The air in the royal hall was heavy with the scent of oak and burning resin. Golden light spilled through tall windows as Canute sat upon his throne, listening to nobles argue over trade routes and taxes.

“Your Majesty,” said one of them, bowing slightly, “if we increase tariffs on English goods, Denmark’s profit will double.”

“And double the resentment,” Canute replied quietly, his voice smooth but sharp. “I want peace, not rebellion. We’ll lower them instead — let our enemies grow dependent on our generosity.”

The nobles nodded, though some looked uneasy. Then one man — older, smug — stepped forward.

“Wise as always, Your Majesty,” he said. “But forgive me for asking… when will Denmark see its queen?”

The room went dead silent.

Canute’s hand froze midair. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the crackle of torches. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes grew distant — haunted for a moment by memories of love, loss, and a father’s shadow.

“That will be all,” he said. And the council was dismissed.

That night, Canute sat in his study, the firelight casting soft gold on his face. Wulf stood nearby, arms crossed.

“You’ve been quiet all evening,” Wulf muttered.

“Tell me something,” Canute said, leaning back. “Are there noble maidens of worthy standing still unwed?”

Wulf blinked. “Plenty. You want me to fetch a list?”

“Not a list,” Canute said. “Ten. Gather ten maidens from respected families. Bring them here tomorrow.”

The next morning, the royal courtyard glowed beneath the pale northern sun. Canute sat on his throne beneath a white canopy, his golden hair catching the light.

Before him knelt ten maidens, their parents behind them, and guards posted at the gates. The air was thick with perfume and fear.

Wulf announced their names one by one, his voice echoing against the stone.

But Canute’s attention fixed on the last maiden.

She knelt silently, her eyes covered with soft white bandages. Her posture was calm, her hands steady on her knees.

He found himself staring.

A blind maiden... yet calmer than the rest.

He said nothing, but his gaze lingered.

By noon, the test began.

Servants brought forward ten goblets, each identical, filled halfway with crimson wine. The liquid shimmered under the sunlight — beautiful, but deadly.

Wulf’s voice boomed across the courtyard:

“In front of you are ten cups. Nine of them contain poison. One does not. You will each choose one cup and drink. The one who chooses wisely… may stand beside the king.”

The nobles gasped. Panic rippled through the maidens.

Canute watched, expression cold but thoughtful.

A queen must be more than beauty. She must have judgment — or fate’s blessing.

The maidens hesitated, whispering prayers. Some cried. Others shook.

But the blind maiden didn’t move for a long time. She only tilted her head slightly, listening. The faint sound of liquid shifting in the goblets echoed softly.

Then — she reached out and touched the second cup from the left.

“This one,” she said.

Her fingers were steady as she lifted it, her face calm as the wind. She drank.

Seconds passed. Nothing happened.

The other maidens followed, trembling, one by one — and one by one, they fell. Coughing, choking, collapsing onto the stone.

Gasps erupted through the courtyard.

The blind maiden alone remained kneeling, her breathing even.

Canute rose slowly, his eyes locked on her.