By the next morning, the village felt different. Or perhaps she did.
Astrid walked through Løvlund with a looseness in her hips she hadn't earned from sleep. Her body no longer flinched from glances. She welcomed them. Older women watering flowers paused to watch her pass. A young man nearly dropped his bread at the bakery when she smiled. Someone left a single sprig of thyme on her doorstep, tied with red wool.
In Løvlund, desire was not a crime. But it still had ritual. And rituals had meaning.
Today, Astrid would learn her name.
Not the one she was born with.
The one the fjord gave her.
It was Ida who arrived first, barefoot in soft linen, a knowing smile curling at her lips. She didn't speak. Just took Astrid's hand and led her into the forest, down the same path Åse had walked the day before—but deeper.
They reached a clearing surrounded by birch. A stone altar, worn smooth. Bowls of water. Ink. A garland of fresh moss lay waiting on a carved stool.
Astrid inhaled sharply. "Is this—?"
Ida placed a finger on her lips. "Don't speak until you're called."
The clearing slowly filled. Åse. Leif. Mattis. Kari. Emil. Even the baker with flour still on his hands. Women wrapped in shawls. Men in nothing at all. Children kept away, as always — not for shame, but for reverence.
This was adult work. Sacred work.
A naming.
Åse stepped forward and poured warm water over Astrid's hands. "Speak the name that has bound you until now."
Astrid hesitated. "Astrid Hammar."
"Release it."
Astrid breathed out. "Astrid Hammar."
A chorus of voices responded: "Gone."
Åse dipped her fingers in a bowl of green ink, pressed her thumb gently to Astrid's throat. "You are no longer daughter. No longer stranger. Today, the fjord will speak what it knows."
Then silence.
A wind rose—unexpected, sudden. It rustled the trees, circled Astrid's bare arms. The villagers stood still, eyes closed. And then Ida, eyes open, said a single word:
"Sjøhjerte."
Astrid blinked. "What does it mean?"
Åse smiled. "Sea-heart. The one who pulses with the tide."
Astrid shivered. Something in her chest moved. Not a muscle. A memory.
Leif approached. "Sjøhjerte," he repeated softly. "May we call you that when you make us ache?"
A murmur of warm laughter.
Astrid nodded.
"Yes."
That evening, there was wine.
Heavy with berry and spice, drunk from carved wooden cups. The villagers sang, passed food between kisses, and swayed under string lanterns hung from birch trunks.
Kari kissed Emil and then kissed Astrid. Mattis laid his head in Ida's lap. Åse braided two women's hair together while they whispered sweet filth into each other's ears.
But Astrid—Sjøhjerte now—sat beneath a tree, heart thudding in time with the tambourine. She didn't need to dance.
She was the song.
And then she felt her. A presence just behind her spine. A breath not yet taken.
She turned—
And saw a woman she didn't know.
Late thirties, maybe forty. Dark braids. Eyes like thunderclouds about to break. Wrapped in a robe of deep navy, nothing beneath but skin.
"Who—?" Astrid began.
But the woman stepped closer and said:
"I am Liv. And I've watched you long enough."
Her voice was not soft. Not seductive.
It was certain.
Astrid didn't speak. She simply opened her knees wider beneath the robe.
Liv knelt between them.
Their mouths didn't touch.
Their eyes did.
And for the first time in weeks, Astrid didn't feel like she was falling into someone.
She felt like someone was falling into her.
They didn't make love.
Not yet.
They watched. Breathed. Brushed fingertips like knives on silk. Liv's tongue traced the edge of Astrid's knee, and it was enough to make Astrid cry out into the sky.
"I don't want to be gentle with you," Liv whispered. "I want to undo you."
Astrid shivered. "Then start."
But Liv smiled and stood, brushing dirt from her knees.
"Not yet, Sjøhjerte. First, you must learn how to beg."
Then she was gone.
Just like that.
Astrid lay back on the moss.
Wet between her thighs.
Heart pounding in her ribs.
She laughed.
Not because she was left aching.
But because for the first time in her life—
She wanted to ache.