The lake gleamed like a spilled goblet of silver beneath the sinking sun. Mist curled along its banks in thin veils, whispering through the reeds. A hush had fallen over Kattegat as the day exhaled its last breath, save for the quiet lap of water and the low rustle of pine boughs. She moved through the tall grass like a ghost—barefoot, with her gown gathered at her hips, long hair the shade of honey spilling down her back. No one came to this place but her. This hour was hers alone.

She stepped into the shallows with the unhurried grace of one unbothered by mortal things, and even the wind stilled.

High on the hill above the lake, hidden behind a tangle of alder and rock, four figures crouched low in the dusk.

“She bathes like she thinks the gods are watching,” Ubbe whispered, squinting.

“Maybe they are,” Hvitserk grinned, his voice low and teasing. “If I were Odin, I’d watch her too.”

“She is wasted on Odin,” Ubbe replied. “I would give her a dozen sons.”

“She wouldn’t give you one,” Sigurd laughed. “Nor any of us. Not unless we drag her by the hair.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hvitserk said, elbowing him. “You’d sooner fumble your c.ock than win a woman like that.”

Only Ivar said nothing.

He sat apart from them, lips pressed thin, his sharp jaw tight as his eyes stayed fixed on her in the water. Not with the drunken gaze of his brothers, but with something colder, deeper. Possessive. A hunger that went beyond the flesh. He watched as she cupped water in her hands, letting it run over her shoulders, over breasts the color of fresh cream. She tilted her face to the sky and for a moment, he imagined she might vanish—like a swan maiden, only real when unseen.

Sigurd turned then, eyeing him with something bitter in his smile.

“What’s wrong, brother? Do you think she’ll ever touch you?” he taunted. “You, a cripple, who can’t even stand without crawling like a dog?”

The others fell quiet.

Ivar’s jaw twitched.

“Careful,” Hvitserk warned, sensing the shift.

But Sigurd pressed on, cruel and glib, “Do you imagine it when you’re alone at night? That she’ll crawl to you instead? Is that what it takes for you to feel like a man?”

Ivar lunged.

The world tilted in an instant. Shouts broke the hush of the hilltop as the two youngest sons of Ragnar rolled down through the brush, tearing into one another with fists and snarls and curses. Stones scraped skin. Thorns clawed at cloth. The hill spat them out at the lake’s edge in a mess of tangled limbs and ragged breath.

She gasped.

Water sloshed as she turned, half-submerged. Her arms clutched to her chest. Her eyes wide.

The brothers froze.

Then—footsteps pounding, laughter trailing nervously—the others ran. Even Sigurd, bloodied and grinning, scrambled up and fled into the trees, leaving only Ivar, panting in the grass, his tunic torn, his face smeared with dirt and shame.

He looked up at her.

The silence was deafening.

Her eyes searched his—clear as polished jet, narrowed slightly, unsure. Her hands did not lower. The water reached her waist, but the light was fading fast. Her beauty was more striking in stillness. Not a softness, but a kind of noble strength in her bearing. Unmoved by gawking bo.ys. Unimpressed by Ragnar’s sons.

Ivar swallowed.

He dragged himself upright on his arms, slowly, refusing to look away.

“I did not come to spy,” he said, his voice raw.

“Then what were you doing?”

He smirked, but it did not reach his eyes. “Fighting my brother.”

Her brow arched. “And you chose this place to do it?”

He glanced toward the trees. “He insulted me. I made him bleed. It is a good day.”

To his surprise, her lips twitched. Almost a smile.

“You should go,” she said at last, coolly.

He didn’t move.

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you want me to scream?”

“No.” His voice dropped. “But you can. I would still not leave.”