Astrid's steps echoed softly along the froststone corridor, the long hem of her ivory-and-gold gown brushing the cold floor. Signe followed a half-pace behind, hands folded neatly in front of her, carrying only a small pouch of combs and oils in case her mistress required last adjustments before entering the hall.
The air here was cooler, touched by the deep veins of the mountain. Runes set into the walls glowed faintly, keeping the torches steady against the drafts. Steam still clung lightly to Astrid's skin from the baths, but the mountain chill was already seeping back through the fur mantle draped across her shoulders.
They moved through the Frozen Passage, the tunnel winding upward toward the heart of the keep. Ahead, the sound of distant horns carried faintly, low resonant notes announcing the opening of the feast.
Two Shieldguard stood at the junction where the passage split, their halberds crossed before stepping aside to let the heir pass. Astrid did not spare them a glance.
Signe did. Her pale eyes flicked to each man, steady and unreadable, before she followed Astrid on.
They passed the entrance to the Shrine, faint with incense and quiet chants from within. The voices of the priestesses rose in prayer, blessing the feast, the Accord, and the Vinterhall line. Astrid's jaw tightened, but she did not stop.
The passage widened as they neared the Winter Moot, the great circular chamber carved directly into the mountain's heart. Servants bustled ahead of them, carrying trays of bread, wheels of cheese, and kegs of mead bound for the feast. Laughter already rumbled from beyond the doors.
Astrid's steps slowed as she reached the threshold. The carved gates of the Moot towered before her, iron-banded oak etched with frost runes that shimmered in the torchlight. From behind them came the unmistakable sounds of revelry: music, voices raised in cheer, the feast already well underway.
Signe moved closer, her voice steady but quiet.
"All eyes will be on you, my lady."
Astrid did not answer. She fixed her lilac gaze on the doors, her grip tightening on the hilt of the sword at her side.
The horns sounded again, three deep blasts that shook the stone underfoot.
The gates opened.
They groaned wide, spilling light and sound into the Frozen Passage. Heat rolled out first, carried on smoke from the firepits, followed by the thunder of voices, men shouting, women laughing, the sharp clash of mugs slammed together in cheer.
Astrid stepped forward, Signe at her side, into the heart of the Winter Moot.
The chamber was vast, its circular walls rising high into the mountain's crown. Massive timber beams stretched across the ceiling, hung with iron braziers that spilled firelight over the crowd. Great banners of Vinterhall, black stags stitched in silver thread, hung between the torches, their edges stirring faintly in the warm draft.
Four long tables ran along the curve of the hall, already crowded with Shieldguard, kinsmen, and retainers. The smell of roasted boar, spiced mead, and fresh bread filled the air. Drums pounded at the far end, matched by the twang of harp strings and the stamping of boots in time with the music.
As Astrid entered, the noise faltered.
Heads turned. The Shieldguard lowered their mugs. Conversations stopped mid-word.
The heir of Vinterhall stood framed in the great doorway, ivory and gold silk flowing around her, fur mantle heavy on her shoulders, silver circlet catching the firelight. The sword in her hand gleamed not as ornament but as weapon, its black-and-gold hilt at odds with the finery she wore.
The hall shifted. Some bowed their heads respectfully. Others whispered. A few of her brothers, seated along the right-hand table, straightened as pride flickered across their faces. Bjorn, at the high seat, gave a low grunt, though even his pale eyes lingered on her longer than usual.
Astrid's jaw stayed tight, her lilac eyes fixed ahead as she crossed the threshold, Signe trailing quietly in her shadow. Each step of her boots on the stone floor echoed clear and deliberate, carrying her deeper into the firelit circle where every gaze followed.
At last, her eyes met his.
Prince Leif of Verdelund sat near the high table, fur-lined cloak over his shoulders, posture straight, features composed. For the first time since arriving in Vinterhall, his expression shifted.
His bright blue eyes narrowed slightly, not in disdain but in something sharper. His lips curved, the ghost of a smile tugging at one corner.
Not mockery, exactly, but unmistakably interested.
The hall seemed to hold its breath as the distance between them closed.
Then the great room roared back to life once Bjorn's command had been given. Music thundered from the far end, drums pounding in time with harp and fiddle, while Shieldguard stomped their boots to join the rhythm. Servants wove between the tables with trays of mead, roasted venison, and steaming bread.
Astrid sat rigid at first, the sword across her lap and her cup untouched. The feast wore on, and the weight of so many eyes pressed against her shoulders. Eventually she relented, if only for show.
She set her sword carefully against the dais, lifted her cup at last, and drank.
A cheer rose at the gesture, the hall taking it as approval. Plates were pushed toward her, bowls filled. She ate sparingly, venison and trout and a heel of bread, enough to satisfy the expectation that she partake.
The atmosphere slowly shifted from watchful to truly festive. As the hours passed, the members of House Vinterhall revealed themselves one by one.
Her eldest brother, Hakon, sat nearest their father, his broad shoulders and weathered face a mirror of Egil's youth. He drank heavily, roaring along with the Shieldguard, yet his watchful eyes often slid to Astrid, measuring, protective. He could have been Jarl in all but name had Bjorn chosen him, yet he had never begrudged Astrid her claim.
Beside him, Rurik, the third son, kept his cups measured, his tongue sharper than his sword. He leaned toward Bryndis more than once, speaking low about Verdelund's trade terms, his merchant's mind forever probing. Astrid caught his glance once, curious, almost amused, as though he wondered how she would bargain her way through Leif's shadow.
Sigurd and Magnus, the twins, wrestled over a plate of boar across the table, their laughter carrying even over the drums. Both favored Svala's fierceness, always eager to prove themselves stronger, louder. Astrid noticed Sigurd's gaze flick more than once toward her sword, pride flashing in his eyes when others whispered about her defiance earlier in the day.
Further down, Eirik spoke little, his quiet presence steady as the mountain. He broke bread with the Shieldguard rather than nobles, his hands calloused, his manner plain. When Astrid was pulled into a circle dance by her cousins, she caught Eirik's faint nod, approval in silence as always.
Torvald, younger, still wearing a boy's eagerness on his face, tried too hard to match the older men's cups. By the third horn of mead he was red-faced, stumbling in his dance, but laughing still. Astrid allowed herself the faintest smirk at his clumsy steps, though Signe's steady gaze at her shoulder warned her not to soften too openly.
Kjartan, the scholar among them, sat nearest Yrsa, quill in hand even here, scribbling notes between bites of bread. He muttered occasionally about the Accord, precedent, and alliances past. Astrid ignored him, though she knew he meant well; his strength was ink, not steel.
The youngest, Alaric, barely grown, hovered near the edge of the hall, torn between pride and unease. His eyes followed Astrid most often, as though trying to understand how a sister only a little older than he could bear the mantle of heir.
The mothers made their presence felt too. Yrsa, ever the seeress, spoke little, her pale eyes catching Astrid's when the music lulled, the barest nod passing between them. Bryndis held court with merchants from the southern coast, her laughter sharp, her questions sharper. Svala watched the dancing with a soldier's eye, more intent on footwork than festivity.
Bjorn presided over it all, wolf-fur cloak heavy across his frame, pale gaze ever sharp. He laughed when he chose, grunted when displeased, and each time Astrid joined a dance, his eyes followed, testing, weighing.
Astrid endured. She let herself be drawn into the circle dances, skirts flaring as she moved to the drumbeat, her steps sharp and controlled. She ate sparingly, drank less, and kept her sword close even when custom deemed it unnecessary. Through it all, Signe remained behind her chair, steady as her shadow, ensuring no stain touched her gown and no careless hand lingered too long.
And always, across the hall, Leif watched. Not with drunken mirth or careless laughter, but with that same faint smile, blue-fire eyes following her through every hour of the feast.
By the time the horns sounded again to mark the night's turn, Astrid's body was weary from dancing and her jaw sore from clenching, but her eyes remained clear. She had given them what they demanded, grace and beauty and strength, yet she had given nothing of herself away.
Hours passed. The great firepits burned lower, thick smoke from roasted meat hanging in the rafters. The songs had slowed from stomping war chants to softer drinking tunes, voices slurring as the Shieldguard sagged into their cups.
Plates sat half-cleared, horns spilled mead across the tables, and the roar of the hall had dwindled to a low murmur of laughter and scattered snores. Two of Astrid's brothers, Torvald and Magnus, were slumped against each other on a bench, mouths open in drunken sleep. Others had drifted to the courtyards for air, or to smaller chambers where dice and wagers ran late into the night.
Bjorn still sat at the high seat, though his chin rested heavy on one hand, his eyes half-closed. Egil rose to steady his youngest son as he stumbled from the table. Bryndis lingered deeper in the hall, her laughter still rising now and then among the last of the merchants. Yrsa had left long before, Svala disappearing with her as the Shieldguard grew louder.
Astrid remained at the high table, her sword at her side, her back straight despite the exhaustion in her limbs. She had eaten what was expected, danced when summoned, and sat silent through the rest. Her lilac eyes were still sharp, cutting through the haze of smoke and firelight.
Across the table, Leif had not left.
While others sank into revelry, his composure never shifted. His men lingered near him, speaking low in their southern tongue, but Leif himself stayed steady, his blue gaze flicking toward Astrid whenever he thought she was not looking.
Then, as if by design, the space around them thinned. Bjorn's head dipped lower. Egil stepped away to guide his youngest son out. Bryndis moved deeper into the hall to settle a wager over spices. Even the music had softened to a single harp in the far corner, its notes quiet and unobtrusive.
For the first time that night, Astrid and Leif sat almost alone at the high table.
The firelight flickered between them.
Leif raised his cup slowly, swirling the last of his mead. His voice, smooth and quiet, cut through the thinning noise.
"Shall we speak, Lady Astrid?"