The Svartfjell stronghold was not a collection of buildings nestled in a fjord, but a fortress carved into the very bones of the mountain. Black Falls, named for the dark, volcanic rock that formed its cliffs and the torrent of water that cascaded from its heights, was a place of shadows and echoes. The longhouses were built into cavern mouths and under great overhangs, their roofs sodded with earth, making them seem like natural extensions of the mountain itself. It was a defensive position, grim and unyielding, much like its people.
Astrid was led through the main gate, a narrow passage between two sheer rock faces, and felt the oppressive weight of the mountain close around her. The air was colder here, and the sounds—the clang of the smithy, the guttural shouts of warriors training, the constant roar of the waterfall—were harsher, more aggressive than the gentle rhythms of her cove.
She was taken directly to the great hall, the "Wolf's Den." It was not a single room, but a series of interconnected caves, the largest of which housed the jarl's high seat, a throne of polished stone and ancient, grey wood. Fires burned in pits, their smoke clinging to the cavern ceiling like a trapped storm cloud.
On the throne sat her father, Jarl Kveldulf. The Old Wolf of the Black Mountain. He was not a large man, not like Halfdan Stórbrodir, but he was forged from a different kind of metal—wiry, sharp, and relentlessly hard. His hair and beard were the colour of iron, and his eyes were the flat, pitiless grey of a winter sea. He did not rise as she entered. He simply watched her, his fingers steepled under his chin.
The hall was filled with his huscarls and advisors, a council of wolves. Gunnar stood proudly to the right of the throne, his chest puffed with self-importance. The air was thick with their collective judgment.
"Father," Astrid said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her soul. She would not show them fear.
Kveldulf's gaze was a physical weight. "Daughter," he acknowledged, the word devoid of warmth. "My nephew brings me a tale. A strange and troubling tale. He says you were found harbouring a Stórbrodir. That you... nursed their heir back to health after the storm." He let the statement hang, a foul odor in the smoky air. "Tell me he is a fool. Tell me my own blood has not become so weak."
Astrid met his gaze. "The tale is true. A man was shipwrecked and wounded on my shore. I am a healer. I did my duty."
A ripple of angry muttering went through the hall. A grizzled warrior with one eye slammed his fist on a table. "Your duty is to your clan, girl! Not to some Stórbrodir cur!"
"Duty?" Astrid's voice cut through the muttering, sharp and clear. "What is our duty? To murder the wounded? To become the monsters they say we are? I saved a life. There is no shame in that."
"There is every shame!" Kveldulf's voice was low, but it silenced the hall instantly. He leaned forward, his grey eyes burning. "You did not save a man, Astrid. You saved a symbol. You saved the future of the clan that has sworn to eradicate us. You handed our enemy a victory more valuable than any battlefield triumph. You showed them that a Svartfjell can be soft. That our will can be bent. You have made us look weak."
The logic was perverse, twisted by generations of hatred, but she saw the cold strategy in it. In their world, perception was power. Mercy was a leak in the hull of their reputation.
"What would you have had me do?" she challenged, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "Let him die? And then what? His father would have blamed us for the storm itself! It would have been the excuse he needed to launch his full force against us!"
Gunnar scoffed. "Let him come! We are not afraid of Halfdan's fury! We would meet it with steel and fire!"
"And how many of our sons would die in that fire, Gunnar?" Astrid shot back, turning her fury on him. "How many mothers would weep? For what? For the pride of saying we let a wounded boy bleed out on a beach?"
"You speak like a coward," Gunnar spat.
"I speak like someone who has seen the cost!" Her voice rose, echoing in the stone chamber. "I have cleaned the wounds, I have sung the death-songs for those the feud has taken! This cycle of violence only creates more widows and orphans. It solves nothing!"
The hall fell into a stunned silence. Such words were heresy here. Kveldulf studied her, a new, cold understanding dawning in his eyes.
"Your time in solitude has poisoned your mind," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You have forgotten what it means to be Svartfjell. You have forgotten the taste of their treachery." He stood, his movement fluid and predatory. "You think this is about pride? This is about survival. The Stórbrodir do not want peace. They want our land, our resources, our extinction. Your act of 'mercy' has been answered with their typical gratitude."
He gestured to one of his men, who stepped forward and threw a bundle onto the floor at Astrid's feet. It was a cloak, torn and stained with frozen blood. Embroidered on it was the raven and wolf sigil of the Stórbrodir.
"Three days ago," Kveldulf said, his voice like grinding stone. "A hunting party, led by your patient, Eirik Stórbrodir, ambushed our men in the Greywood. They slaughtered them. Took their heads as trophies. This was found on the body of your cousin, Egil. Your mother's sister's son."
Astrid stared at the bloodied cloak, her breath catching in her throat. Eirik? It couldn't be. Not after what had passed between them. Had it all been a lie? A performance? The world seemed to tilt around her.
"See?" Gunnar's voice was a venomous whisper. "See what your mercy earns you? While you were feeding him broth and changing his bandages, he was plotting to kill your kin."
The words were meant to break her. And they did. Not because she believed them entirely—a part of her screamed that this was a setup, a provocation—but because they represented the inescapable truth of their situation. Their clans were locked in a dance of death, and no single act of kindness could stop the music.
Kveldulf saw the fracture in her resolve. "Your exile is over," he declared, his tone final. "You will remain here, at Black Falls. You will resume your duties as my daughter. You will put aside these childish notions. The time for healing is over." His grey eyes held hers, devoid of any paternal softness. "The time for war is coming. And you will be where I can see you."
Astrid looked from her father's implacable face to Gunnar's triumphant sneer, to the bloodied cloak on the floor. The walls of the Wolf's Den felt like they were closing in, the weight of her name and her blood crushing the last vestiges of her defiance. The woman from the cove was gone, buried under the expectations of the Svartfjell. She had been dragged back into the story, and the next chapter was to be written in blood.