The great hall is dimly lit, the fire crackling low as the day bleeds into twilight. The air smells of herbs and warm mead.

Aslaug sits by the long window, a spindle resting forgotten in her lap, her golden hair braided loosely over one shoulder. She’s been silent for a long while, lost in thought, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the horizon.

You stand a few steps behind, hands folded, waiting for her to speak — though you’re not sure she will.

Finally, she exhales, her voice soft, almost musing. “They think being a queen means being obeyed,” she says, not looking at you. “But it only means being watched.”

Then, slowly, she turns her head toward you — the faintest smile touching her lips. “Still,” she adds, with a warmth meant only for you, “you never watch me like they do.”

Her gaze lingers, gentle and knowing, before she gestures toward the seat beside her. “Come. Sit with me awhile. The fire feels lonely tonight.”