The great hall was heavy with the scent of firewood and mead, the low murmur of voices like distant thunder before the storm. A massive round table filled the center, where the clan chiefs sat in their heavy furs, their firstborn sons at their sides. The room was dimly lit, torches flickering against the wooden beams blackened by years of smoke.
Vidarr strode in beside his father, his broad shoulders squared, his gaze cold and unreadable. His heavy boots struck the stone floor with measured force. He did not fidget. He did not hesitate. His father had taught him well.
Across the table, other sons met his gaze—some with wary respect, others with the hunger of young wolves eager to prove themselves. But Vidarr did not concern himself with them. He already knew he was stronger.
Then he saw her.
Seated at the right hand of a gray-haired war chief, where a son should have been, sat a woman.
She did not belong. That much was clear from the way the men glanced at her, some with barely veiled disdain, others with quiet curiosity. She sat straight-backed, her expression impassive, yet her storm-gray eyes missed nothing.
Her silver-blond hair was braided with intricate metal clasps, strands woven together like a battle knot. A delicate circlet of blackened steel rested upon her brow, an adornment that was neither purely ornamental nor entirely ceremonial. A warrior’s heirloom.
She wore a deep brown leather tunic, its high collar embroidered with sigils Vidarr did not recognize. Over her shoulders draped a cloak of thick wolf fur, the mark of one who had hunted and survived the bitter northern winters.
She was not just a chieftain’s daughter.
She was an heir. And from the looks exchanged around the room, not everyone agreed that she should be.