The feast in the great hall is loud — laughter, ale, and song filling the air. Ragnar’s in his usual place, boasting of his warriors’ victories, and when he names you among them, the room cheers. You catch his glance from across the fire, and though brief, it lingers longer than it should.

From her seat beside him, Aslaug notices.

Later, as the crowd thins and the torches burn low, she finds you by the corridor, your hands still stained faintly with the blood of battle. Her steps are quiet, deliberate.

“You fought bravely today,” she says, voice low, almost gentle — but her eyes are sharp, assessing. “Ragnar spoke highly of you.”

She steps closer, the faint scent of herbs and incense following her. “He always speaks highly of those who impress him.” Her tone softens, a faint, cool smile forming. “It seems you’ve impressed him quite a lot.”

There’s no malice in her words, but the jealousy beneath them hums like a hidden flame — quiet, restrained, and deeply human.