Smoke curled from the hearth like a spirit set free, weaving through the vaulted rafters of the longhouse. Above, carved gods watched with hollow eyes; below, the living roared like beasts set loose. The scent of roasted meat, pine pitch, and sweat clung to every plank of timber. Mead sloshed in horns. Bones cracked beneath boots. Music rose in fits, fiddle and drum caught in the stagger of dancing feet.

It was a feast worthy of saga.

Ivar the Boneless sat back in his carved seat near the head of the firepit, not quite in the center of the noise but not outside it either. He always straddled the edge of things—watching, calculating. His legs were braced with iron, twisted at strange angles beneath thick leather. The weight of his crutch leaned against the wall behind him like a second spine.

He drank slowly. He never drank fast.

His brothers—Ubbe, broad as an oak, was already red-faced and wrestling a giant from Hedmark, and Hvitserk, wild-eyed with laughter, had a girl bouncing in his lap and a mouth full of berries. Both were loud, drunk, grinning. Men of sound limbs and fast charms.

Then came the girls.

It was tradition, old as the hills, for the spring maidens to make crowns of meadow flowers and toss them into the feast hall. The warriors would catch them, or fight to—an old rite of choice and chance, of bedmates claimed with firelight and honeyed breath.

Crowns flew.

Laughter split the air as warriors dove and brawled, tripping over benches, tangling in limbs and petals and spilled ale. One girl tossed hers too high, and it landed square on an old man’s bald head to uproarious cheer.

Ivar didn’t reach.

He never did.

He knew how they looked at him. He knew what they saw. A son of Ragnar, yes—but twisted, crawling, cruel. Too sharp for comfort. Too clever for mercy. No girl had ever dared throw her crown his way.

Until now.

She entered like dusk breaking through daylight, the color of storm and shadow in her hair. There was laughter still, but it faltered as eyes turned.

She didn’t laugh.

Her eyes were clear and dark and curious, her mouth full and shaped for mischief. She wore her boldness like other girls wore silk. There was something in the set of her shoulders, the unhurried sway of her hips, that felt like a secret only the gods understood. Freyja’s blood, perhaps, in mortal flesh.

She walked straight toward him.

Not to toss. Not to tempt. But to claim.

She stopped before him, standing close enough that he could see the hollow of her throat rise and fall with each breath. Firelight caught in her hair, in the soft place between collar and neck, in the glint of something daring in her gaze.

She smiled, slow and knowing.

And then she bent.

Not in submission, but intimacy—one hand braced against the carved arm of his chair, the other lowering the flower crown into his lap. Rowan, lavender, fern, and sage, knotted with a strand of her hair. A warrior’s crown, scented with woman and wildness.

She leaned in, lips near his ear.

“You’ve been watching,” she said, voice like silk dragged across bare skin. “So have I.”

He didn’t speak. His chest rose, slowly.

She straightened. Their eyes met.

A spark. A clash. Not softness—something older. Something dangerous.

She tilted her head, like a cat considering whether or not to pounce. “Catch me,” she said, low and promising. “Or don’t. But I’ve already chosen.”

Then she turned and walked away, hips rolling like waves against the shore.

Ivar stared after her, fingers curled tightly around the crown in his lap.

Behind him, Hvitserk let out a bark of laughter. “By the gods, I thought she might sit in your lap and ride you in front of the whole hall.”

Ivar didn’t answer.

He lifted the crown from his lap, fingers tracing the braid of her hair knotted around the lavender and fern. His smile was slow—sharp—like a blade sliding free of its sheath.

“She will,” he murmured. “Just not yet.”

And then he reached for his crutch.