The echo of Ragnar's footsteps faded back into the hall, leaving silence heavy as winter frost in his wake.
Thyra remained on one knee, throat still sore where his fingers had pressed into her flesh. But the pain did not matter.
Not when her pulse still thundered with the vision he had forced from her by touch alone.
Not when a dangerous truth now lodged, burning, in her heart:
She would kneel again if he willed it.
But next time, it would be of her own choosing.
Next time, she would kneel not as a stranger — but as something claimed.
Behind her, the eleven remaining shieldmaidens of Clan Ormr knelt as well — some reluctantly, others uncertain, all of them glancing at their young leader for guidance.
Thyra lifted her head.
Her voice was raw but steady.
> "We will earn our place," she declared to Ragnar's back. "By labor, by blood, or by death — if that is your will, Wolf."
She did not call him "my king" again, though the urge burned behind her tongue like forbidden mead.
Ragnar did not turn, did not offer approval or rejection. He simply raised one hand slightly — a gesture as dismissive as it was commanding.
> "Hakon," he said.
Hakon stepped forward from the hall's shadow like a silent blade.
"See they are given shelter among the outlying workers," Ragnar continued. "They do not sleep in my hall. Not until they prove which path they walk — the wolf's… or the grave's."
Hakon nodded, eyes on Thyra. "Come," he said flatly, and turned without waiting to see if they followed.
All twelve rose in unison and followed in tight formation.
Brynja hopped lightly off the support beam where she'd been lounging, landing beside Eivor with a grin sharp as broken bone.
"Well," she purred, "the little serpent bends for the Alpha already. That one practically moaned 'my king' with her last breath. Shall we let her curl at our feet — or slit her throat while she sleeps?"
Eivor didn't look at her. Her eyes remained fixed on Thyra's retreating form. "She's not tamed yet," she said quietly. "Watch her tongue… and her eyes."
Brynja chuckled. "Jealous, Raven?"
Eivor's gaze finally shifted — not flustered, but flint-hard. "Careless wolves die whimpering. I am neither."
Brynja's grin widened. "Gods, I missed when you got colder."
They walked back toward the hall.
Eivor paused once, glancing down to the lower huts where Thyra and her shieldmaidens were being shown temporary bedding by Hakon. Thyra glanced back only once — not at the huts, not at the hall in progress…
…but at Ragnar.
He never turned — but he didn't need to.
She had already fixed herself to his orbit.
---
Inside the hall, Ragnar rested a hand on the beam where Thyra had been slammed.
A hall that bleeds earns its name.
The serpent had arrived.
Sooner or later, there would be blood.
Whether spilled against them… or by them… would be decided by their worth — and their will to kneel not in fear, but in purpose.
Hakon led the twelve shieldmaidens of Clan Ormr down toward the lower huts, his steps silent but measured. Ragnar's order still hung in the air like a judgement cast in iron: Earn your place… or bleed trying.
Workers paused to watch as Thyra passed. Some whispered cautiously, others stared openly, uncertain if these women were guests, threats, or sacrifices waiting to happen.
Thyra felt every pair of eyes on her — comparing her to the Wolf and his Pack. She held her chin high despite the bruise forming faintly where Ragnar had forced her against the pillar.
They reached a long wooden lodge meant for temporary quarters. Hakon gestured coldly.
"You sleep here. You work with the builders at dawn unless told otherwise. You fight only when commanded. You will be watched."
One of Thyra's shieldmaidens scoffed. "By whom? You?"
Hakon's gaze flicked to her — calm, unblinking.
"No," he said simply.
He walked away.
The women exchanged looks — unsettled. If he wasn't the threat, then someone unseen was.
As they set down their packs, Sigurd and Torva lingered nearby, watching. Sigurd swallowed nervously as he recognized these women from serpent tales told in the workers' quarters. Torva, on the other hand, studied their postures with cautious fascination.
One Ormr shieldmaiden noticed and sneered, "Peasants staring at wolves."
"They're not wolves," Thyra said quietly, without looking at her. "Not yet."
The others fell silent at that — because they could not deny they were no longer what they once were.
That silence didn't last.
A shadow moved.
A low, humming laugh slid into the space like a blade through cloth.
Brynja.
She stepped casually from behind a stacked pile of timber with her axe resting across her shoulders, expression alight with vicious amusement. She took a slow bite from a strip of dried meat like she was watching prey graze.
None of the Ormr women had seen her approach.
Brynja sauntered closer.
"Well, well," she drawled, "the baby serpents are nesting. Cozy?" A grin. "Let's see how tight your coils are."
Before anyone could react, Brynja swung the blunt haft of her axe in a wide, sudden strike aimed at one of the mid-line Ormr warriors.
WHUMP.
The woman barely blocked it with her shield, stumbling back with a grunt.
Chaos exploded in a spark of instinct.
Two Ormr women reached for blades in fury. Others flinched backward. One cursed loudly. One stepped back with raised fists but trembling footing.
Only one — a sharp-eyed warrior beside Thyra — immediately took one forward step to guard her leader while glancing to her for command.
And Thyra?
Thyra did not flinch.
Instead, she raised a single hand — palm open.
Hold.
Her shieldmaidens froze.
Brynja's grin widened, savage and satisfied. "Good. You listen to your snake-princess when death arrives. Not bad."
Then Brynja lunged a second time — not for a random warrior this time, but straight for Thyra herself.
She slammed her shoulder brutally into Thyra's chest, aiming to crush her against the hut wall and force her down.
Thyra staggered — but refused to drop.
She ground her boots into the dirt and stayed upright, chin rising again even as her breath hitched from the impact.
For half a heartbeat, their eyes locked.
| Brynja's eyes: Prove you're worth even mocking.
| Thyra's eyes: I will kneel only when I choose to serve, not because you strike me.
Brynja stepped back, still grinning like a wolf who had found a challenge worth biting.
She glanced around at the shieldmaidens, who were still poised on edge but disciplined in formation now, their breathing heavy but controlled.
Brynja gave a sharp nod like she'd decided something important.
Then she turned her back on them and walked away, tossing her words over her shoulder:
> "You didn't scatter like rats. You didn't cry. You didn't fall. You get to stay another night."
As she vanished into the shadows, her laughter faded like distant thunder.
Thyra exhaled sharply, then straightened her shoulders.
One of her women spat, "We should have cut her down."
Thyra stared toward where Brynja had vanished.
"…She was testing us," she answered quietly.
"Then we should have shown our strength," another protested.
Thyra gave a cold, ironic half-smile. "We did. By not breaking rank without order."
Torva, who had been quietly watching, felt a low ripple of admiration for Thyra's hardened resolve.
Sigurd, however, stared after Brynja with growing awe — and breathed to Torva:
"I think that woman might be an actual demon."
Torva smirked. "Then the serpent girl must be insane."
"Why?"
Torva watched Thyra, her eyes full of barely contained fire.
"Because she didn't fear the demon," she murmured. "She wants to prove she's one too."
And above them all, though unseen, Ragnar had witnessed enough from a distance to understand:
The serpent would not break easily.
Which meant she might be worth sharpening… or breaking on purpose later, if her ambition burned too fiercely.