "I spoke not a word to him."
Moira reeled back as if struck. "You what? You swore to yourself without even asking his counsel? Even mine?"
"The choice was mine alone."
"If you go," she said at last, "then may the gods decide your fate."
The two women stood at the door. One persuading, and the other bound to fight.
Her eyes snapped open. She didn't move at first, listening. The hush of night pressed in, heavy as furs. But the sound came once more outside the door.
Carefully, she slipped from her bed, barefoot on the cold floor, moving like a shadow. Her sisters slumbered on, unaware. Isabelle crept to the wall where her sword lay against the wall. She took it in silence, fingers tight on the worn leather grip.
The door gave a soft groan as she opened it and stepped out into the night. The wind carried the scent of pine and salt and something else. A familiar scent.
She moved with caution, sword low but ready, scanning the yard.
A blur. Steel flashed.
She raised her sword in time to meet the strike. The clang of metal rang through the stillness.
He came at her again, fierce, ruthless, not holding back. Isabelle's blade met his in a dance of sparks and fury, her breath sharp in her chest. He moved swiftly, testing her footwork, her speed, her will.
But she did not yield.
With a fierce cry, she drove forward, catching him off guard. Their blades locked, and for a breathless movement they stood close that she could see a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Eyes cold and piercing, sweeping over her face with something like wonder. A handsome face, sharp jaw, kissed by old scars and the moon's glow.
"You are no frightened." he murmured, his voice low and hoarse.
She panted, glaring up at him. "And you're no ghost, though you move like one."
A grin tugged at his mouth. "You almost struck me, had I not tested you first, I might be bleeding. " He teased.
"You still might."
His chuckle was quiet. "You've fire, woman. But fire alone won't win you the fight you seek."
He stepped back, lowering his sword. She didn't and he noticed.
"You're bold and stubborn." he added, gaze raking over her again like a smith studying hot metal.
She stood tall. "I will not sit idle while others fight."
"You proof nothing. You're just a fool with a sword."
He tilted his head, a flicker of amusement behind the steel of his eyes. "You've spirit. But spirit without skill gets buried."
She hesitated, only a breath, then lowered her blade. "Then train me."
"I will." he said simply. "Training starts at dawn."
She raised a brow. "Not now?"
His grin widened. "I'd rather not be run through by a half-sleep woman in the dark."
Isabelle smirked, turning toward the cottage. The air between them still buzzed with tension. The kind that wasn't just from swords.
The horn sounded once. Sharp and cold, breaking the silence of mid-break. Warriors rose from their seated circles, tossing aside half-eaten meat and drinking horns, tightening leather bracers and adjusting weapons.
Isabelle stood, brushing the crumbs of bread from her tunic, eyes scanning the yard for her usual opponent.
But it wasn't him who approached.
Jarl Ewan.
"No more drill with the boys," he said. "Come here."
He turned without waiting. She followed, her heart thudding against her ribs.
They stepped into a quieter ring. Rollo watched from the shade of a pine, browed furrowed, arms crossed tight over his chest.
Ewan turned to her, pulling two practice axes from a rack, tossing her one.
He struck first, She blocked, barely. The jolt vibrated through her arms.
"Better." he said, "Again."
They moved harder this time. She twisted, ducked, slashed. Pain radiated to her arms as he parried with ease. Then, with a swift move, he stepped inside her guard, one arm sweeping around her waist to pull her off balance. She landed on his chest, her breath caught between them.
His hand lingered.
Their eyes met. Her breath was fire. His was thunder.
He stepped back slowly, jaw clenched. "Don't drop your guard."
"I didn't."
"You will." he muttered, turning away. "If your heart outrun your axe."
From the trees, Rollo's voice rumbled low. "Careful, Jarl. You're not sparring with your instincts."
Ewan's gaze flicked to him.
"She's becoming a warrior." Rollo said, stepping forward. "Don't be too harsh."
The wind shifted.
"To win this fight," he said to her, eyes locked with hers, "you must learn to kill what softens you."
And then he walked away.