ASTRID’S POV

Letting Ragnar go felt to me like I had signed my own death warrant.

The first week passed quietly. I kept to our chambers as much as possible, venturing out only for meals and the occasional walk in the gardens.

Lady Signy visited me daily, bringing news from court and offering companionship that helped keep the loneliness at bay.

Lord Erik checked on me regularly, his presence a reminder that I wasn’t completely without allies.

But I could feel the walls closing in. Harald’s supporters grew bolder in their treatment of me, making cutting remarks and subtle threats that let me know my position was precarious.

The king himself maintained a facade of courtesy, but I could see the anticipation in his pale eyes whenever our paths crossed.

He was waiting for something. Planning something. I just didn’t know what.

Ten days after Ragnar’s departure. I was in the gardens, tending to a small herb patch I had started, when I heard footsteps approaching.

I looked up expecting to see one of the gardeners, but instead found myself facing four men in the king’s colors.

“Lady Astrid,” their leader said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “His Majesty requests your presence in the throne room.”

Something in his tone made my blood run cold. This wasn’t a polite request – it was an order backed by force. I could see the hands resting on sword hilts, could read the intent in their faces.

“Of course,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Let me just gather my things.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the leader said. “His Majesty is most eager to speak with you.”

They formed a loose circle around me as we walked back toward the castle, close enough to prevent escape but far enough away to maintain the illusion that this was voluntary.

I searched the faces of the servants and courtiers we passed, looking for someone who might help or at least bear witness to what was happening.

But their eyes slid away from mine, and I realized with growing horror that this wasn’t spontaneous. This had been planned, coordinated, arranged so that there would be no inconvenient witnesses to whatever was about to happen.

The throne room was empty except for Harald himself, sitting on his carved wooden chair like a spider in the center of his web.

He smiled when he saw me, but it was the smile of a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

“Astrid,” he said warmly. “How good of you to come so quickly.”

“You summoned me, Your Majesty,” I replied, proud that my voice didn’t shake.

“Indeed I did. You see, I’ve been thinking about our last conversation, about the unfortunate misunderstanding that occurred between us. I’ve decided to give you another chance to reconsider my generous offer.”

“My answer hasn’t changed,” I said firmly.

“Hasn’t it?” His smile widened. “Perhaps you should think more carefully about your position. Your husband is gone, possibly for months. Your protectors are few and far between. And I… well, I have certain information that might interest you.”

He gestured to one of his men, who stepped forward carrying a leather satchel.

From it, he withdrew a piece of parchment that he handed to the king.

“This is a report from the northern borders,” Harald said, unfolding the document. “It seems there was a terrible accident during the campaign. An ambush by raiders, several casualties among the royal forces. Including, I’m afraid, your husband.”

The words hit me like physical blows. “You’re lying.”

“Am I? The report is quite detailed. Ragnar Thornegrim, Jarl of the Northern Shores, killed in the service of his king. Quite heroic, really. He’ll be remembered as a loyal servant of the realm.”

I stared at the parchment in his hands, trying to process what he was telling me.

It couldn’t be true. Ragnar was too strong, too clever, too experienced to be killed by simple raiders.

But the triumphant gleam in Harald’s eyes told me that whether or not the report was true, he believed it. Or at least, he believed he could make it true.

“So you see,” he continued, “your situation has changed rather dramatically. You’re now a widow, alone and unprotected at court. Fortunately, Jarl Eriksson is still very much interested in making you his wife. I suggest you accept his proposal with gratitude.”

“No,” I whispered, then louder, “No. I don’t believe you. Ragnar isn’t dead.”

“Believe what you like,” Harald said with a shrug. “It won’t change the reality of your situation. You have two choices, my dear – marry Eriksson and enjoy his protection, or find yourself facing much less pleasant alternatives.”

Before I could respond, the guards stepped closer, their hands now openly on their weapons. The illusion of choice was gone, replaced by naked threat.

I was trapped, just as Harald had always planned. And somewhere in the northern wilderness, Ragnar was either dead or fighting for his life, unaware that the woman he loved was about to disappear forever.