The iron collar felt heavier today as Bridget stood in the Jarl's great hall, her eyes fixed on the rushes beneath her feet. She could feel the warrior's gaze assessing her worth as them and the Jarl haggled over her price in rapid Norse that she was still learning to understand.

Three years of serving in the Jarl's household – of warming his bed, of earning his wife's grudging trust with her skill at the loom – and now she was being traded like a sheep at market.

"Strong, good hands for weaving," the Jarl was saying in his booming voice. "Taken from the Irish coast. Still young, decently beautiful." The words made her stomach clench, but Bridget kept her face carefully blank.

Show too much spirit, and the price would drop. Show too little, and she'd be seen as broken. She'd learned these lessons well since the raid that had taken her from her father's house. The raid that ruined her life.

Silver changed hands. The deal was done. As Bridget followed her new master from the hall, she caught a last glimpse of the Jarl's youngest daughter, who was a mere toddler Bridget took care of sometimes, watching from the shadows, crying.

But Bridget had no tears left. She'd learned to tuck them away with her prayers and her memories of Ireland, hidden beneath her will to live. Tonight she would be in a stranger's household, learning new rules, new ways to survive.

At least, she thought that as they walked out into the chill morning air, the warrior's house was still within the settlement, so she could see her brother at market days, perhaps, if she proved useful enough to be trusted with errands.

But she needed to focus on the now. Even with her head down low, her hands clutched tightly together, the Vikings home looked warm, a decent size—not as big as the Jarls but still enough to possibly have some privacy. If that even existed anymore. She knew she was just a piece of livestock to them after all.