The winter air in Kattegat was sharp, cutting like a knife through breath and bone. Inside the slave pens, straw crackled beneath bare feet, and whispers clung to the damp night like smoke. The slaves taken from Eirik's lands were not broken yet—not all of them. Their eyes glowed with a simmering hate as they spoke in tongues foreign to most of Kattegat's guards.
"Better to die with a blade in hand," hissed one, a thin man with hollow cheeks and wild eyes. "Than to rot here in chains."
Another spat blood into the straw. "He is no man. They say he eats hearts. They say Odin walks beside him. You strike him, and the gods themselves may strike you down."
The first man's lips curled. "Then let them. I will not bow. I will not kneel to a butcher."
A boy, barely a man, listened quietly. His name was Arvid. His wrists were raw from iron, but his back was straight. Unlike the others, he did not shout or curse. His silence gave him weight, and when he finally spoke, the others hushed.
"He bleeds," Arvid said, his voice low and steady. "All men bleed. I will make him bleed."
The men stared. Some laughed. Some muttered prayers. But when Arvid's eyes did not falter, they saw he meant it. He would be the hand of their vengeance.
That night, when the guards grew careless and the moon cast long shadows, Arvid palmed a shard of bone he had hidden in the straw. His weapon was crude, fragile—but sharp enough to open flesh. He tucked it beneath his ragged tunic. In his mind, he saw himself standing over Bjorn, the mighty lord choking on his own blood.
And for the first time in weeks, the slaves smiled.
In the women's hall, warmth clung to the air from the braziers. The concubines sat weaving, gossip dripping from their lips like honey mixed with venom.
Inga, flaxen-haired and sharp-tongued, leaned close to another. "Astrid grows weary. She tires of his conquests. The queen is strong, yes, but she cannot always keep his attention."
The other woman, Solveig, younger and dark-haired, smirked. "Then who holds it? You? He lies with all of us, yet he chooses Astrid to rule beside him. She is his wife. You are only a passing warmth in his bed."
Inga's face flushed red. "He will tire of her. Men always do. Queens fall when they grow too proud."
Astrid's shadow fell across them before Inga could continue. The queen of Kattegat, tall and cold-eyed, regarded them with silence so sharp it cut the air. She stepped closer, her voice quiet but heavy as stone.
"Do not mistake the hearth for the throne," Astrid said. "You are here because he permits it. Remember your place, or I will remind you."
Inga lowered her head, lips pressed thin. Solveig smirked, emboldened by Astrid's scolding. But Astrid saw the glint in both their eyes—envy, ambition, resentment. Seeds that could one day grow into poison.
Astrid left them to their weaving, but her stomach tightened. Concubines were not merely lovers. They were rivals in waiting, women who could sway men with whispers and children with claims of blood. She knew the hall was no less dangerous than the battlefield.
The mead hall was loud with voices that night, warriors laughing and boasting of raids past. Yet beneath the din, in the darker corners where the firelight struggled to reach, voices carried a different tone.
"Did you see the man he hung?" one muttered, his fingers tight on his cup. "Upside down, bleeding like a slaughtered pig. That was no justice—it was cruelty."
Another leaned in. "And what if it was? We are Vikings. Fear rules faster than law."
"But fear breaks men," the first hissed. "A lord who rules by terror alone breeds rebellion. If he can hang one of us so easily, what stops him from hanging another?"
A third man grunted. "Would you speak such words where Sven Iron-Foot can hear? Fool. Bjorn is Odin's chosen. He can do as he pleases."
Too late—they realized Sven Iron-Foot stood behind them, his massive frame filling the corner. His single good eye narrowed, his scarred jaw clenching. He said nothing, only placed a heavy hand on the doubter's shoulder.
The warrior swallowed hard. Sweat beaded on his brow.
Sven finally spoke, his voice a low growl. "I will forget what I heard tonight. But if I hear it again, you will hang beside the traitors."
The table fell silent. Laughter resumed elsewhere in the hall, but the shadow of Sven's warning lingered. Doubt had been spoken. It could not be unsaid.
While Bjorn spent his days at the shipyard with Floki, Astrid ruled the hall. It was no easy task. Farmers stormed in, accusing warriors of stealing their cattle. Women quarreled over land, each claiming their husband's service in battle earned them more.
Astrid listened, judged, and punished. She awarded one family two cows, but took them from another who had shirked taxes. She ordered a warrior whipped for striking a farmer's wife. Each decision was another stone added to the weight on her shoulders.
At night, she sat alone by the fire. She thought of the concubines whispering in the women's hall. She thought of the warriors who grumbled about Bjorn's cruelty. And she thought of her children, sleeping peacefully in their furs, unaware of the storm brewing around them.
Astrid clenched her fists. If Bjorn was the axe of Kattegat, she was its shield. But even shields could crack under too many blows.
Bjorn walked the streets of Kattegat under the moonlight, cloak drawn tight against the chill. His people greeted him with bowed heads, yet he saw the truth in their eyes.
Some shone with devotion. Others with fear. A few with resentment.
He passed the slave pens. He saw the hollow faces, the hunger in their eyes. One boy—Arvid—stared at him with a look so sharp it made Bjorn pause. For a moment, their gazes locked.
Bjorn felt no fear. Only curiosity.
He moved on, but the look stayed with him. The boy did not look beaten. He looked like a wolf in a cage.
Bjorn's thoughts were heavy. Was Astrid right? Did he bind men with fear and hunger? Would they one day turn on him as quickly as they had bowed?
He shook the thoughts away. He was not here to doubt. He was here to rule. And ruling meant crushing doubt wherever it festered.
The hall roared with life that night. Another feast, another chance for Kattegat to revel in its strength. Skalds sang of Bjorn's victories. Mead spilled, laughter shook the rafters. Bjorn sat at the high seat, Astrid at his side, concubines pouring his cup.
The slaves served the tables, moving quietly, heads bowed. Among them was Arvid. The shard of bone was hidden in his sleeve, his pulse thundering in his ears.
He moved closer to Bjorn with each passing moment, serving meat, filling cups, lowering his gaze. His breath came quick, his heart hammering. He was so close now he could smell the iron tang of Bjorn's armor, see the scars on his hands.
Bjorn lifted his cup. Arvid struck.
The bone shard flashed as he lunged, aiming for Bjorn's throat.
But Bjorn's hand was faster. His fingers clamped around Arvid's wrist like iron, stopping the strike mid-air. Silence fell over the hall. Every eye turned.
Bjorn rose to his feet, dragging the boy up with him. Arvid struggled, snarling like a beast, but Bjorn's grip did not waver.
"You thought to kill me?" Bjorn's voice thundered through the hall. "You thought Odin's chosen would fall to a slave?"
Arvid spat in his face. "You are no god. You are a man, and men can bleed."
The hall gasped. Bjorn's eyes burned.
With one brutal motion, he slammed Arvid onto the table, mead and meat scattering. He tore the bone shard from the boy's hand and drove it deep into his chest. Blood gushed across the table, spilling into cups, staining the feast red.
Bjorn raised the body high for all to see. His voice was a roar of fury and dominance.
"Let all Kattegat remember! This is the fate of those who defy me! I am no man's prey—I am the wolf, the axe, the storm of Odin himself!"
He flung the body to the ground. Blood spread across the floor like a dark river. The hall erupted—some in cheers, some in fearful silence.
Astrid's eyes were steady, unreadable. The concubines trembled. The warriors pounded their fists in thunderous approval.
Bjorn sat once more, lifting his bloodstained cup. He drank deeply, crimson running down his beard.
No one moved against him again that night.