At first, there was nothing.
Then came the fire.
It ripped through her veins like molten iron, every nerve set alight. Astrid's back arched against the cold stone floor, her mouth tearing open in a silent scream. She clawed at the ground, nails splitting against rock, but the pain did not stop. It only dug deeper.
Leif's venom was fire, burning and remaking every cell, shredding her from within. The werewolf's virus was rot and tearing, ripping muscle from bone, infecting marrow and mind. The two forces clashed inside her, colliding in waves of agony that threatened to split her apart.
Her skin felt too tight, her bones too brittle, her blood too thick. Her ribs rattled in her chest as though trying to break free. She tried to breathe, but each inhale dragged razors through her lungs.
Her throat convulsed. A broken sound scraped out, half snarl, half scream.
Her vision shattered into red and black, flickering with flashes of memory: her brothers falling one by one, her mother's hand gone still, Signe's body dropped like refuse. Every image only fed the inferno, pulling her deeper into it.
The pain did not ebb. It escalated. Her joints snapped and reset, her spine twisting until she thought it would tear free of her flesh. Her jaw cracked, stretching too wide before slamming back into place. Her stomach burned as the virus gnawed into her organs, twisting them until they shriveled and reformed.
She wanted to die. She begged for it.
The fire would not let her go.
It spread faster, fiercer, until her body was nothing but war. Fire against fang, venom against virus, each strike leaving her writhing in new torment. Her screams turned hoarse, then soundless again, mouth open, eyes wide, locked in agony.
Hours passed, or seconds. Time was meaningless inside the blaze.
Then, beneath it all, something stirred. Not venom. Not virus. Something older. Something that steadied the war inside her veins.
A pulse. A golden spark. Freyja's blood, buried deep in her line, answering at last.
The fire did not fade. It was forced into shape. The virus did not tear. It was bent into submission.
Astrid's body jerked one last time, a violent shudder that rattled the stone beneath her. Then, with a final breathless scream, she went still.
Silence.
Her chest rose once, then again, steady now. The pain lingered, etched into her memory sharp and clear, but the war was over. Her body had chosen.
Or rather, been chosen.
Astrid lay sprawled across the froststone, limp against the cold. Her limbs trembled with the aftershocks of what had torn through her, the memory of the fire still burning in her nerves. Every shallow breath rattled in her chest, thin and uneven, as if her lungs had forgotten how to work.
The hall was silent now. The cheers, the screams, the clash of steel, all gone. Only the faint drip of blood from the rafters and the occasional crack of settling stone remained. The air reeked of ash and iron, thick enough to sting her throat.
Her hair clung in damp ropes to her skin. Sweat and blood streaked her pale face. Her fingers twitched once against the floor, nails cracked and blackened from clawing at the stone during the worst of it.
She tried to lift her head, but her neck refused. Muscles shook, then gave way. A choked sound caught in her throat, half sob, half gasp. She did not have the strength to finish it.
The silence pressed harder. Around her, nothing stirred. Benches, hearth, tapestries, all stained and broken. Her family's ashes were scattered across the stones. The last remnants of their presence clung in torn furs and trampled banners.
Her eyes rolled weakly toward the spot where Signe had fallen. Nothing remained now but dust, already fading into the cracks. Astrid's chest hitched once, and her jaw clenched until her teeth ached.
Her body felt hollow. Empty. As if the fire had burned out everything human and left only a shell.
And yet, her heart still beat. Slow. Steady. Relentless.
She lay there, unable to move, the weight of death pressing in from every side. Alone. But not finished.
The tremors in her limbs quieted, leaving only the faint rise and fall of her chest. Even that was shallow and fragile, as though each breath might be the last.
Her eyes stayed shut. Darkness pressed behind them, heavy and suffocating. Somewhere deep inside, the fire still smoldered, but faint now, distant, like embers buried under ash.
The hall around her felt endless. Empty benches, toppled shields, banners stained with blood. The air was stale, thick with the reek of iron and smoke. Silence wrapped around her like a weight, pressing her further into the floor.
Her body did not answer when she willed it to move. Her arm stayed limp. Her throat refused to form a word. The stillness was total, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
For a moment, it felt final. This could be the end, alone in the ruin of everything she had ever known.
Then the silence broke.
Astrid's eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide, her breath dragging in with a sound sharp enough to echo off the froststone walls. Air struck her like a hammer, every scent flooding her nose at once. Ash. Blood. Smoke. Burnt wood. The metallic tang of weapons still scattered across the floor.
Her hearing roared alive next, so sharp it was unbearable. She heard the drip of blood sliding down stone in a far corner, the faint crackle of dying embers in the hearth, even the settling of dust on the banners above. Each sound slammed into her skull like a drumbeat.
Her body jolted upright before she knew she had commanded it. Muscles that had been limp moments ago now thrummed with strength, cords of power wound tight beneath her skin. Her fingers flexed, nails gouging small cracks into the stone without effort.
Her vision cleared last, and it was blinding. The rune-lamps seemed too bright, every detail of the ruined hall carved into painful clarity. She could see the fine patterns of frost crawling across the stone columns, the specks of ash still drifting in the air, the faint shimmer of blood on her own arm.
Her chest heaved, but the breath brought no comfort. It sharpened the gnawing emptiness in her gut instead. Hunger. A savage pull, deep and primal, that made her jaw clench until her teeth ached.
Astrid pressed a hand to the floor to steady herself. The stone crumbled slightly under her grip.
She froze, staring at the broken fragments.
Her body was not her own anymore.
And yet, it was.
The fire and the tearing, the venom and the virus, all of it still burned in her memory. Now it had shaped her into something else. Something that should not exist.
Astrid rose slowly to her feet, her damp hair clinging to her back, her lilac eyes faintly glowing in the lamplight.
She stood in the center of the ruined Winter Hall, her chest rising and falling with sharp, shallow breaths. Her new senses clawed at her, every sound, every smell, every detail too sharp. She forced her gaze downward, away from the walls, the banners, the wreckage.
The floor was littered with ash. Piles lay scattered where her family had fallen, nothing left but faint gray mounds drifting in the drafts. Her eyes caught on one in particular, near the dais where Signe had stood at her side only hours ago. A single ribbon lay there, untouched by fire, pale against the blackened stone.
Astrid's throat tightened. Her hand twitched toward it but stopped halfway.
Her breath shuddered out of her. The emptiness in her gut grew sharper, not just hunger but hollowness, spreading through her chest. The memory of their faces, her brothers laughing, her father's booming voice, her mothers at the feast, crashed against her like a wave, crushing and relentless.
Her body trembled. For all the power thrumming in her limbs, her knees buckled. She sank onto the cold stone, her palms braced against it, fingers curling so hard the floor cracked beneath her grip.
A sound tore from her throat. Not a scream. Not a sob. Something caught in between, raw and broken.
She bowed her head, strands of pale hair falling into her face. The silence of the hall pressed around her, filled only by the echo of her ragged breathing.
For the first time since waking, Astrid wished the fire had burned her away completely.
She stayed on her knees, palms pressed hard into the stone. The cracks beneath her fingers spread wider with each shuddering breath, but she did not notice. All she felt was the heaviness in her chest, pressing her downward as if the weight of the dead had settled on her shoulders.
She bent forward until her forehead touched the cold floor. Her damp hair spilled around her, mixing with the gray ash that clung to the stones. The smell of it, smoke and iron and something faintly sweet, was unbearable. It was her family.
Her breath hitched. The sound echoed too loudly in the empty hall, as if she were the only living thing left in the world.
She whispered their names under her breath, one after another. Her brothers. Her mothers. Her father. Her grandfather. Signe. Each name broke sharper than the last until her voice was only a rasp.
Tears should have come, but her body denied them. The fire had burned her dry. Only the ache remained, sharp and hollow.
Her hands curled tighter against the floor. She wanted to feel their presence, their warmth, anything. The stone gave her nothing.
She pressed harder, wishing the cold might take her too.
Her strength answered.
The froststone beneath her palms splintered, fissures cracking through the floor with a sharp report that rang out across the hall. Dust rose around her in a faint cloud.
Astrid flinched, her eyes widening at the sight of the broken stone. Her breath rasped in the silence. Her palms hovered over the cracks, trembling, unsure if she even wanted to know what else her body could do.
Then the light changed.
A draft pushed through the high windows of the Winter Hall, cold and sharp. The clouds outside shifted at last, and the moon broke free. It was no ordinary silver moon. Its face shone deep violet, the color of fire burning through amethyst, casting the hall in an otherworldly glow.
Astrid lifted her head, her glowing lilac eyes catching the light. A pulse tore through her veins, harder than before. Her body convulsed, bones cracking, muscles seizing. The virus inside her surged at the call of the moon, but it did not drag her into mindless madness.
It bent.
Her goddess blood twisted the infection into something else, something controlled.
She gasped and fell forward onto her hands as her spine stretched and lengthened, fur tearing through her skin in a rush of white. Her nails split into claws, sharper than steel, biting into the stone. Her jaw snapped wide, reshaping, teeth lengthening into fangs.
The pain was sharp but brief, nothing like the torment of before. This felt inevitable. Right.
The violet glow poured through the high windows, painting every shattered stone and banner in its light. Astrid stood at the center of it all, her breath rising in pale wisps. Her new body felt heavy with strength yet steady, each muscle taut, each step precise.
She shifted her weight, claws clicking against the cracked floor. The sound was sharp in the silence, echoing off the ruined walls. Her ears flicked, catching every drip of water, every groan of timber, every crackle from the dying fire.
Astrid glanced down. Where her hand had once pressed into the floor, leaving splintered stone, now rested a paw. White fur, thick and gleaming, caught the violet light as if dusted with frost. Her claws shone like polished onyx.
Her gaze lifted to the far side of the hall where a shield had fallen, its bronze face dented and warped. In its surface, a reflection looked back, tall and furred, violet eyes burning bright. For a moment, she almost did not recognize it as herself.
Her chest rose with a steadying breath. The hunger was there, sharp and gnawing, but it did not rule her. The pull of the moon was heavy in her blood, but it bent to her will. She was not mindless. Not broken.
She padded a step forward, then another, the silence of the Winter Hall following her. The weight of loss pressed as heavily as ever, but something else lived in her now, something the Verdelunds had not planned for and could not touch.
Astrid stopped beneath the violet shaft of moonlight, lifted her head, and howled. The keen echoed through the forests.
The hours bled together beneath the violet moon. Astrid did not move much, only paced the shattered hall in slow, steady strides, her claws whispering against the stone. She stood vigil where her family's ashes lay, silent, her wolf's breath rising in soft plumes.
When the moon finally dipped behind the mountains, the light changed. The violet glow faded to gray, then pale gold as the first rays of dawn crept across the sky.
Astrid shuddered. Her muscles tightened, bones shifting, fur drawing back into skin. The change came with sharp jolts of pain, though nothing like the torment of her transformation. She clenched her jaw as her frame contracted, her hands reformed, her claws shrinking back to nails.
When it was done, she was human again. Naked, trembling, her hair damp with sweat, her body streaked with ash and dried blood. She dropped to her knees on the cracked floor, her palms pressing against the cold stone.
The hall was quiet. Empty. Her family gone. Only dust remained.
Her chest hitched with the first sob she had been able to force out since the slaughter. The sound echoed hollowly through the ruins, swallowed by the silence.
Astrid bent forward, her hair spilling into her face, and let it come, ragged and broken, the release of everything she had been holding since the night before.
When it finally ebbed, she sat back on her heels. Her lilac eyes, rimmed red, lifted toward the light streaming through the high windows.
Cold seeped into her legs, but she barely felt it. Her gaze drifted across the hall, taking in the shattered banners, splintered tables, and stone floor scorched black where fires had burned.
Everywhere she looked, she saw remnants of the life that had been here only a night ago. A carved horn lay tipped on its side near the dais, its rim chipped from being knocked to the ground in the chaos. A single fur cloak, Bjorn's, still clung to the arm of his great chair, dust and ash settling over it.
Astrid pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, her body still raw from the change, and walked barefoot across the cold floor. The sound of her steps echoed too loudly in the emptiness.
She stopped near the hearth, where the embers had long since died, and saw it: Signe's ribbon, pale and out of place against the blackened stone. Slowly, Astrid crouched and picked it up. The fabric was singed at the edge, but it held.
Her hand trembled as she brought it to her chest, curling it tight in her fist.
The hall seemed to close in on her, every memory pressing against her ribs until she could hardly breathe. The laughter from the feast, the sound of her brothers sparring, her mothers' voices drifting through the corridors. All of it gone.
Astrid closed her eyes, steadying herself. When she opened them again, the ribbon was still clutched in her hand. It was all she could take, all she could carry.
She turned toward the great doors. The iron-bound wood loomed ahead, scarred by claw marks and scorched by fire. She paused at the threshold, her bare shoulders tight, her breath slow.
Her eyes swept the hall one final time. The banners, torn and darkened. The empty chairs, silent. The ashes scattered where her kin had stood. Every stone carried their memory, but none held their warmth.
Astrid's jaw tightened. She lifted the cloak from Bjorn's chair, the wolf-fur still heavy despite the dust, and pulled it around her shoulders. It smelled faintly of pine smoke and iron, and beneath it, of her grandfather.
With the cloak on her back and Signe's ribbon in her hand, she pushed the doors open.
Cold air rushed in, sharp and biting, filling her lungs. The sky outside was streaked with pale gold and gray, the sun breaking over the mountains. Light spilled across the snow-covered courtyard, glinting off the shields and weapons abandoned in the night's chaos.
Astrid stepped out, frost biting at her bare feet. Behind her, the doors of the Winter Hall groaned shut, sealing in the silence.
She stood alone in the dawn, the last of her bloodline.
Her breath fogged in the air. She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders, her lilac eyes fixed on the horizon.
It was time to start anew.