Dawn came earlier for those who no longer had a home to return to.
Hakon did not knock when he entered the temporary hut assigned to Thyra and her shieldmaidens. He simply stepped inside and spoke in a tone that tolerated no delay.
"Up. Work begins now."
No title. No respect. A command given as if speaking to laborers or thralls.
A few Ormr women bristled.
But Thyra rose without protest and strapped on her bracers.
"Where?" she asked.
Hakon's gaze flicked momentarily over their condition — armor removed but bodies still clinging to martial poise — then he turned away.
"Foundations. Stone hauling."
The shieldmaidens exchanged glances — some angry, some insulted. But none hesitated to follow.
—
The worksite was brutal.
Massive stone blocks, cut roughly from the quarry edge, were being dragged by teams of workers toward the hall's base. These stones would secure the lower frame and provide defensive reinforcement.
It was not glorious work. It was sweating, bone-grinding, blister-forming labor.
Hakon pointed. "You will assist there."
One serpent warrior scoffed openly. "We are not oxen."
Brynja, who had been leaning against a beam nearby like a lounging viper, grinned without even looking at them. "Then die like snakes under the first frost. Either pull like warriors, or crawl back into exile."
The woman looked ready to strike. Thyra stepped forward before she could speak.
"We pull," she said simply.
Eivor stood in the distance, arms crossed, watching. She said nothing, but her eyes weighed Thyra like a scale.
—
The labor broke weaker workers; some had to rest after a few pulls. Others grit their teeth and endured. Ragnar was not present — physically — but his authority lingered. Hakon walked the rows like a silent warden, ensuring no one slacked.
The Ormr warriors worked as if refusing to show weakness. But soon their breathing began to fracture; the strain of hauling stones across uneven terrain tested muscle and memory in ways war had not.
One stumbled.
Another cursed under her breath.
Thyra's hands bled from the rough rope, but she did not slacken her grip.
Sigurd, tasked with delivering water, paused by the stone lines and watched Thyra's group work in grim unison. He whispered to Torva, "They fight hard… even against stones."
Torva nodded, watching the serpent heir's trembling arms. "Yes. But stones don't bleed. Wolves do."
—
By midday, Thyra's group had passed their first test — they didn't quit.
But their strength came at a cost — several Ormr warriors were near exhaustion.
Hakon observed and finally spoke. "Rest. Return at dusk."
As they walked back to the huts, one shieldmaiden muttered, "This is beneath us."
Thyra's voice was quiet, but sharp. "Everything is beneath us until this place decides we are not dirt."
They fell silent, chastised not by fear — but pride.
—
From the hall entrance, Ragnar watched them pass — silent, unreadable.
Eivor approached him. "They haven't broken," she said.
"No," Ragnar agreed. "But they haven't bent the right way yet."
Eivor glanced at Thyra, who carried herself upright despite exhaustion. "She will either become something dangerous… or something loyal."
Ragnar's voice was quiet. "The only difference is direction."
Brynja strolled by, licking blood from a cracked knuckle someone had mouthed off; she'd corrected them. She grinned wide.
"They survived a day of work," she said mockingly. "Shall I throw a feast or throw an axe?"
"No," Ragnar said. "Let them ache. Pain will teach them who they are here."
Brynja's grin widened. "Good. Tomorrow, I test how they hunt."
—
Thyra lay sleepless that night, every muscle burning.
But it wasn't the pain that kept her awake.
It was the memory of Ragnar's hand at her throat… and the throne she had seen in her vision.
—