I pulled the reins, slowing my horse as my eyes scanned the clearing where I had last left Mielda. My chest tightened—she wasn't there. The ground where she should have been stood empty, save for trampled grass and broken twigs. She must've bolted, spooked by something. But where? That was the real question. Finding her in this vast wilderness wouldn't be easy.
I swung down from my saddle, my boots hitting the dirt with a dull thud. The others dismounted as well, their eyes following me as I strode toward a fallen tree near the edge of the clearing. From there, I had a clear view of the abandoned campsite above.
Crouching low, I pressed a hand to the ground, fingers brushing over scattered leaves and upturned soil. A few hoofprints stood out—faint but still visible. Nearby, a fresh pile of droppings confirmed Mielda had been here not long ago.
"She ran," I muttered, tracing the disrupted earth with my fingertips. My eyes followed the prints, leading deeper into the forest. "To… there. She's headed straight into the trees."
Freydis stepped closer, arms crossed. "Then let's go after her," she said, her voice firm. "I hope she's safe."
I let out a slow breath, brushing the dirt from my hands. "I hope so too."
"I'll stay here," Thrainr announced, gripping his horse's reins. "Just in case Ragnar's men regroup at the camp below. If things turn ugly, I'll sound my horn."
I met his gaze and gave him a nod of thanks before turning toward the trail. The prints in the dirt were uneven, scattered. Mielda had been running—fast. At one point, the tracks deepened sharply, a rough indentation in the ground where she had stumbled. She must have tripped over something. I ran a hand over the dirt—no blood. Good. She wasn't hurt, just frightened.
As I pressed forward, Freydis followed close behind, her boots crunching softly against fallen leaves.
"You carry two axes," she noted, her tone almost casual. "Is there a story behind them?"
I kept my eyes on the trail, watching for any signs of disturbance. "One belonged to my father," I said, stepping over a broken branch. "The other—my mother."
She hummed, intrigued. "Oh? They're both alive then?"
I shook my head. "My mother is." A pause. "My father's dead."
She exhaled through her nose. "Hope he's with Odin now." Her voice softened. "How old was he?"
I glanced at her briefly before returning my focus to the ground. "About your age."
Freydis let out a short laugh. "Fifty-four. Surprised I've lasted this long." She kicked a small rock aside, adjusting the leather strap across her chest.
"Why the questions, friend?"
"Just making conversation, that's all. This forest is thick, and yesterday's rain has muddied the ground. Tracking's going to be slow."
I sighed, scanning the blurred trail. "You don't have to stay, you know." I turned slightly, meeting her gaze. "You just reunited with your daughter. You should be with her."
She scoffed. "It's fine. The least I can do after everything."
I studied her for a moment, then simply nodded. "Hmm."
After a few more minutes of silence, I suddenly stopped, lowering to one knee. My brows furrowed as I examined the ground. Another set of footprints. Larger. Heavier. A man's.
The tension in my shoulders tightened. The pattern in the dirt changed here—Mielda's prints were no longer scattered in fear. They had shifted, falling in line with the man's, as if… she had been following him. Or worse—he had taken her.
My fingers curled into a fist.
"Someone else was with her," I said through clenched teeth. "Shit."
Freydis crouched beside me, eyes narrowing. "Yeah, I see it." She pointed at the deep boot prints. "Think he was leading her somewhere safe?"
I let out a slow breath, shaking my head. "Maybe." But doubt gnawed at me. "I don't know."
Freydis rose, brushing dirt from her palms. "Well, whatever it is, let's go find her."
We followed the trails in silence, our steps steady but cautious as we ventured deeper into the forest. The air grew heavier, the thick branches above swallowing the sunlight, casting long, shifting shadows across our path.
"You said your mother was still alive," Freydis murmured, breaking the quiet. "Where is she now?"
"Ireland." My voice came out low. "She sailed there two weeks ago… to sell thralls."
"Ireland, huh?" Freydis let out a wistful sigh. "Always wanted to see that land." She paused, studying me with sharp eyes. "So I assume she doesn't know you were exiled from your clan, Valrik?"
I exhaled through my nose. "No." I veered right, following the trail as it twisted through the undergrowth. "She doesn't."
A stretch of silence passed between us, only broken by the rustling of leaves in the wind. In the distance, a fox yipped, and high above, birds flitted through the branches, their calls sharp and fleeting. Our boots squelched in the mud from the previous day's rain, slowing our pace as the path sloped downward.
I reached for a low-hanging branch, gripping it firmly as I ducked beneath, then stepped over a fallen log. Behind me, Freydis adjusted the bow slung across her back, tilting it so it wouldn't catch on the wood before following my movements with ease.
"I'm surprised," she said as she landed lightly on the other side. "That your clan didn't—well, execute you. Betrayal isn't exactly something taken lightly."
I kept my eyes ahead. "My father founded our clan."
Freydis hummed in understanding. "So out of respect, they let you walk free." She tilted her head. "Lucky, huh? Could've been an axe in your skull instead."
I didn't answer. Instead, I froze. My muscles tensed. "Ssh," I hissed, raising a hand for silence.
Freydis halted beside me. The sound drifted to us—distant, but clear. Voices.
My pulse quickened as I crouched, motioning for her to follow. Moving low, we crept forward, careful to step where the leaves were damp and the twigs would not snap. Each step brought the voices closer, each breath laced with anticipation.
I raised a hand behind me, signaling Freydis to stop. Then, slow and measured, I pushed through a thick patch of brush, peering out.
There. Mielda. But she wasn't alone.
Four men surrounded her—Ragnar's men. Their shields bore his sigil: a raven, flanked by two crossed axes.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath. "Ragnar's men. They're here."
Freydis shifted beside me. "What do we do? Is your horse with them?"
I glanced again. Near a lone hut, the four men stood around Mielda, drinking from flagons of ale, their laughter crude and careless. One of them—a giant of a man with yellowed teeth and filth-caked hands—lifted a meaty palm toward her.
My blood went cold. Without thinking, I rose from my hiding place, axes drawn.
Mielda saw me immediately. A relieved whinny burst from her, and she pushed forward, pressing her nose against my chest. I ran a hand over her mane, steadying her, then took a step forward, placing myself between her and them.
The laughter died. The men turned to face me, eyes narrowing, grips tightening around their weapons.
"Friends," I said, my voice calm despite the heat simmering beneath it. "I hope you didn't harm my horse."
A man sneered. "Valrik the traitor." His grin was all teeth, his hand resting on his sword. "And here we thought today would be boring."
"So that was your horse," another muttered, tilting his head. "I should've guessed. The little shit was terrified of us. Took us long enough to calm her down."
My jaw tightened. "Which hand did you touch her with?" My voice dropped, a slow edge creeping into it. "So I know which one I'll be cutting off."
The hut door creaked open. And then—he emerged.
Ragnar.
His shaved head gleamed under the faint light, his long blonde beard shifting as he stretched his lips into a slow grin. His piercing blue eyes studied me, amusement flickering beneath them. He had always worn that expression—mocking, entertained—but I had seen him turn deadly in an instant. Ragnar was not a man to be underestimated.
And he wasn't my Jarl. No longer my brother-in-arms. Just an obstacle in my way.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, his smile widening. "Valrik… the fucking dog."
I met his gaze. Unflinching. Unmoving. "Ragnar Lothbrok," I said evenly. "We meet again."
His laughter was light, easy, as he placed his hands on his belt. "How dare you show your slimy face," he mused. "After you slew one of my men? I'm just… curious, really."
I tilted my head. "Your man tried to force himself on a mother and her daughter during the raid." My fingers flexed around my axe handle. "We don't do that. We take slaves. We sell them."
"And so you took it upon yourself to punish him?" Ragnar scoffed. "I didn't realize I was speaking to Jarl Ragnar." His smirk deepened. "I thought I was Jarl Ragnar."
I let my own smirk form. "And I didn't realize I was speaking to a Jarl either, Ragnar. What a coincidence."
The mirth in his face faded. His expression darkened as he took two slow steps forward, stopping just shy of my space.
Our gazes locked. I did not move.
Ragnar studied me for a moment. Then, suddenly, he smiled again, nodding as if in approval.
"They say you are fearless," he murmured. "Shall we put that to the test?"
My fingers curled tighter around my weapons. "How?"
His grin widened. "I challenge you to holmgang, Valrik of Nothing. You and—"
Before he could finish, I met his challenge. "I accept."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. "Perfect." He clapped his hands once. "Let's have it, then."
He took several steps back, unsheathing his axe, rolling his shoulders as he settled into a battle stance.
I exhaled, lowering into my own, my axe steady in my grasp, its blade gleaming in the dim forest light.
The fight was coming.
And I would not fall.
"Freydis," I muttered. "Take Mielda and get her out of here."
She stepped out from behind the bushes, took the reins, and stood silently behind me. Though I couldn't see her, I could feel her unease… and I knew it was because of Ragnar. I felt it too. He wasn't a man to be taken lightly.