Dawn broke softly across the eastern peaks, the sky lightening by the slowest of degrees, gradating from cobalt blue to iron to robin’s egg and then finally limning the jagged edges with traceries of gold. High wisps of cloud went from charcoal to light gray, then burst into splendors of salmon pink before burning butter yellow.

Skadi watched it all from the docks.

With her back to a post, legs crossed before her, she turned Thyrnir about in her hands slowly, watching the day approach.

A weary stillness had settled upon her, but she felt alert and raw and alive. It had taken her ages to realize that she’d already made her decision, and simply needed to phrase it to herself in a way that made sense.

Doors opened. Hardy folk made their way down to the docks, men intent on pushing out their skiffs and fishing boats to make the most of the dawn hour for fishing. They nodded to her, curious but not asking why the jarl’s niece sat down here in the cold.

She watched. How they folded and prepared their nets, checked their gar hooks, brought their breakfasts aboard, called to each other, laconic and insulting but in good cheer.

The boats and skiffs pushed out into the fjord, oars carrying them away, spreading out, the larger boats making for deeper waters around the far turn of the valley, others hugging the steep shores as they fished for lighter catches.

Voices, laughter, the stomp of boots.

Skadi rose, stiff, and turned to see Hafr the Word Master approaching, dressed for travel with a fine woolen cloak pulled about his frame. His three companions were with him, as was Marbjörn. His crew was already on their ship, preparing and restless, and at the sight of her, Hafr approached, expression neutral.

“Good morning to you, Styrbjörnsdóttir. I’m pleased to see you here. Have you decided?”

Marbjörn stood at a respectful distance.

“I have,” she said quietly. “Bring word to my father that I am here in Kráka. Tell him that by Heyannir’s end my uncle plans to wed me to Jarl Afastr of Kaldrborg against my will to secure peace on the Draugr Coast. I will leave Kráka when Heyannir begins, in thirty days’ time to fight against that fate, but if he can come to Kráka before then, I will not need to set myself against Jarl Blakkr.”

Hafr listened with grave intensity. “A weighty message. I will carry it to Stóllborg, and if your father comes to that great hall, I will deliver it to him. I am sure he will come for you if he can.”

“Yes,” said Skadi. “As am I.”

“Well!” Hafr clapped his mittened hands together. “I wish you luck. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Turning, he smiled broadly. “Marbjörn! If ever you tire of life on this god-forsaken coast, come to civilized lands. I swear to you the rewards are greater, the women less callused, and the mead of the very best quality.”

Marbjörn laughed. “Sweet words, Hafr. But what is sweeter than hard-earned loyalty to a generous ring-giver? Jarl Kvedulf has my blade, and I have no cause for complaint.”

“Well, you can’t blame a man for trying.” Harf shook his head ruefully and boarded his ship. “Farewell! And remember: all concerns are petty compared to the looming threat of Archea. We stand together or we suffer the same fate as Kalbaek, one by one.”

Marbjörn waved with an exaggerated and stiff smile on his face. “Yes, yes, so you said all of last night, and this morning. And again now. Safe travels, and resist the urge to kiss the salt hags.”

The ship pushed off, and the helmsmen mounted the dragon head as it turned to face the open fjord. Skadi watched it go, her breath trapped in her chest, wondering if she’d made a mistake, if she shouldn’t be on its deck, if the day would come when she regretted her own hard-earned loyalty to her friends.

A huge hand fell upon her shoulder. “You made the right decision, girl.”

She looked up at Marbjörn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“An honorable man is respected for all the shortcuts he didn’t take, all the hard decisions that he made, the sacrifices that cost him dear. But the result is golden glory well earned, character that is respected, and honor that is worth more than any treasure horde.”

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marbjörn’s eyes twinkled. “Aye, I’m sure you don’t. But if you think your uncle would have let you slip away between his fingers, you’re sore mistaken. I’m glad you didn’t test him.”

“If I were to slip away, I wouldn’t have done it here,” said Skadi.

“Of course not. You’d have arranged for a spot on the headland where Hafr would put in so you could go aboard unnoticed.” Marbjörn squeezed her shoulder. “At which point two of your uncle’s dragon ships would have appeared and demanded your surrender. And that would not have gone well.”

So saying, he turned and marched back up the street toward the longhouse.

Skadi resisted the urge to shiver, and instead hugged herself tight, Thyrnir pressed to one upper arm. Would her uncle have killed Hafr so as to keep her close?

Of course he would have.

Skadi watched Marbjörn’s massive figure ascend the street, pausing to jest with another warrior, then make his way into the longhouse. A friend?

No. A conditional friend at best. For as long as she didn’t cross her uncle.

Would he have forced her off Hafr’s ship against her will?

Of course.

She thought of his broad smile, his shared wisdom during lessons, how they’d fought together against Queen Grýla.

None of it would have mattered if she had crossed her uncle.

Which she would have done, had she not remained loyal to her friends.

The thought made her shiver anew.

She’d come here thinking her uncle an ally, her blood, her family. That he would shelter her against the cruelties of the world, give her time to find her footing, and then help launch her back into the world.

But that had been naïve of her.

Skadi slid Thyrnir into her belt. Well, she was learning. And she’d learned this lesson well. Kvedulf would reward her, honor her, celebrate her as long as she fought for him and helped him achieve his victories.

But if she dared cross him?

She thought again of Marbjörn’s hand on her shoulder, the dark look in his eyes behind his smile.

That had become clear as well.

Hungry and cold, she made her way back to her house, and let herself in through the front door.

The others were already up, the fire lit, food cooking over the flames in a pot hung from a rafter chain. Begga was stirring the milky mush with a long spoon, while Kofri examined a notched knife in the morning light by the window and Ulfarr folded blankets. Aurnir sat against the far wall, turning a large glittering stone about in his hands, while Glámr and Damian leaned over a board of hnefatafl, the pieces set for a new round.

“There you are,” said Begga chidingly. “Been out all night. I thought you were carousing with the hird till—but Skadi, what’s wrong?”

“You know what’s wrong,” muttered Kofri. “She’s still here and not on Hafr’s ship.”

“Skadi,” said Aurnir, smiling broadly and revealing his huge teeth.

“Morning, everyone.” She unpinned her cloak, hung it on a peg by the door, and then moved to the fire to hold her palms over it. “And yes. But it’s more than that. I feel a fool.”

“Means you’re growing wiser,” said Ulfarr, putting the last blanket away and slowly straightening, hand on his lower back. “What’s got you feeling foolish?”

Glámr and Damian both turned from their boards, the half-troll looking as if he already knew, the priest wide-eyed.

“I told Hafr to pass on a message to my father. That if he came for me within thirty days’ time, he’d save me from having to deal with Blakkr. I thought it a neat solution. We would all sail away with him, and my uncle wouldn’t be able to complain.”

“It is a neat solution,” protested Begga. “Hafr’s going back to Stóllborg, your father’s going to Stóllborg, he can nip over here and collect you as soon as he hears word.”

“Let the girl speak, for the gods’ sake,” muttered Kofri.

Begga glared at him, then made a show of turning patiently to Skadi, raising her eyebrows to indicate she was listening.

“For one, I thought I had a choice. That I could arrange to meet Hafr down the coast and slip away if I wanted. Which I didn’t, luckily, for Marbjörn let me know he was wise to that idea, and would have ambushed us all if we’d tried.”

Glámr nodded slowly. “Hafr’s too obvious an escape. Your uncle would never have missed it.”

“But that just awoke me to the deeper truth of the world: that power is everything. No, I don’t mean personal power, like the ability to cut down a man, or even that of a völva, casting spells and seeing into the future. I mean… the soft, nefarious power that Kvedulf wields. That everyone wields. My father, King Harald, the Archean emperor.”

“How so?” asked Ulfarr, sitting down and drawing out his pipe.

“The power to make others move in accordance with your wyrd.” Skadi struggled to get the words out. “To make others live your story of their reality. I had thought all this time that I was living by my own truth here in Kráka. Fighting for what was right, striving to realize my own destiny. But everything I have done so far has been to further my uncle’s wyrd. Killing Kagssok. Helping defeat Grýla. Training and learning seiðr so that I can neutralize Blakkr. All this time I thought my uncle powerful because he had a great wyrd and could converse with Odin. But the truth is his power lies in the ability to get others to live as he wishes them to.”

“Interesting,” said Damian. “In Nearós Ílios we have debated the nature of power for centuries. What it means to be powerful, what is true power, how should our emperor manifest his own, and so forth. I have always held that power was the ability to act as you pleased. But you posit that true power lies in the ability to control the narrative.”

“Makes sense,” said Ulfarr around the stem of his pipe. “Many’s the jarl who dances to his wife’s tune. Who then has the power? The man in the chair, or the lady who tells him what to say?”

“I’ve thought all along that I was both helping my uncle and fulfilling my own destiny,” said Skadi. “But in truth, I’ve never had a choice in the matter, and Marbjörn made that clear to me today. If I defeat Blakkr, how can I be sure my uncle will release me from his narrative?”

“Well, to be clear, he did make that statement loudly and clearly within the great hall,” said Glámr. “Honor would force him to uphold his own promise.”

“But he didn’t promise to set me free, did he? He promised to not engage me to Afastr. Who is to say he won’t bend me toward his next task?”

Nobody answered.

“I have to grow up. I have to cease trusting those who clearly prioritize their own ends. I will remain honorable, but that doesn’t mean I shall entrust my wyrd to others. With luck, my father will come before my month here is ended, and I can begin to learn the shape and nature of the narrative he will tell me in turn, and how I fit in it. But I can’t expect that. I have to think on the world I live in now, and how I can seize control of my destiny.”

“That sounds wise,” said Damian.“

Though your path will still lead you through Blakkr.”

“Yes.” Skadi bit her lower lip. “But now I will be alert to how I can turn events to my advantage. How I can take control of my life, and wrest my destiny from my uncle’s grasp. For after Blakkr I will not serve his ends anymore.”

“A laudable goal,” said Glámr. “And one I used to vow nightly to myself back in Kalbaek: ‘Come tomorrow, I shall no more sling the slop and bow my head.’ Alas, the world did not care for my resolve.”

“Well, I’ll make it care. I’ll find a way. And my uncle will be forced to realize that I am not some callow girl to be commanded and used forever, nor a mindless and loyal member of his hird. One way or another, we shall have our freedom following Djúprvik.”

“Ooh, but she’s a living flame,” said Begga, turning to Kofri and Ulfarr. “Have you ever seen the like?”

“Not in recent memory,” grinned Ulfarr.

“Actually, when I was a younger man, and handsome too, I once met this Skaberi princess—” began Kofri, only to flinch when Begga waved her spoon at him.

“It was a rhetorical question, you old fool,” she snapped. “And you never met no Skaberi princess, so don’t even try it.”

Kofri drew himself up with wounded dignity. “My life encompasses many mysteries to which are you not privy, Begga.”

“Don’t I wish it. I’ve heard you groaning each morning when you try to pass stool. Mysteries.” She sniffed and turned back to Skadi. “Well. I applaud the intentions, my lady. But a bowl of curds and fruit will only help you in your endeavors. Here, eat up. You must be famished.”

Skadi smiled. “I am. Thank you, all of you.”

“Skadi good,” said Aurnir in his great, yawning voice, then blinked happily and raised his glittering rock to the sunlight to turn it about once more.

“Yes, I think he said it well,” said Glámr.“ Skadi good. Any other lady would have leaped aboard that ship. Yet here you are, eating curds with us. Wonders shall never cease.”

“And it’s why we’ll stand with you to the end,” said Damian stoutly. “You can count on that.”

Skadi smiled. “Well, I wasn’t fishing for compliments, but since you all started, please, keep going.”

To which Damian laughed and threw a hnefatafl piece at her. She laughed, caught it, then tossed it right back.

“Enough playing around,” chided Begga, handing her a bowl. “Now eat up. Big wyrds demand full tummies, as my grandmother used to say.”

Kofri beamed proudly and leaned forward. “You mean, ‘big wyrds create full tummies,’ eh?”

Begga’s face darkened.

“Big wyrds,” repeated Kofri, looking around for support. “Full tummies, as in—”

Begga thwacked him with her spoon. “Get out, Kofri Tokison, out! Out!”

Kofri cried out in alarm and fell off his chair, then allowed Begga to chase him out the front door, where she stopped and glared before returning to the pot.

“My wyrd is huge!” shouted Kofri, his face popping into view in the window, his beard bristling, his eyes alive with hilarity. “Bigger than—”

Begga pretended to throw her spoon at him, and the old man ducked sprightly back out of view.

Skadi laughed, sat, and began to eat.

And to her surprise, found herself if not at peace, then happy once more.