Chapter 3: The Wedding Night
The guest quarters were small, the air thick with the smell of old pine and waiting. Furs heaped deep on the pallet. A bronze-bellied brazier glowed in the center, coals banked deep, its iron legs splayed like claws.
Jögr stopped at the threshold. His hand rested on the lintel, barring the way not with force, but with presence.
Runa waited for him to push past. To claim. To finish what the iron band had started.
He stepped back instead.
“The alliance is sealed,” he said. His voice was low, stripping the command from the air. “Nothing else need be until you choose it.”
Her throat worked. She had armored herself for force, for taking, for duty. His restraint left her weaponless.
“You would leave it unconsummated? Risk your men calling it false?”
Something shifted in his pale eyes. “Let them. I’ve killed men for less.”
He inclined his head—a warrior acknowledging another. “Sleep well, little shield-maiden.”
He turned and strode back toward the main hall, where the fire-pit smoldered and his warriors slept.
Runa lingered in the doorway. Her fingers found the iron band. Cold and heavy. Still foreign. It bit when she pressed it, testing whether it could bruise her into truth.
Inside the barrow, she sat on the bed’s edge. Stared into the brazier’s glow. The day had prepared her for violation. It had not prepared her for silence.
The hall’s slow settling came through the stone: wood easing, embers sighing. Men’s breath deepening in the distance. But not his breath. That absence pressed against her ribs.
Nothing else need be until you choose it.
The choice was a burden. If she stayed, the marriage was a sham. His men would not tolerate it. Varngard would be unsafe.
If she went to him, she would be his wife.
He’s too big. Too strange. I should hate him.
But her body betrayed her.
At last, she rose. Barefoot. The cold stone bit her feet. The latch gave softly.
The main hall was a cavern of shadows. Men lay tangled in furs, snoring in rhythm with the draft. She saw him immediately. Lying near the high seat, wrapped in a wolf-skin. Vast. Unmistakable. His stillness heavier than any man’s.
Runa stood over him. Heart hammering.
She knelt. Touched his shoulder.
His eyes opened instantly. Pale. Clear. A predator’s waking. He did not flinch; he only reached for her hand.
“Runa,” he said. Rough with the edge of dawn.
Her throat tightened. “I do not like debts,” she whispered. “And I do not like silence.”
His gaze held hers. Searching. His thumb found the pulse frantic in her wrist. He rose—soundless and towering—and led her back to the darkness of the guest chamber.
He closed the door with deliberate care. Even silence could be a witness.
