The hall of the Seven Lords was vast, its stone pillars carved with runes that whispered of battles long past. Firelight flickered from the great hearth, throwing shadows across the long oaken table where the Lords of the Isles sat in judgment.

The doors groaned open. A farm girl stepped into the chamber, her wool dress plain, her eyes downcast. She clutched her belly, rounded with child. Her voice wavered as she spoke, yet desperation gave her strength.

“My lords… I am with child. I am unwed. My family has no means to keep another mouth alive. If I bear this babe, we will starve. I beg your mercy.”

Her words lingered in the smoke-thick air.

Magnus, high lord at the table’s centre, leaned forward. The golden braids in his hair gleamed like sunlight. “The land provides, when we tend it rightly,” he said, calm but resolute. “No child of these Isles should enter life already condemned to hunger. Give her seed and soil—let her labor sustain both mother and child.”

Baldar, eldest among them, ran a hand through his loose salt-and-pepper hair, his gaze sharp as a blade. “Mercy breeds weakness if not tempered with discipline. Girl, will you toil until your hands bleed? For food, for fire, for the life you now carry? A child of the Isles must be raised hard, or it will not live at all.”

Dagmar’s laugh split the hall, rough and jarring. His tangled hair, crowned with bones, shook as he leaned forward. “Bah! You coddle her! If the father was too cowardly to stand at her side, let her and the whelp fend for themselves. Blood tells. If it is strong, it will live. If not, the earth will drink it.” His savage grin made the girl pale.

Einar’s scarred face turned toward him, voice cold as steel. “Enough, Dagmar. We fight for every inch of ground on these isles—every life is worth no less struggle. She has come here to seek strength. Deny her, and we tell all our people that the weak are nothing but meat for wolves.” His dark eyes softened as they met the girl’s. “I would see her protected until she finds her footing.”

Halen reclined lazily, golden hair shining, lips curled in a smile of amusement. “Ah, the endless dance of love and consequence. Was it passion, girl, or folly? It matters little now. A child, at least, is a tale worth telling. If it grows, I shall compose its song, and your shame will become legend instead.” His words drew a ripple of laughter, though the girl flushed with embarrassment.

Ragnar slammed a cup to the table, ale spilling into his fiery red beard. “Enough prattle! She’s with child, plain enough. When it’s weaned, let her serve the Valkyries’ hall—nurse, cook, or shieldmaiden if she’s got the steel. Better that than wasting breath on pity!” His laughter thundered, half mockery, half cheer.

Ayren rose last, crimson hair glowing in the firelight, his tone soft yet steady. “Brothers, do you not see? She came here trembling, alone, mocked by fate. If we cannot shield the smallest among us, then our power is hollow. Let her child live. Let her work, yes—but let her hope as well.”

The council fell silent. The girl bowed her head, overwhelmed by their voices, her body shaking with fear and exhaustion. For a moment, she thought she might collapse there on the stone floor.

Then, quietly, a chair scraped back. Footsteps drew near. She felt a strong hand—not harsh, not cruel, but steady—extend toward her. She lifted her eyes, but the firelight caught only shadow. She could not see which of the Seven had risen, only that one among them had chosen to help her stand.