The firelight in the manor's study danced across the fine crystal of wine glasses. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of aged oak and the heavy silence of men discussing the impossible.
"So, your old man isn't going to do anything this time, eh?" Erik asked, swirling his wine.
Gustaf sighed, the sound lost in the crackle of the hearth. "Father has already given her the 'cold hand.' Now, I'm just thinking about leaving her in charge of a mansion in the middle of nowhere or something." He took a long, smooth gulp. "A noble's hand in marriage is simply not possible now."
"A hand is not possible, huh?" Erik mused, his eyes fixed on the flames.
"You think these noble brats want a woman who would beat the shit out of them?" Gustaf gave a keen, cynical smile. "I mean, I would never want someone like that. What about you, Larsson? Would you?"
Erik let out a low, melodic laugh. "I don't really hate women who are strong. I think it's a good deal—I'd get a sparring partner for free."
Hidden in the shadowed gallery above, Greta felt a shiver of hope run through her. Her face burned a deep, furious red. For the first time, her heart wasn't beating in anger; it was racing in a way she couldn't control. She took a ragged breath and bolted for her room before her tears or her blush could be discovered.
The next morning, the world was bathed in a pale, freezing light. Erik was already mounted on Tom, the white pony looking regal despite the frost. Gustaf was overseeing the loading of his carriage when he spotted a familiar figure already perched inside.
"Playing games or running away?" Gustaf asked, leaning against the carriage door.
"I'm going to the harbor. Nothing else," Greta replied, her voice armored in its usual ego.
"In my carriage?"
"You know I don't have one, so I'm tagging along," Greta retorted, her face a mask of grumpiness. "And it's not lady-like to travel by horse for too far."
"Lady-like? You've got to be shitting me!" Gustaf laughed, signaling for Erik to join the fray. "Did you hear that, Larsson?"
Erik guided Tom closer, his expression unreadable. "What are you looking at? Want to get punched twice?" Greta snapped, her defenses flaring up the moment Erik's gaze met hers.
"Greta, you can't just come with me," Gustaf insisted with a smirk. "Why don't you try taking the horse to tag along?"
Greta paused, her mind racing. She looked at the carriage, then at Erik, and then at the powerful white horse. With a sudden, decisive movement, she climbed out and walked straight to Erik.
"I'll go with Larsson," she declared, her voice trembling slightly. "I'll sit in the back with you, Mr. Larsson. You got a problem with that?"
Erik's eyes widened—a rare flash of genuine surprise and perhaps a touch of fear. Gustaf simply nodded, hiding a triumphant grin. The prince had come for the princess on his white horse, even if neither would admit it. Greta hauled herself up onto the horse behind Erik, her hands hovering tentatively before she gripped his waist.
The journey was marked by a heavy, salt-tinged silence. Upon reaching the port town, Gustaf vanished into the naval offices to meet their father, leaving Erik and Greta to wander the docks.
"Why are you acting like a numb child, Larsson?" Greta teased, trying to break the tension as Erik stood staring at the gray Baltic.
"I'm an officer of the Crown, not a guide, Ms. Stenbock," Erik replied calmly.
"You should be taking me somewhere nice, instead of this wretched place."
Erik turned to her, the sea breeze ruffling his dark hair. "There's nothing wretched about this place, Lady. This is just a normal land."
"What's so 'normal' that I don't understand?"
"The unsettling mud tells the tale of hardworking people," Erik explained, his voice grounding her. "Soldiers laying their lives down, sailors fighting the waves. You might not grasp the reality surrounding you yet, but be sure not to speak ill of it."
The sea breeze carried a sudden weight. Greta looked at the mud, the salt-stained wood, and the grit of the people, seeing it—truly seeing it—for the first time.
"Sir Otto wants to see you," Gustaf said, appearing with a smirk.
The salt-heavy air of the harbor clung to the windowpanes of the naval office, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with something far more ancient.
Sir Otto Stenbock did not look up from his documents as Erik Larsson entered. He was a man of cold iron and ledgers, the kind of leader who saw the world as a series of strategic maneuvers.
"You don't look like much for a captain, Mr. Larsson," Otto remarked, his voice like grinding stones. He finally peered over his spectacles, taking a long, clinical measure of the young man.
"I'm a talent, sir. I get that quite often," Erik replied, his spine straight as a mast.
"You are the youngest?"
"No, sir. I am the second. I have a brother and two younger siblings."
"So the head is your brother. That explains why you seek your glory in the Navy." Otto offered a thin, ghost-like smile before his expression hardened. "I didn't mean to be so quick about this, but time is a luxury we lack. We need allies—inside and out. Tell me, Larsson, what do you think of a marriage alliance?"
Erik stood paralyzed, the word marriage ringing in his ears like a cannon blast. "That is..."
"I need an answer, and it isn't free," Otto cut him off. "Your family owns the great woods. We need timber for our ships. My daughter Magdalene is coming of age soon; she would be a sensible choice for a rising officer. What say you?"
Erik's mind raced through the political implications, the timber rights, and the status. But then, a image of a mud-streaked, defiant girl with blood on her knuckles flashed in his mind.
"I will take the alliance, sir," Erik said, his voice dropping an octave. "Since I am not the head of my house, I offer my inheritance and my position. But... I do not want the Stenbock name. Nor do I want your daughter Magdalene."
Otto paused, his quill hovering over a document. "What do you mean?"
"I would like to have Greta's hand, sir. Not as an asset, but as a person. For that... I truly love her."
Otto went perfectly still. He slowly set his quill down and leaned back, the mask of the Field Marshal cracking. He took a long, shuddering breath and looked out at the gray sea.
"What could a brawling woman give you, Larsson?" Otto asked, his voice suddenly fragile.
"Everything, sir."
Otto closed his eyes, and for a moment, he wasn't a lord of the empire. "Greta was only eight when her mother passed," he whispered, the memory clearly vivid and painful. "I saw men break that day. I saw Gustaf wail until his voice was gone. But Greta? I never saw her cry. Not once. She became the mother for her siblings. She took that character upon herself to protect them. People call her a wild woman, a tomboy, the 'Bear of the Stenbocks.' They say I wrote her off because I was ashamed."
He looked at Erik, his eyes shimmering with a rare, paternal heat. "But in truth, I gave her the freedom most only dream of because she earned it with her strength. I let her be wild because she had been 'grown' since she was eight. If you are so doted on having her as your half... you must ask her yourself. That is all a father can say."
Outside, near the docks, the wind bit through Greta's cloak. The moment Erik exited for the office, she lunged at her brother.
"What did you talk about with Father?" she demanded.
"Your marriage," Gustaf replied with a smirk.
"How many times do I need to tell you! I don't want it!"
"Even if it's Larsson?"
Greta's face went from pale to a blooming, violent red. The cold was heavy, but the heat in her cheeks was enough to melt the frost. "What...?"
"Don't 'what' me, Margareta," Gustaf chuckled. "We both know you're madly in love with him."
"No, I'm not!" she shouted, trying desperately to pull her scarf over her face.
"Why do you think Erik comes home so frequently? You thought he just liked the Stenbock wine? He's been in love with you for three years, you fool. You just never looked past your own pride to see it."
"But... it's the first time I've ever truly met him!"
"No, Greta. You've always had a terrible memory for faces," Gustaf teased. "He's the 'prince' who came on the white horse when you broke the carriage trying to run away years ago. You even told me back then he was 'cute, like a puppy.'"
Greta froze. The memory flooded back—the white horse, the gentle eyes of a boy who hadn't judged her for her muddy dress. She buried her face in her scarf, her secret battle lost.
"Even if I were to tell him..." she murmured, her voice small, "what about Father? And what if he... what if he rejects me out of worry?"
"Greta, you're stressing too much," Gustaf said, stepping back as a figure approached. "Just let it flow out."
"My Lady... can I have a talk with you?"
Erik stood a few paces away. His face was a beaming, radiant red, and he looked everywhere but at her eyes. He was the confident Captain of the Navy, but here, in front of the "wild cat," he was a shy boy again.
But Greta was done with secrets. Before he could retreat into his shyness, she stepped forward and grabbed his hand. She didn't just hold it; she gripped it with the strength that had survived her mother's death and her father's silence.
She leaned in, her eyes burning into his, demanding the answer he had given her father.
"Larsson," she whispered, her voice a mix of a growl and a plea. "Look at me."
Erik finally met her gaze. The shy boy vanished, replaced by the man who had offered his entire inheritance for a "brawling woman."
"I asked for you, Greta," he said, his voice steadying. "Not your name. Not your land. Just you."
Greta didn't pull away. For the first time since she was eight years old, the "Bear of the Stenbocks" felt like she didn't have to stand alone.
(To be continued)