The ten days passed with the grim, inexorable certainty of a falling axe. At Black Falls, the mountain fortress became a hive of grim industry, but it was a different kind of work from the peaceful rhythm of Astrid's croft. Here, the sounds were the relentless ring of hammers on steel, the grating of whetstones on axes, and the low, constant murmur of strategy and prayer.
Astrid was given no more freedom. She was put to work in the great cavern designated for the wounded, organizing what few medical supplies the clan had—mostly bundles of spiderwebs and moss for packing wounds, leather straps for tourniquets, and sharp, clean knives for the grisly work of amputation. The familiar herbs from her croft felt like relics from another life, utterly inadequate for the carnage to come.
Her father, Kveldulf, was a whirlwind of cold efficiency. He drilled his warriors, refined the fortress's defenses, and held councils with his grim-faced huscarls. He did not speak to her of mercy or truth. He spoke only of angles of attack, of kill zones, of boiling oil and volleys of spears. He had reforged her in the fires of his will, and the daughter he now acknowledged was a tool, a symbol of Svartfjell resilience to be kept safe within the mountain's heart.
Gunnar, bristling with bloodlust, would often find her. "Your Stórbrodir lover comes for you, cousin," he would taunt, his eyes gleaming. "He comes to finish what the storm started. I will save his head for you. You can keep it as a reminder of your foolishness."
She no longer responded. Her silence was her last fortress. Inside, she held the memory of Eirik's face in the Greywood, the truth in his eyes when he denied the ambush. She held the feel of his hand on her cheek. These were her secret weapons against the rising tide of hatred.
Across the fjord, in the Stórbrodir hall, a different kind of forging was taking place. Jarl Halfdan’s preparations were not defensive, but offensive—a sharp, brutal instrument being honed for a single, decisive thrust. Longships were provisioned, their dragon heads freshly painted with red-rimmed eyes to strike terror. The air was thick with the smell of tar and the fervour of men anticipating plunder and glory.
Eirik stood at the center of the storm, a statue of conflicted duty. He oversaw the preparations with a cold competence that made his father nod in approval. He checked weapon edges, reviewed attack formations, and spoke the expected words of encouragement to his warriors. But his eyes were dead.
At night, in the privacy of his alcove, the facade crumbled. The face he saw in the still water of his drinking horn was not that of a victorious raider, but of a man marching to his own execution. He was leading his friends, his kin, into a trap, against the woman he loved. He was the arrow his father had nocked, and he had no will to resist the release.
Bjorn, ever observant, found him one evening staring into the fire. "The men are ready," the old huscarl said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "They believe in you."
"They believe in a story," Eirik replied, his voice hollow. "A story of Svartfjell monsters and Stórbrodir glory. They do not know they are being fed to a mountain."
Bjorn was silent for a long moment. "The woman," he said finally. "The healer. She is there."
Eirik's head snapped up, his eyes flashing a warning.
Bjorn raised a placating hand. "I am not your father, boy. I have fought for this clan since before you were born. I have seen enough to know that not every Svartfjell is a demon, and not every Stórbrodir is a hero." He sighed, a heavy, weary sound. "You carry a weight I cannot lift. But remember, a leader leads with his head, not just his heart. Or his despair. Whatever you find in that fortress, see it clearly. Do not let the story blind you."
It was the closest thing to absolution Eirik would ever receive. He gave a curt nod, the words too dangerous to acknowledge.
The night before the raid, a hard frost settled over the land. In the Stórbrodir hall, the final feast was a raucous, brutal affair. Eirik sat through it, a specter at the feast, the cheers and songs washing over him like a foul tide.
In the heart of Black Falls, there was no feast. There was only a grim, waiting silence. Astrid stood at the narrow opening of her assigned chamber, a small cell carved into the rock, and looked out at the cold, bright stars. She thought of her quiet croft, now empty. She thought of the loom, the half-finished carving of a seabird she had left behind. A life of peace, now as distant as the moon.
She prayed then, not to Odin for victory or to Thor for strength, but to Frigg, the mother, for mercy. She prayed for the souls of the men who would die tomorrow. She prayed for Eirik. And she prayed for the strength to do her duty, to tend the wounds of the men who sought to kill him, to remain in the world when everything in her screamed to retreat from the horror to come.
The two lovers, separated by fjord and feud, spent the night in a mirror image of solitary vigil. He, surrounded by his people, was utterly alone. She, imprisoned in her father's fortress, was free only in her heart, which belonged to him.
As the first hint of grey touched the eastern sky, the horns of the Stórbrodir sounded, low and mournful across the water. The raid was beginning. The forging was over. The time for the breaking had come.