Location: Castle Brannhold, Capital of the County of Oslo, Midgard Time: Late Evening - Day 15
The fire in the hearth had burned low, reduced to embers that crackled softly in the silence of the chamber. The tall windows of Castle Brannhold stood open, letting in the chill night air. Heavy drapes stirred with each breeze, and shadows danced across the marble floor like restless spirits.
Countess Elira of House Galdwyn, widow of Lord Henrik, sat alone in the high-backed chair beside her desk, a half-finished goblet of wine in her hand and a fur-lined shawl draped over her shoulders. Auburn hair spilled over one shoulder in long, loose waves, and her green eyes were distant — unfocused, yet sharp beneath the calm surface.
Before her lay a spread of parchment — reports, ledgers, letters, each one a fresh reminder of what the world demanded.
She didn't read them anymore. Not tonight.
A soft knock broke the silence.
"Come," she said, voice quiet but clear.
Her steward entered — Maelor, an aging man with a slight stoop and eyes that rarely blinked. He bowed quickly.
"My lady," he said. "There are matters you should see before morning. The trade guilds in Arensgate have refused new levies again. And another rider from Midgard came demanding overdue grain payments."
"Let him wait outside with the wind," Elira said, not moving.
Maelor hesitated. "If I may, Countess… the boy wore Midgard red. He wasn't a messenger. He was a warning."
Elira's lips tightened.
"And?"
"Perhaps you might reconsider attending Lord Hareth's feast next week. It's said the king's nephew will be there."
Elira rose slowly, setting her goblet aside. She crossed to the window and looked out over her domain — the sleeping rooftops of Oslo's capital city, its river winding like silver through the valley below.
"I'm not a child to be married off again, Maelor," she said, softly but firmly. "And I won't barter my daughter's inheritance for a smile from Midgard's court."
The old steward bowed his head. "Of course, my lady."
"You may go."
He lingered a second too long, then stepped out. The door closed with a soft click.
Elira let the silence settle again.
The burden never did.
Her Daughter's Room
Elira walked through the upper halls barefoot, her steps quiet over the polished stone. The guards bowed as she passed, but she barely noticed them. Her silk nightrobe clung to her curvy hourglass but toned figure, loosely belted at the waist, flowing behind her like smoke.
She entered a small room at the far end of the east wing, where warm tapestries hung on the walls and stuffed animals sat in a basket near the bed.
Little Annarella, four years old, lay curled beneath a blanket with a stitched swan across the hem. Her breathing was soft and steady.
Elira approached quietly, kneeling beside the bed.
She reached out, brushing a lock of soft red hair from the girl's brow.
The child stirred faintly, murmuring in her sleep.
"I'm here," Elira whispered.
She sat there in silence for a long moment, hand stroking her daughter's hair gently, fingers trailing the softness of childhood innocence.
It was in these quiet moments that her walls cracked — that the mask of command gave way to the woman beneath. Not the widow, not the countess, not the noble pawn in Midgard's succession games — just a mother, afraid in a world that circled like wolves.
Her fingers paused.
A memory rose.
Unbidden.
Flashback – One Week Ago
It had been late. The council chamber had emptied hours ago, and the long fire had burned low. She had remained behind, reviewing letters — and he had entered without knocking.
Lord Dain, her brother-in-law. Her late husband's younger brother. Tall, lean, handsome in a predatory sort of way — with eyes like pale knives and a smile that had never reached his soul. He looked nothing like his late elder brother.
He stank faintly of wine and confidence.
"You should rest, Elira," he'd said, sauntering toward the table. "You work too hard for a place that does not love you half as much as it fears you."
She didn't look up. "What do you want, Dain?"
He chuckled. "Always so cold. Henrik used to say the only fire in you was the one you never let out."
"Henrik said many things," she said, still not looking at him.
"And now he's dead," Dain said, tone softening just enough to be dangerous. "And here you are, alone. Ruling in his stead. Raising a girl who will never be safe without... guidance."
She had finally looked up then, and his smile had widened.
"I'm offering to help you, Elira. Keep the council in line. Handle the court's whispering. Even... ease the pressure from Midgard."
"You'd be content as regent?" she asked, voice cool.
He leaned closer. "I'd be content as husband."
There was a beat of silence. Her face didn't move.
"And if I refuse?"
Dain's smile didn't falter. "Then perhaps the wrong voices will reach the king's ear. Whispers about a widow unable and unfit to rule. About a female child ruler in need of a better regent . About a noblewoman in need of replacement."
She had stood then, slowly, with quiet dignity.
"And you think you are that needed replacement?" she questioned.
He smiled "My brother should never have named you regent, It was our father's throne and I was supposed to be next in line" he replied.
"Perhaps he thought you unfit to rule, going as far as naming me regent" she fired back.
"What does that have to say about you" she continued smiling up at him.
Drawing closer to her, He trailed his fingers down the left side of her face which she barely reacted to.
"Doesn't matter, You and I both know it's only a matter of time"
"And time, my dearest Elira isn't a luxury you can afford."
"Sooner or later you would be mine, both of you" he finished.
He had left laughing.
But she hadn't slept that night.
Now – A Promise
Elira brushed her hand along Annarella's back gently, grounding herself again in the warm present.
The child's breathing was steady.
So fragile.
So innocent.
So dangerously valuable.
Elira leaned down and pressed a kiss to her daughter's forehead.
"I will keep you safe," she whispered. "You won't be bought or used. You'll grow up in the sun, not the shadows."
She closed her eyes.
"No man will touch your crown without bleeding for it."
The wind rustled the curtains softly, the castle quiet around them. Far below, in the blackened lands beyond the valley, she knew vultures circled — wearing crests instead of feathers.
She wouldn't let them take what was hers.
Not Dain.
Not Midgard.
Not anyone.