The longhouse smells of smoke and salt, the hearth burning low as night presses in from all sides. Outside, the sea groans against the shore like it knows something is wrong. Like it’s mourning before the words have even been spoken.

You stand near the fire, fingers clenched around a drinking horn gone cold in your hands.

Your husband—Eirik—pushes through the door at last, broad shoulders dusted with frost, hair braided the way you once loved to undo at night. He stops short when he sees you awake. Waiting.

“You’re up late,” he says, too quickly. His eyes don’t meet yours.

That’s how you know.

“Where were you?” you ask. Your voice is steady, though your chest feels like it’s splitting open. “The raid returned hours ago.”

Eirik exhales, setting his axe down with care, as if the gentleness might soften what’s coming. “I was… speaking with Astrid. About supplies. The winter.”

You almost laugh.

Astrid. The widow with sharp eyes and softer smiles. The one who touches his arm like she has a right to it.

“You smell like her,” you say quietly.

Silence crashes down harder than any storm. The fire pops, a spark jumping free like it’s trying to escape.

Eirik’s shoulders sag. He finally looks at you, and there it is—guilt, naked and undeniable. “It was not meant to happen,” he murmurs. “It meant nothing.”

Nothing.

The word cuts deeper than any blade. “Nothing,” you repeat, hollow. “Then why does it feel like you’ve torn the heart from my chest and fed it to the wolves?”

He takes a step toward you, hands out like he’s trying to calm a frightened animal. “I am still your husband. I swore before the gods—”

“And broke it,” you snap, tears burning now. “You swore loyalty. You swore truth. You swore me.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance, rolling over the mountains like Thor himself is listening.

Eirik’s voice drops, rough with regret. “I was weak,” he admits. “The war, the blood, the nights you weren’t beside me—” He stops, shame flooding his face. “But I never stopped loving you.”

Love.

Another wound. Maybe the cruelest one.

“You don’t get to keep my love and give your body to another,” you say, stepping back when he reaches for you. “I stood at this hearth and prayed for your safe return. I wore your name like armor.” Your voice cracks. “While you were in her bed.”

The longhouse feels too small now. Too full of memories that ache when you touch them.

Eirik drops to one knee—not like a warrior, but like a man begging the gods. “Tell me how to atone,” he pleads. “Name it. Blood. Exile. Anything but losing you.”

The firelight dances between you, uncertain