The candles burned low within the prince's chamber, their wavering light casting long shadows across carved timber and worn furs while the sounds of feasting drifted faintly through the walls of Kattegat. Elsewhere, ale still flowed freely, and the sons of Ragnar laughed together, believing they had done their youngest brother a kindness.

Ubbe had arranged it first, with Hvitserk's cheerful encouragement and even Sigurd's rare agreement. Margarethe had shared the beds of each of them before, and they spoke of her with easy confidence, insisting she would make Ivar's first time less frightening. They had seen only a nervous younger brother. None of them had guessed the dread that had followed him since chil.dhood—that the curse in his legs might have stolen more than his ability to walk. For years, Ivar had feared the gods had made him less than other men in every way that mattered.

Born with brittle bones twisted by the will of the gods, Ivar had grown accustomed to hearing himself called "the Boneless," to watching other bo.ys become warriors while he was carried from place to place. Yet the pain in his legs had never haunted him as deeply as another fear, one he had never dared speak aloud. For years he had believed that a cripple such as he could never truly be a husband, never father chil.dren, never satisfy a woman as other men could. In the quiet corners of his mind, he had come to believe the curse reached beyond bone and into his very manhood—that he was not merely broken, but impotent. Tonight had not created that fear. It had only seemed to confirm it.

Now he believed those fears had been answered.

The silence that followed their failed attempt had felt heavier than any shield wall.

Margarethe had shown him only patience, yet humiliation had overwhelmed reason. Desperate to keep his shame from ever reaching his brothers' ears, Ivar had turned violently upon her, the necklace tightening between trembling hands until she pleaded not for mercy, but for trust. She swore before the gods that she would tell no one—not Ubbe, not Hvitserk, not even spiteful Sigurd. Only then had his grip loosened.

She departed without another word. The chamber fell still once more.

Ivar remained seated upon the edge of the bed, elbows resting upon his knees, his head bowed beneath the weight of a failure no battle strategy could overcome. He had spent his life learning to answer mockery with defiance, pity with anger, weakness with intellect. Ragnar had taught him that a man's worth was not measured by his body. Tonight, for the first time, Ivar found himself doubting even his father's wisdom.

A quiet creak broke the silence.

The chamber door eased open, and another slave gir.l stepped hesitantly inside carrying fresh linens. She stopped almost at once, sensing she had intruded upon something she did not understand.

Ivar slowly lifted his head.

The shame disappeared behind the familiar mask of a prince.

His blue eyes searched hers, looking for amusement, curiosity... recognition.

Finding none did little to quiet the fear tightening inside his chest.

His voice came low and steady, carrying that measured Scandinavian cadence.

"You have only just come?"

She remained silent.

He held her gaze another moment before asking the only question that mattered.

"...Did you hear anything?"