“I’m sorry.” She said quietly, her voice hoarse.
“What fer?”
“Fer… fallin’ apart like that. Fer cryin’ all over ye and?—”
“Dinnae apologize fer lettin’ me see ye.”
“I got snot on yer shirt.”
“Aye, well.” His mouth curved—she could hear it in his voice. “I’ve been covered in worse things.”
“Still.” She traced an idle pattern on his chest, feeling grateful and spent all at once, her fingers following the line of a seam. “I shouldnae have?—”
He shifted slightly, letting her settle more firmly against him. She tilted her head back, meeting those impossibly blue eyes.
“I dinnae mind,” he said simply, softly, his voice carrying a note she’d never heard before. “Nae a bit. In fact,” he paused, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Nae at all. Nae if it means I get tae stand beside ye, share me life wi’ ye.”
Her throat tightened with fresh tears.
“I dinnae ken what tae say tae that.”
“Ye dinnae have tae say anythin’.” His thumb caught a tear before it could fall. “All ye have tae dae is stay.”
“Aye,” she whispered, pressing her palm flat over his heart, feeling the beat beneath her fingers. “I’ll stay.”
“Fer now,” he said quietly, “that’s enough.”
Outside their chamber, the wind howled against the castle walls as winter tightened its grip on Uist.
Despite being wrapped in his arms, Isolda didn’t know whether she could trust him not to vanish. But she let herself be held, let herself feel warm, and let herself feel chosen.
Then, the window exploded inward.
Isolda screamed, instinct driving her against Ragnar’s chest as something massive and black hurtled through the glass in a shower of glittering fragments. Wings beat frantically, filling the chamber with harsh cries and the smell of feathers and ice.
“Odin’s blood,” Ragnar breathed.
It was a raven—huge and midnight dark, careening off the far wall before finding the broken window again and disappearing into the grey morning with one final shriek that raised every hair on her arms.
They stood frozen, hearts pounding in unison, glass scattered across the floor like scattered diamonds. The wind howled through the broken pane, carrying the sharp bite of the sea and something else—something that made the air taste like copper and ash.
Then they heard it. Shouting—distant but growing louder, more urgent. Men’s voices raised in alarm, in warning.
Ragnar’s hands tightened on her for one heartbeat, protective and possessive—then he released her and spun toward the door, already moving. “Stay here.”
“What’s happenin’—”
“Stayhere.” He grabbed his sword from where it leaned against the wall, the blade singing as it left the scabbard. “Bolt the door behind me and dinnae open it fer anyone but me or Freyr. D’ye understand?”
The command in his voice, the raw authority—left no room for argument.
“Aye.”
He paused in the doorway, looking back at her with something fierce and desperate burning in his eyes. “This isnae finished, little wolf.”
“I’m countin’ on it.”
Then he was gone, his boots echoing down the corridor at a dead run.
Isolda moved to the broken window on trembling legs, her hands gripping the cold stone sill as she peered out into the courtyard below.
Men were running, pointing, shouting orders she couldn’t quite make out over the roar of wind through the broken glass. Ragnar burst into view, sword in hand, barking commands that sent warriors scattering in different directions.
And in the distance, rising from the village like a dark promise against the grey sky—smoke.
