The Old Tower was a mausoleum of gray stone and bitter drafts. Its single window was tiny and iron-barred, offering a view only of the desolate, snow-dusted inner wall. The floor was rough, and the damp air seemed to wick the warmth from her bones.
A young woman, a new servant named Hilda, was assigned to her. Hilda was clearly terrified of Nari, constantly crossing herself and avoiding eye contact.
Nari set Gisíl down on the meager pallet and turned to the girl. "Hilda. Tell me, truly. What do they say of me now? Not what the Queen commands you to say, but what is the common talk?"
Hilda whimpered, clutching her apron. "Oh, my lady… they say... they say your gods have followed you here. That the fire you brought is not just in your skin, but in your blood. That you draw the life from the North to feed your heathen child. The Jarls... they say you must be cleansed. A fire sacrifice to bring the sun back."
Nari felt a cold clench in her gut, but her expression remained serene. A fire sacrifice. The irony was a bitter twist—she, the Fire-Born, to be burned to appease the North's need for warmth.
"Hilda," Nari commanded, her voice soft but firm, compelling the girl to look at her. "The Queen's cousin, Jarl Theron. Has he been seen today? Speaking to the guards?"
"Yes, my lady," Hilda whispered, trembling. "He was in the yard this evening. He was giving them all ale... and speaking of the curse. He gave the guards here extra rations and a skin of strong brew. He said… 'Tonight, the cold ends.'"
Nari's mind raced, connecting the final, deadly thread. The isolation. The terror of the populace. The ale for the guards, meant to ensure they were drunk, lax, or conveniently absent. Theron planned to come for her tonight.
She looked at her son, then down at her pregnant belly. She had defied Astrid to her face, and now the Queen was delivering the inevitable consequence. She was an unbent queen of a conquered people, and she would not die meekly in this iron cage.
Nari stood by the small window, her fingers wrapped around the frigid iron bars. She was trapped, but the memory of the fire that had consumed her home and people filled her with a terrible, desperate resolve. The Sun-Dwellers worshipped the sun, not as a gentle light, but as a consuming power—a force of absolute destruction and rebirth.
"Herald, my King," Nari whispered to the dark night. "You came for dominion. Tonight, you will learn the true meaning of conquest. You took me by fire, and it is by fire that I will break the chains of your kingdom."
She turned from the window, her dark eyes blazing with the spirit of her burning village. She knew she could not fight the Jarls and the Queen's guards. But she could make their victory meaningless. She could turn the fire sacrifice against the cold, gray kingdom that sought to extinguish her.
There was only one way out of the Old Tower that would truly break Astrid's power and shatter Herald's conviction—to leave a legacy not of shame, but of absolute, undeniable power. She had to escape not only the tower, but the very narrative of her captivity.
She quietly went to the small, cold hearth, gathering the few, tiny pieces of dry moss and dead wood the guards had left for a short-lived fire. The fire-born maiden prepared for her final ritual.