Chapter 1
Freydis
"The Northern men are here!" The shout rang through the longhouse as warriors hurried to prepare for their arrival.
They came unexpectedly. Among them was my Uncle Ragnar, and I was clearly not expecting him to return to South after six years of being away.
My mother, Lagertha, was fixing the last braid in my hair, her jaw tight. She was never fond of Uncle Ragnar. Yet when word came that he had sailed with the Northern warriors, she dressed me in our finest clothes and dragged me to the courtyard.
While we waited, I saw Father, the King of Fellur, the village of the South, come out of his hall guarded by his warriors.
When they arrived at the courtyard, they dismounted from their horses. I saw Ragnar among his men. He hadn't changed one bit.
Tall with broad shoulders, he appeared to be few years younger than my father, the King. His dark hair was shaved close on the sides, the rest braided tightly into a long tail, trailing down the back of his tattooed scalp. Unlike most men who wore thick beards, his jaw was rough with only a few days scruff, giving him a savage look. But the most distinctive thing about his face is the sacrificial burn marks.
There was only one woman in their midst. A beautiful young woman in a flowing gown stepped forward. She bowed to us and offered a warm smile. A bow and arrow hung on her back. Her eyes were black, like the rest of the Northern men.
"May the old gods bless," the woman said as she continued walking forward. "Yer Graces, King Harald and Queen Lagertha, we thank ye for welcoming us once more."
When she spoke, it was not in our Southern language but in the old tongue, with a thick accent.
This was Ragnar's sister. Though Harald and Ragnar were half-siblings, this woman, named Astrid, was Ragnar's full sister.
A small frown appeared on my mother's face. She wasn't pleased with the mention of the old gods. It had been nearly two thousand years since the gods' era, and they were long believed to be dead. So much time had passed that many questioned whether they had ever existed at all.
A few years ago, the King and Queen turned to Christianity—for the growing trade with Christian lands in Europe. Since then, our kingdom has been devoted to God, and the worship of the old gods is strictly forbidden.
The men wore dark armor with a wolf sigil. They all had pale white skin, having lived in such a cold place all their lives.
"Ah! Brother," Ragnar said, and Father smiled. "'Tis good to see that old face of yours."
Father looked him over from head to toe and laughed. "You haven't changed."
"Ragnar, Fellur is yours too. Feel at home."
Ragnar smiled and turned to my mother. But her expression was far different from my father's—a deep frown lined her face.
However, Ragnar stepped forward, took her hand, kissed the back of it, and then slowly bowed.
"My Queen."
She cast him a glare and pulled her hand away from his.
Ragnar walked toward me. It was my turn to greet him.
"I'm honoured to meet you, Uncle," I said.
A smile appeared on his face and he bowed.
"The honour is mine, Freyja."
Freyja. The name he always called me.
"Come, brother. Let me show you around," Father said, and both men wandered off.
I stared at Ragnar's back as he walked away with my father. Their laughter filled the air until they were out of sight. Then I turned to my mother, who was still standing there.
"Freydis," Mother called.
"Mother."
"I don't trust him," she said.
Mother was beautiful, with pale white skin. She had long, bright golden hair and dark kohl around her eyes, which highlighted her beauty even more.
"Why?"
"I saw him in a vision last night. He bore the face of a beast. He turned into a hound, Freydis."
The beasts—or Hounds—were what they called the creatures haunting my people. They first appeared a few years ago, hunting men and women alike. Sometimes, they didn't kill. Instead, they left victims with a bite, and by the next night, those innocent souls would rise as one of them.
Mother was a strong believer in Christ, and she saw visions that everyone believed.
But Ragnar was a good man.
The Queen's hatred for him had started before I was born. Father said it was because Ragnar had killed her parents.
They had taken Mother as a hostage from her people during the war, and she had hated Ragnar ever since—because he killed her parents. However, she fell in love with my father along the way, and he made her his Queen.
"Ragnar is no beast," I said.
"Do you say God showed me a false vision?" she asked, stepping forward.
"Your visions are not always right. They—"
Before I could finish, I saw my mother's hand coming toward my face, and I quickly dodged it.
"Speak ill of me again and you'll regret having me as a mother."
I frowned.
She stepped closer, her eyes turning dark.
"In all you do, stay away from Ragnar. I pray to God that one day he'll be exposed and everyone will see him for who he truly is. Now leave my sight."
I quickly turned and walked away. During my walk, I stumbled across Father and Ragnar standing near the grave of their sister, who had died during the war. She had been a powerful warrior, like them.
"Curse you, Harald! Why would you put her here?" Ragnar asked. "She deserved the mountains."
"She wanted to be brought home."
"Home?" Ragnar scoffed. "Fellur is no hearth of hers."
Sometimes I wondered what she'd have been like. Like spring?
Father and his sister shared one father, but Ragnar had a different father. His father was from the North.
"I should have laid flowers upon her mound," Ragnar said, shaking his head. "Were it within my reach, I would kill the man that stole her life a thousand times."
Father didn't say anything to that. His face was written with sadness.
I slowly took a step back, turned around, and walked away.