The Greywood was a place of ghosts and half-light, a dense forest of ancient pines where the snow lay in deep, unspoiled drifts and the only sounds were the creak of burdened branches and the occasional scrabble of a unseen creature. It was here, two days after the grim council in the Wolf's Den, that Astrid found a sliver of stolen freedom. Under the pretext of gathering specific, rare lichens for her healing stores—a duty even her father could not outright deny—she had slipped away from Black Falls with a single, trusted guardsman, a silent, older warrior who had been a friend of her mother's.
Her heart was a stone in her chest. The image of the bloodied Stórbrodir cloak was seared behind her eyes. *Eirik.* Had he led the raid? Had the understanding in the croft, the shared silence in the moonlight, been nothing but a mummer's farce? The doubt was a poison, and she needed an antidote, a truth she could only find in one place.
She moved to a specific, lightning-blasted oak at the edge of a frozen stream, a landmark known only to her. Tucked into a hollow in its bark was a small, smooth river stone. It was a child's trick, a secret signal she and her mother had used. She moved the stone to a different crevice, a pre-arranged sign of urgent need. It was a desperate gamble, a message cast into the vast, hostile wilderness with no guarantee it would ever be seen, let alone answered.
She spent the hours that followed in a frantic, futile search for herbs, her mind screaming while her hands moved automatically. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long, blue shadows across the snow, when her guardsman stiffened, his hand going to his axe.
A figure emerged from the gloom between the trees. He moved with a hunter's silence, his form bulky in furs, a hood shadowing his face. But Astrid would know his shape anywhere. It was Eirik.
Her breath hitched. The guardsman stepped forward, a growl forming in his throat.
"Wait, Olvir," Astrid commanded, her voice sharp. "Stand watch. Do not interfere."
The old warrior looked at her, then at the approaching figure, his expression grim, but he gave a curt nod and melted back into the trees, giving them a semblance of privacy.
Eirik pushed back his hood. His face was harder than she remembered, the lines around his mouth deeper, his ice-blue eyes shadowed with a fatigue that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. He looked every inch the Stórbrodir heir, and her heart ached at the sight.
"You came," she breathed, the words a white cloud in the frigid air.
"I found your stone," he said, his voice low and rough. "I had to come." His eyes devoured her, as if assuring himself she was real. "You are… a prisoner?"
"Not in chains. But in purpose." She wrapped her arms around herself, the cold seeping through her cloak. "My father knows. Gunnar and his men came to the croft. They know I saved you."
Eirik closed his eyes for a brief moment, a pained expression crossing his features. "I feared as much. I am sorry, Astrid. I never meant for this to fall upon you."
"The ambush in the Greywood," she said, the question she dreaded most finally tearing itself from her. "The hunting party. My cousin, Egil. Did you lead it?"
His eyes snapped open, wide with shock and something that looked like horror. "The Greywood? No! By the All-Father, no, Astrid. We have not crossed into these woods in weeks. My father has ordered patrols, yes, but only on our own borders. I would not… I could not…" He took a step toward her, his hand half-reaching for her before he stopped himself. "You must believe me. I have not raised my axe since I left your croft. The thought of spilling more blood… it sickens me."
The raw, desperate truth in his voice was a balm on her wounded spirit. She believed him. She had to. To do otherwise was to surrender to the darkness completely.
"Then it was a lie," she whispered, a tremble of relief mixing with fresh fury. "A provocation. My father showed me a bloodied Stórbrodir cloak. He said it was proof."
Eirik's face hardened. "It is their game. Or ours. I cannot even tell anymore. A cloak can be stolen. A body can be dressed in an enemy's colours. It is an old trick." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of utter frustration. "My father speaks of nothing but Svartfjell aggression. He claims your clan raided a trapper's camp. He uses it to stoke the fires for war."
"And mine uses a butchered hunting party," Astrid finished, the pieces of the ugly puzzle clicking into place. "They are both building the pyre, Eirik. And they are using us as the kindling."
The hopelessness of their situation yawned before them, a chasm with no bridge. They stood in the silent wood, two souls trapped on opposite sides of a gorge carved by the hands of their fathers.
"What are we to do?" Her voice was barely a whisper, the question a plea.
"What can we do?" he replied, his own voice thick with despair. "I am my father's heir. You are your father's daughter. We are symbols, Astrid. Our wills are not our own. If I speak against this war, I am a traitor. If you speak for peace, you are weak. We are caught in a current too strong to swim against."
He was right. She knew he was right. The freedom of the croft had been an illusion. They were forever bound by their names, by their blood.
"The last time we stood beneath a moon, you told me not to speak of what was between us," Eirik said, his gaze intense, burning through the gathering twilight. "You said if it became real, the pain of its loss would be unbearable." He took another step, closing the distance between them. The air crackled with the tension. "It is real, Astrid. It was real in the croft, and it is real now, here in this wood. And the pain is already more than I can bear."
Tears she had been holding back finally spilled over, freezing on her cheeks. "Eirik…"
"My father plans a great raid," he said, the words rushing out as if he had to purge them. "In ten days' time. He means to strike at Black Falls itself, to 'cut the head from the serpent.' He believes your act of mercy is a sign of your clan's weakening resolve. He thinks you are vulnerable."
A cold dread, colder than the winter air, gripped her heart. "You must stop him."
"I cannot! He will not listen. He sees my reluctance as a flaw to be hammered out. If I try to warn him it's a trap, he will accuse me of being swayed by a Svartfjell witch." The self-loathing in his voice was palpable. "I am leading that raid, Astrid. I have to. It is my duty."
The finality in his words was a death knell. They had reached the precipice. The clandestine meeting, the stolen moment of truth, had only served to confirm their doom.
"So this is it," she said, her voice hollow. "The next time we meet…"
"We will be on a battlefield," he finished, his own eyes glittering with unshed tears. "I will be leading the charge against your home. And you… where will you be?"
Astrid looked toward the dark silhouette of Black Falls in the distance, then back at the man she loved. The man she was destined to fight.
"I will be where my father commands me," she said, her voice regaining a sliver of its old steel, forged now in sorrow. "I will be in the heart of the fortress, doing my duty. As a healer. I will be tending the wounds of the men who are trying to kill you."
The tragic symmetry of it was perfect, and utterly devastating.
Eirik reached out then, and his gloved hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a frozen tear. It was the first and only time they had truly touched. The contact was an electric shock, a searing brand of what could never be.
"Then may the gods have mercy on us both," he whispered.
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the pines without a backward glance. Astrid stood frozen, the ghost of his touch burning on her skin, the taste of their last, desperate goodbye as bitter as iron on her tongue. The truth had set them free, only to condemn them to a far more exquisite hell.