The longhouse was silent when Vesaria woke.
No footsteps. No gruff voices. No warlord.
Only the distant creak of snow settling outside and the faint scent of ash in the hearth. She lay still for a moment, letting the quiet press against her ribs. Azgar hadn't returned then. Or if he had, he hadn't come to her.
Good.
She sat up slowly, wrapping one of the thick furs tighter around her shoulders. Her limbs were stiff, but her mind was clear. No more tears. No more spiralling. She had already shed her grief and fury beneath those furs. Now came the rest.
Escape would not come through sobbing into her knees.
She bound her hair at the nape. Silver strands caught the dull light—unmistakably foreign here.
Before she could steel herself further, there came a knock.
The door creaked open. A northern woman stepped in, broad-shouldered, with a long fur-lined braid and heavy eyes. She said something in that guttural tongue of theirs and gestured sharply.
Vesaria said nothing. Her stare said enough.
The woman waited, face impatient.
So, she was being summoned.
Vesaria adjusted the fur around her shoulders, straightened her spine, and stepped forward with careful grace. She would not cower in this place. Not again.
*****
She had never seen the village in daylight.
Now, in the pale sun and bitter cold, it looked like something carved out of frostbitten stone and forgotten by time. Longhouses dotted the ridge, smoke curling from holes in their thatched roofs. People carried baskets, tended to goats, and split wood. The air reeked of fish, snow, and tannin.
No one stopped to gape. No one jeered.
That unsettled her more than the silence of the longhouse.
The northern woman led her through frost-laced paths and between slate-roofed buildings. Vesaria walked without stumbling, her chin high, ignoring the curious glances from passing clanswomen. Her skirts dragged across packed snow and mud. She didn't ask where they were going.
They reached a wide stone hall with smoke curling from its chimney and herbs hanging in brittle bunches by the entrance. The scent of boiled meat and dried bark clung to the threshold—sharp, unfamiliar, too much.
Vesaria stepped inside, and the world changed.
Heat struck first—wet, thick, curling around her like a living thing. Then the noise: guttural syllables overlapping like chimes in a windstorm. Women bustled between low tables and hanging bundles. Clay pots hissed, knives chopped, pestles ground. A child laughed. A dog barked.
It was chaos.
She stood, tall and still, wrapped in a heavy fur that wasn't hers. The smoke stung her eyes.
No one bowed. No one looked impressed.
The oldest woman—grey-haired, sharp-eyed, one knee stiff with a limp—pointed to a stool beside a pile of roots and bark. No smile. No words.
Vesaria's chin lifted. Her instincts screamed to retreat, to declare herself above this. Instead, she crossed the floor and sat.
A crude but sharp knife was placed beside her. A gnarled root dropped at her feet.
No words. Just a look.
Vesaria glanced around at the other women, watching their hands, their pace. Then she picked up the knife and began peeling.
Her movements were too careful. She scraped the skin from the root like it might explode. The red sap stained her fingers quickly, like blood. The scent clung to her nails.
Shell the nuts. Fold the hides. Clean the furs.
They moved her from task to task with brisk gestures and clipped commands. No one bridged the language gap.
Once, her hands had been manicured, her voice heard in southern courts. Now she peeled roots with peasant knives and stirred dye with paddles rough as driftwood.
Pride didn't open locked doors.
If she wanted to run, she had to blend in first.
*****
Midmorning passed in a blur of fish scales, dried herbs, bubbling dye vats, folded furs, and cleaned pelts. Her hands worked while her mind planned. Escape. Return. Home.
Azgar had not touched her. She clung to that. If she could find a way back before rumours froze solid, perhaps she could reclaim her place in her uncle's court.
Small footsteps pattered.
A toddler wandered in—three, perhaps four. Pale hair, wide eyes, wobbling stance. He babbled, clutching a wooden wolf toy.
Vesaria stayed still.
He offered the toy. Slowly, she took it.
He grinned. "Zalka!"
Vesaria blinked. He reached for her hair.
"Zalka." Again. Then babbled something else—"Ga?" or "Az?"—too quick for her to catch.
Before she could speak, a young woman—barely more than a girl—rushed in and scooped the child up. She scolded him gently in the northern tongue, brushing dirt off his tunic.
Then she looked at Vesaria.
Not hostile. Not warm. Wary. Maybe a little respectful.
A dip of the head, and she was gone.
Vesaria stared after them, the wooden toy still in her lap. She placed it on the bench beside her and resumed peeling bark.
*****
By the time the sun reached the highest point, the stone floor was warm beneath her boots, her hands were stained with sap and herb, and her back ached from the strange posture.
She hadn't spoken a single word all day.
Vesaria rolled her shoulder with a wince and looked down at her bleeding palms. Perhaps she should call it a day.
The sound of hooves and metal returned.
The hunters were back.
Vesaria did not move from her seat. But she watched.
Through the smoke-hazed window, she caught the shape of Azgar—furs damp with sweat and blood. He walked among the others without ceremony, boots crunching in the frost.
For a second, his eyes met hers. Something in him stilled.
No smirk. No grim mask.
She looked away first.
Good, she thought, fingers tight on the paddle. Let him feel shame—if he knew what it was.
*****
Later, when the sun had vanished and the work had slowed, the room went still.
Vesaria felt it before she saw it—the air shifted, and a sudden hush fell over the women.
A presence.
Azgar stood in the doorway.
She straightened without meaning to, the motion instinctive. Her pulse jumped.
The women quieted instantly. One of them tittered softly behind her hand. Another muttered something low and teasing, sparking a ripple of quiet laughter.
Vesaria didn't move.
He said nothing at first. Just looked at her. Then lifted a hand and gestured—two fingers, a subtle beckon.
Her throat tightened. She stood. Not because she obeyed him, but because she wouldn't be seen as afraid.
Outside, the wind bit hard. She folded her arms across her chest. "What?"
He studied her face. His expression unreadable.
"The room they gave you was a mistake. It was not built for the chief's wife."
Vesaria said nothing. Wife, he said—as if that title still meant something in a place where she shelled nuts beside peasants.
"You'll be moved tonight. Warmer. Unbarred windows. No guards at the door."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"
He didn't flinch. "Because fear makes people unpredictable."
She laughed—cold and sharp. "You mean it's inconvenient."
"Think what you like. But you're not a prisoner, Bride of the South."
Why did he have to remind her that she was an outsider?
"You're my wife. You walk free, but you stay. You don't run. And in return, I won't touch you unless you ask it of me."
She blinked. Her mouth opened, but no words came.
He stepped back. "Your new room is by the east wall. Someone will show you. Tomorrow, your duties continue. You'll work where the others work. Eat what we eat. No more, no less."
Then, quieter:
"You don't have to fear me. But you will respect me."
She wanted to tell him she respected nothing about him. But her tongue stayed still.
And he walked away.
Leaving her in the snow, spine straight, teeth clenched, heart pounding.
Respect him? She would rather freeze.