Not even a week had passed, and he was already wreaking havoc throughout the palace.

My parents had summoned my stepbrother from miles east of Nyreas to "babysit" me while they sailed off on yet another overseas vacation—as if they needed one. All they ever did was sit around looking perfect and call it ruling a kingdom. No wonder Nyreas hadn't seen any real progress in years.

I'd never met my stepbrother before. Never even heard his name spoken or whispered. I didn't know he existed until two days ago, when he showed up at the palace gates wearing clothes so atrocious that no royalty would be caught wearing them, along with dark shades in the middle of winter. Hard to believe he was related to us. Everything about him felt wrong.

Desmond was the most deceitful creature I'd ever encountered, and I'd grown up in a palace full of courtiers. What kind of royalty can't even maintain their appearance? My parents were obsessed with image, yet they'd brought this thing into our home and expected him to watch over me when he couldn't even take care of himself.

Except he didn't watch me at all—that much became clear immediately. The man paid me no attention whatsoever. I snuck out twice in one day, walked right past him in the corridor, and he didn't even glance up. Before Desmond arrived, I'd managed to escape exactly once while my parents were home—it lasted five minutes before the guards dragged me back from less than halfway across the front courtyard. But the whole atmosphere of the palace shifted the moment he stepped through those gates. Servants whispered in corners and fell silent when I passed.

On the fifth night, I woke to voices outside my door. The darkness in my room felt heavier than usual. Something was wrong—I knew it instantly. That primal instinct that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Through the heavy wooden door, I could hear Desmond's low murmur, his distinctive gravelly tone unmistakable, and other voices I didn't recognize. Unfamiliar voices. As quietly as I could, my bare feet silent on the cold floors, and pressed my ear to the wood, heart hammering.

"I've dealt with the parents. I'm certain they won't return."

"The girl?" the stranger asked.

"Soon," Desmond replied.

My heart stopped. What did he do to my parents? Whatever it was, I didn't want to stick around to meet the same fate. I didn't pack. Didn't leave a note. I grabbed my cloak, climbed out of my window using the rose trellis, and ran.

"Please, he's going to kill me." My voice cracked as I begged them to let me through. The head guard signaled the others to back down and unlocked the gate. I slipped through the opening, then shot him a glance, silently thanking him.

I ran north, toward the lands I'd only heard stories about—the Vikings' lands, where my fate might be worse than if I'd stayed at the palace. I couldn't bring myself to care. Whatever Desmond planned for me, I knew one thing:

I will not let my family's name be erased from the books this easily.

Death had finally caught up with me, as I knew it would sooner or later. I'd run from it only to end up in its den—bleeding out in the snowy forbidden lands after fleeing my kingdom. I'd escaped Nyreas, North to Viking territory, where they despised trespassers. I was sure they'd take my head when I collapsed into a nearby barren bush, trying to catch my breath, which I believe would be my last. I heaved, my hand over my heart, trying to steady the pounding. A shadow loomed over me—a man with a sword. A Viking. Bracing for the killing blow, I closed my eyes. Then he spoke in some language I'd never heard before, his tone dripping with disdain.

"ᚹᛖᛚᛚ, ᚹᚺᚨᛏ ᚹᛖ ᚺᚨᚡᛖ ᚺᛖᚱᛖ, ᚨᚾ ᛁᚾᛃᚢᚱᛖᛞ ᛒᚢᚾᚾᚤ, ᚺᚢᚺ? ᛋᚺᛟᚢᛚᛞ ᛁ ᛃᚢᛋᛏ ᛋᚴᛁᚾ ᚤᛟᚢ ᚺᛖᚱᛖ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚠᛖᛖᛞ ᚤᛟᚢ ᛏᛟ ᛗᚤ ᚹᛟᛚᚡᛖᛋ?"

I guessed it was something they said to everyone before cutting their head off.

"Pardon? I don't understand," I muttered, looking up at the tall, hooded figure.

The Viking tilted his head, a dark smirk playing on his lips as he studied me. Snowflakes caught in my lashes. I looked down and saw his grip tighten on the hilt of his sword. I flinched.

He crouched down, close enough to reveal more than a glimpse of the face underneath. "Bleeding in the snow. Why shouldn't I let the wolves decide her fate?" he echoed in rough, accented Common Tongue. I could make out his icy eyes flickering, then narrowing. My mouth opened to speak, but I sensed it was rhetorical.

"So, you speak English... Could you repeat what you said before?"

His breath curled in a frosty cloud as he chuckled low. "You shouldn't worry about that. I'm still deciding whether to patch you up or peel that skin off for a new fur lining." His gaze dropped to my wound, then snapped back up, colder now. "Answer fast. My patience runs thinner than the ice you're bleeding on."

I cleared my throat, ignoring the threat. "Well, I suppose helping me would be the moral thing to do. You don't seem like a bad person. If I squint, that is." I couldn't help but add.

"I don't do nice. I fight and kill," he growled. Suddenly, he stood, his face hardened. "I'll play knight for a heartbeat, little bunny. Who's after you?"

"Vikings."

The man froze. Then a dark, rumbling laugh tore from his chest, echoing across the frozen forest. "Vikings? Look around—you're bleeding out in Viking territory, talking to one." He shook his head, letting out a sigh that was more amused than frustrated. "Up. Before I change my mind."

With a swift motion, he slung his sword over his back and stood. I was mostly at a loss for words. Did fate really defy the odds and let me live today? I tried to stand, almost completely forgetting about my wounded leg. He raised a brow as I swayed—blood loss catching up—but I stayed upright, nonetheless.

"Stubborn," he muttered. Without asking, he gripped my arm, steadying me—his touch firm but not cruel. His voice dropped near my ear. "Tell me why I shouldn't throw you back to the wolves and be done with this."

I was grateful I could hold onto him because I could feel my control slipping. "Because you haven't yet," I replied. "You're being awfully generous, considering you didn't take much convincing."

"You're far too trusting," he chided, his voice a gruff rumble. "For all you know, I could be luring you into an even worse fate."

I just sighed. "That wouldn't be the worst thing in my life, I'm afraid." Even I heard the melodrama dripping from my words.

"You have a habit of talking too much," he remarked, though his grip on me tightened almost imperceptibly. "How bad are those injuries?"

"I'll manage." An obvious lie—I was bleeding everywhere, my once perfect, unblemished skin now bruised and wounded.

Erik let out a low, disbelieving grunt. He crouched slightly, not asking permission. In one swift motion, he scooped me up into his arms—his fur rough against my skin, his strength undeniable.

"Hold still," he ordered, "or I'll drop you just to prove a point."

I was embarrassed to be carried like an infant, but I held my tongue. I was in no position to complain.

The Viking navigated the snowy landscape with ease, his long strides eating up the terrain. I was pressed against the warmth of his body, the solid strength of his build, the rhythm of his steady breaths. After what felt like an eternity, a looming silhouette appeared in the distance, which was a stone stronghold perched atop a mountain. We didn't exchange a single word while climbing those long stairs that seemed to stretch for miles, and he didn't even break a sweat. As we neared the entrance—a towering, rough-hewn archway framed by massive wooden doors—voices rang out, the majority sounding deep and loud. A few Vikings stood watch, clad in snow-dusted cloaks and gripping axes. They regarded me warily, eyes narrowing at the sight of me in his arms.

"What's this?" one asked, stepping forward.

For a moment, the man's grip on me tightened. I tried to draw as little attention as possible, but it was of no use.

His voice was low and calculated. "Found her on the edge of our land. Bled out, half-dead."

The Viking's eyes flicked to me, then back to him. Suspicion spread across his face. I began to wonder if this man had brought me to a worse fate. "Why bring her here?"

"She's wounded, not useless," he said, a subtle challenge in his tone. "And she talks less than you. Almost." I tried to keep a straight face, looking away as soon as his eyes flicked down to glance at me.

A few chuckles rose from the group as the other Viking's face flushed slightly.

"You're going soft, Erik."

Erik's face darkened, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Careful, Bjorn."

The two men locked gazes. The tension stretched like a taut bowstring until Bjorn broke the stare, clearing his throat. His name was Erik, and the man who'd just spoken to him was Bjorn. I tried not to stare too long at his hair—an interesting choice of style indeed, nothing like what I'd seen back at home.

"Alright, alright," the other man grunted. "But the Jarl won't be pleased."

Erik merely nodded. With that, he pushed through the massive doors, continuing deeper into the stronghold. The interior was a world of rough-hewn stone and warm, flickering torchlight. The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke, and echoes of laughter and conversation reverberated off the walls. As we passed through the corridor, curious stares followed us, accompanied by murmurs in their tongue. I was clearly the topic of interest.

Finally, Erik shouldered open a door leading into a larger room—an infirmary. Practically empty. There were six beds total, then I noticed someone's feet poking out from the second bed down to the left. Not as empty as I thought. Carefully, he set me down on a bed of furs. The room was well-stocked with bandages, salves, and various medical supplies neatly organized on shelves.

"Stay still," he ordered, pulling off his gloves. "I need to see the damage."

He knelt beside the bed, moving with surprising delicacy as he assessed my injuries, his fingers prodding at my wound—a deep gash trailing down the side of my right thigh. The silence in the room grew awkward, so I cleared my throat. "So, what is your name, if I get the pleasure of knowing?" Although I had found out earlier, it was only proper that I do the pleasantries directly to him.

He paused midway through cleaning minor scratches and cuts, fixing me with a look as if I'd just asked something absurd. "You're bleeding out in my infirmary, and you want my name?" He retorted, his tone a blend of annoyance and amusement. I stayed silent. After a moment, his expression softened slightly. "Erik. Erik Styransson." He continued his task, wrapping my thigh to hold the bleeding for the time being and securing it with a firm tug. "And yours?"

I cleared my throat and, with practiced ease, spoke. "Princess Marielle Estelle Ndarli XII of Nyreas." I couldn't help but feel that tinge of pride that always lingered when I said it on a normal basis.

Erik froze; his hands stilled on the bandage. His ice-blue eyes lifted to meet mine. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the distant hearth and the wind's howl beyond the stone walls.

"Princess?" he repeated, voice dangerously low. "Of Nyrean blood?" He leaned in, studying my face, my clothes, and the gold royal crest ring on my right ring finger. Then he grabbed my wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I flinched.

"If anyone finds out who you are," his voice dropped, "they'll carve your heart out before dawn. And I won't be able to stop them."

He released my wrist. "...So, forget your title while you're here."

My eyes widened, and then I couldn't help but let out a chuckle. The words spilled out before I could stop them—how I wasn't exactly a princess anymore, how I'd run from my kingdom to save my own life, how my stepbrother nearly ended my bloodline. "...He didn't spare anyone," I said nonchalantly, as if the realization didn't hurt. I had no clue as to why I was sharing my life story with this stranger; the weight of life had all been pressing down on me since I had run to this place. "I'm the only one remaining in the actual royal bloodline now." Erik just stared at me, as if trying to peel back the layers of my words. The laugh probably unsettled him. I should've been weeping, begging, or lying through clenched teeth. But I laughed. Who could blame me? There was no hope of survival from the start. I was shocked I'd made it out of the woods at all.

He stood abruptly, pacing one short turn. "So, your stepbrother slaughters your family..." He glanced back at me. "...and you run straight into my lands? The most forbidden stretch from sea to mountain?" Suddenly, he stopped and practically laughed to himself, a low, breathy sound.

"Fate doesn't hand me princesses," he said. "It throws fools into my path and dares me not to kill them." He paused for a second too long and turned to face me. "Just get rid of the ring."

We fell into another awkward silence. The flickering torchlight danced across his features, casting shadows on his sharp jaw and brow. This habit of utter silence between us had to stop—it was too uncomfortable for my liking.

I opened my mouth to break the silence.

"Rest. Try not to bleed out before morning." He interrupted, pushing off his knees and turning toward the door. He glanced back. "Don't be too charming tomorrow. I might start believing you're worth protecting."

"You—" I was about to speak, then the doorclosed softly. "—think I'm charming?" I mumbled under my breath, then sighed.

Erik had made me change out of my silk and into a tunic and woolen trousers. The tunic hung loose on my frame, sleeves too long, trousers cinched awkwardly at the waist. I’d never let anything so abominable touch my skin—nor did I plan on it—until today. He told me today I was supposed to learn how to be a nobody, which part of me dreaded. But I reassured myself: it was the only way I was going to stay alive.

Vikings walked along the path carrying their weapons. Women tended fires and worked with leather, while children darted through the streets, some moving in the same direction. Erik spoke up. “The healers’ den. You’re no warrior... so you learn to mend instead of bleed.” He turned to me suddenly. “And fair warning—don’t say anything that sounds remotely royal.”

“If the healers require assistance, then it is only proper—” I bit my tongue, fumbling for something plainer. “—it’s polite that I lend my hands.” But the phrasing still carried the echo of marble halls, no matter how desperately I tried to dim it down.

“Lend your hands,” Erik repeated, voice coldly mocking. “How noble. Your highborn hands—which’ve likely never held anything heavier than a wine goblet—are ever so generous.” I stared at him in disbelief. He was practically insulting me to my face. I held myself back from saying something I’d regret.

The healers’ den was a stark contrast to the stronghold I had first been in. Soft light filtered through woven rush screens, catching the scent of crushed herbs and pine needles. Plants hung from clay-lined walls, and furs were scattered along smooth wood planks. Simple but neat—wooden shelves lined with herbs, rolls of fresh linen, and jars of salves. A stooped elderly woman with dark braided loc'd hair and silver streaks caused by age, glanced up, then froze at the sight of me. A younger woman, looking around my age with sharp eyes, looked up as well when I entered behind Erik.

“Morning, Erik—” the elderly woman started, then stopped. “By Odin’s beard,” she breathed, surprise heavy in her voice. “Who’s this?”

Erik stepped slightly in front of me—just enough to shield me from the full weight of their stares. “A stray,” he said, voice casual but firm. “Nearly bled out in the snow. Needs work, not questions.”

The old healer narrowed her eyes, studying my features. “Strays bring trouble,” she muttered, “especially pretty ones.”

The younger woman I’d noticed earlier snorted from across the room. “Looks like she’s never lifted a cauldron in her life.”

I didn’t rise to the comment. It was true. But sometime during the walk from the stronghold to the healers’ den, I realized—maybe I did care about my life, especially since I had no idea what brutal punishment awaited me if and when they discovered I was a Nyrean princess.

Erik reached back without looking and handed me a bundle of dried yarrow tied with twine.

“Start with sorting herbs,” he ordered. “Don’t crush them. Don’t smell them. And don’t talk unless spoken to.”

I glanced at the bundle and let him drop it in my hands, observing it a bit too intensely to avoid looking at him directly. However, he wasn’t the only pair of eyes that burned through my skin. The eyes of the young woman who’d commented earlier never stopped following me as I worked. The healer, though, studied Erik almost in disbelief. “Erik.” Her voice was soft but firm. “Can I speak with you in private?”

With a nod, he turned and followed the healer into the next room.

Without Erik, I couldn’t shake the nervous, vulnerable feeling inside me. It was mostly silent besides the sound of that young woman stirring a salve like she wanted to murder it while staring at me.

“You’re quiet,” she said suddenly—accusatory, “Too quiet. What are you hiding?”

I didn’t look up. Just kept sorting—yarrow here, feverfew there. My fingers are careful not to crush the brittle leaves.

“Maybe she’s dumb,” she mused aloud, “or just scared stiff.” She stepped closer, boots loud on the wooden floor. “Or maybe,” she leaned in slightly, “she’s one of those southern nobles.”

I stayed still, my breath betraying me anyway as it quickened slightly beneath my ribs. Then a soft click as the door opened from across. Erik returned first; his presence filled the space instantly.

“Astrid.” His voice was low—a warning in two syllables. “Stop pestering my patient.”

Astrid, the younger woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, straightened but didn’t back down entirely. “Just asking questions is all.”

"I already said she doesn't need questions.” He moved past her and stopped beside me, close enough that his shadow fell over my hands. “Keep working. And stop sorting so perfectly,” he paused, observing for a couple of seconds more before continuing. “Be... messier,” he murmured.

I nodded, trying to ignore the tremble that ran through me. He was too close, his voice a soft rumble that made my hands unsteady. I fumbled the herbs just slightly. A stray leaf slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor. Then he stood abruptly.

“Astrid.” Cold. Commanding. “Show her how to grind mallow root. And stop acting as if you’ve never seen a woman before.”

I managed to look up. Astrid let out a huff as she moved toward me. Erik was already at the door. He took one look at me, then turned and left. As soon as he left, Astrid’s gaze shifted to me. Great.

“So,” she said, too casually, “where are you from?”

It was no surprise that I couldn’t say Nyreas, so I kept it vague. “Oh, I’m not from around here.” It was the first thing I’d spoken since I’d arrived in the healers’ den.

Astrid smirked. “Not from around,” she repeated mockingly, continuing to stir slowly. “How about a name then?”

“Marielle,” I answered, dropping the titles and all the other details Erik had told me to exclude.

Astrid paused; her stirring of the mallow root slowed. “Marielle,” she repeated, testing the name like foreign metal on her tongue. “Never heard it before. Sounds soft. Southern.” She leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. “You’re not one of those perfumed nobles who bathe in wine and cry at sunsets... are you?”

Before I could answer, she jabbed a finger toward my hands. “Real commoners have calluses,” she sneered. “You don’t look like you’ve ever worked a day in your life.”

I was speechless. I’d never been accused like this before in my life. How was I supposed to reply?

“I grew up on an island,” I replied. It was the quickest lie I could think of, though it made no sense.

Astrid’s eyes narrowed—but before she could press further, the healer’s voice cut in from across the room. “Leave her be, Astrid. If Erik vouched for her, she stays.”

Astrid huffed but obeyed, turning from her station, wandering elsewhere.

I sighed. Hopefully, the lie would keep me alive a little longer.

Across the room, I watched the healer begin sorting through a mountain of fresh herbs—wild yarrow and chamomile, the likes of which I’d never seen until now. I pushed myself up from the stool. The pain from yesterday’s injury—when I’d been bleeding out in the snow—surged through my right thigh and down my leg, hitting me like a hard wave. Wincing, I shifted to my good leg, making my way to pick the next bundle when I caught the sound of Astrid’s voice ascending the stairs from what seemed like a basement. She snorted, talking to another worker.

“Don’t tell me it’s because he pities her,” she said. “The man has as much mercy as a bear with a thorn in its paw.”

“Maybe he keeps her as a plaything.” She added. I was just as surprised to hear that as the other two workers. The healer’s head snapped up from sorting, scowling. “Watch your tongue, apprentice.”

Then, one of the other workers spoke up. “Oh, please, Astrid, we all know you’re jealous because Erik wouldn’t ever give you a second glance.”

Astrid shot to her feet, face flushing. “I am not jealous!” The mortar clattered as she slammed it down. “You think I care if he brings in some strange-eyed girl?” She spat the words like venom, my heart skipped, in a not-so-delightful way. “He’s never looked at me like—” She cut herself off abruptly, “...He doesn’t look at anyone like that.”

Astrid stewed in silence, glaring at the worker with obvious resentment until the healer’s voice cut in again. “That’s enough gossiping for one day,” she said briskly. “The salve won’t mix itself. And if you’re quite done sulking, Astrid...” she nodded toward the door. “There are frost fever patients in the west longhouse who need your attention.”

With a grumble, Astrid grabbed a basket and stalked out. The moment the door shut, the other worker let out a sigh.

“Sorry for her. She gets like this when—”

“When she’s jealous,” the old healer finished, shaking her head. “I’ve tried to steer her in a different direction for years, but some people are as stubborn as goats...” She moved back to her table, sorting herbs.

The other worker smiled over at me. “Ignore Astrid,” she reassured. “She’s the best healer here, just... not the warmest company.” The worker chuckled, a warm sound.

“Name’s Livi,” she said with a wink. “Short for Olivia. Not that anyone remembers anymore.”

I smiled at Olivia. “Pleasure meeting you, Livi. I’m—”

“Marielle, was it! Yeah, I know. Soon everyone will! Word gets by pretty fast ‘round here!” Olivia handed me a pestle, motioning to the mortar. “Time to test those grinding skills. I need three scoops before sundown, or old Halla here will have my head.”

I leaned over the mortar, rolling up my sleeves, focusing on the herbs in front of me once again as Olivia explained. “Now watch carefully. Too much of this—” she added a pinch to the paste, “—your patient gets stomach cramps. Too little—” she stirred carefully, “—your patient survives without any pain relief whatsoever.”

I copied what Olivia was doing, mimicking her technique with my own paste. By noon, she’d successfully taught me how not to accidentally poison someone.