His chamber smelled of iron and smoke, warmed by a hearth and fire that crackled low in the corner. Animal pelts lay across the floor and bed, and carved wooden beams arched over the ceiling.
Isabelle lay unconscious on the bed, pale against the dark furs, a thick cloth pressed to the deep wound at her side. Her breathing was shallow but steady.
The healer muttered to himself as he worked, hands sure and fast, stitching flesh with the precision of someone who had seen many battles.
Ewan stood over them, arm crossed, his jaw tight. His gaze never left Isabelle.
Then, the door opened.
Freya entered, her boots slamming harder on the wooden floor. She stopped just a few paces away, eyes blazing.
"She's alive," she said flatly.
"She is." the Jarl replied, not looking at her.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I saw the way you looked when she fell."
He said nothing.
"I saw your hand shake." she added, voice low. "You've never run to anyone like that before. Not even when I bled for you."
The healer glanced up awkwardly, sensing the storm in the room, but wisely kept his focus on the wound.
Freya took a step closer. Her voice dropped. "I have fought for you. I have killed for you. I have never lain with another. Never once."
Still, the Jarl didn't look at her.
"I've been faithful to you." she said sharply, voice shaking now.
He turned.
His eyes were cold steel. Not cruel, but resolute. Untouched by the storm she brought with her.
"This is not the time, Freya."
Her face faltered. "Then, when?"
He looked at Isabelle. Broken, breathing softly on his bed.
"When she no longer lies half-dead under my roof."
Silence.
Freya stared at him, chest rising and falling with too many unspoken words.
Then she turned, eyes burning with a different kind of fire, and stormed out of the room, door slamming shut behind her like the echo of a war drum.
Outside the chamber, the hall echoed with footsteps and whispers. Charlotte stood facing Rollo, who stood tall with his arms crossed, unmoved despite the storm gathering before him.
"You can't keep us from her," Anabel hissed, fists clenched at her sides. "She's our blood."
"And if she's dying in there, we deserve to be with her," Charlotte added.
Rollo sighed, his voice a calm rumble. "The Jarl gave his word. No one enters until he permits it."
Charlotte stepped closer, her nose almost to his chest. "And what is she doing in his chamber anyway? Who are you to tell us what to do?"
Anabel crossed her arms. "Strange, isn't it? Our sister lies half-dead, and suddenly she's treated like a princess while we rot outside."
Rollo's jaw flexed, but he didn't move. "She earned her place in that ring. She earned every breath she's still taking."
"You mean she earned his attention." Anabel muttered bitterly. "That's all there is, isn't it?"
Before Rollo could curse, a voice cut through the corridor like a blade through cloth.
"She's awake."
The healer emerged from the room, wiping his hands on a bloodied cloth. "Barely, don't crowd her."
Anabel and Charlotte pushed past Rollo, ignoring his warning grunt as they hurried into the chamber.
Night had fallen hard over the village, the skies thick with stars. Smoke curled from longhouse and chimneys, and distant drums beat in slow rhythm, a reminder of victory and death. She watched the door, waiting for the healer.
It opened.
She saw Ewan entered, his silhouette tall and broad against the firelight. His shoulders carried the weight of command. But his eyes were darker than usual. Tired. Heavy.
"You should be in your bed. My apologies for taking them." she said quietly.
He didn't answer. Just crossed the room, slow, boots thundering on the planks.
When he finally stopped a few paces from her bed, Isabelle sat straighter. "I don't feel comfortable here."
"I know." he said. Too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow. "Busy with Freya and the rest of the men?"
He didn't respond.
Her voice lowered. "I heard what she said in here. You're not here to check the wound. You could have sent Rollo. Or the healer. But you came yourself. Why?"
Ewan exhaled, jaw tight. "You fought well. You deserve to be seen."
"Don't speak to me like I'm one of your warriors."
He stepped closer, and something shifted in his gaze.
"You're not."
She stared up at him, eyes narrowing. "Then, what am I to you?"
Silence stretched.
His hands clenched at his sides. He looked at her. Dark hair messy. Lips dry. A faint scar on her cheek. There was no delicate beauty, and yet...
"I don't know what you are to me." he said, almost like a curse. "You are not what I thought I would want."
Isabelle chest tightened, but she didn't look away. "Then why are you here?"
"This is my room, remember?"
"You lie with every breath."
His jaw worked. His voice dropped into a rasp. "Because every time I try to keep my distance, I find myself walking toward you."
"There is something on your mind."
"I hate that I care," he whispered. "And that I want you when I shouldn't."
The room filled with heat but not just from the fire.
The last flicker of restraint from his eyes broke.
He stepped forward, grabbed her by the jaw with rough, deliberate care, not gentle, and kissed her like he meant to claim every breath from her lungs.
It wasn't soft.
Isabelle melt to him, her fingers gripping the his hair as if she'd fall apart if she let go. The fire propped in the corner, but neither of them heard it. The world world shrank to that one point of contact.
When he finally pulled back, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged.
"I shouldn't have let you fight." he whispered.
Hrothgar sat on the long table, polishing the edge of his axe with calm, deliberate strokes.
"You were supposed to be watching him," Freya hissed, storming in, her voice shaking with rage.
He didn't look up. "And good evening to you, daughter."
She stepped closer. "I can sense the Jarl is after her skirt. That scarred girl."
Hrothgar paused. His eyes flickered up, sharp as hawks.
"I saw the way he looked at her." She pressed on, pacing now, her voice climbing. "I saw him carry her like she was made of silver. He doesn't hide it anymore."
"She fought in the ring." he said calmly. "Earned his respect."
"It's more than respect," Freya snapped. "It's in his eyes. It's in the way he silences the room when she speaks."
Hrothgar leaned back, studying her.
"She's crawling under his skin. And if you don't act, she'll crawl toward the throne."
Her father set the axe down slowly.
"You're losing control." he said.
"It was your plan to place me near him. To make him see my strength. My loyalty."
"I placed you near him to win his trust. Not whine like a jealous goat when he looks elsewhere."
Freya recoiled slightly, but the fire in her eyes didn't dim. "You think I haven't tried? I fought for him. But he still looks at her like she's something new."
Hrothgar rose to his feet, towering, his voice colder now.
"Then perhaps stop bleeding for him, Freya. Stop fighting like you're one of his men."
She blinked. "What?"
"You want him? Then be the woman he doesn't expect. Enough with the blades and battle cries. Seduce him!"
Freya stared at him, stunned.
"You're telling me to whore myself?"
"I'm telling you to win." he snarled. "With what you have. You're not his equal. So, stop playing at being one."
Silence hung heavy between them.
"You said I was your finest warrior,"
"And now I'm saying warriors die alone."
Freya's throat tightened. "Then what do you want me to do?"
Hrothgar leaned in, his voice like ice on steel. "Braid your hair. Warm his bed. Make him forget the scent of blood and remember the scent of you."