Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
4 weeks after the wedding
Each day felt like a dreary repeat for Yvette, draining the purpose from her life. Was she meant to be tied to this pagan? This was her divine mission? To preach her faith among these heathens? Why had her god forsaken her here?
As she pushed the door open to their home, the sweet scent that greeted her unexpectedly softened her scowl. Hvitserk was home, and undoubtedly indulging in some treat; for a fleeting moment, Yvette felt a pang of fondness, acknowledging his insatiable appetite was something predictably comforting.
"So, sweets before noon now?" Her voice carried a mix of scorn and a forced smile as she approached Hvitserk, who was messily devouring a pastry.
"Would you like some? The baker's daughters made them especially for me," he offered, his tone laced with a hint of challenge.
Yvette rolled her eyes, but this time it was laced with a bitter playfulness. "Of course they did, my husband. They're vying for your attention."
Hvitserk chuckled, his gaze lingering on her as she shrugged off her cloak. "Well, it's not like I'm sharing a bed with my wife," he retorted, the words dripping with an undercurrent of resentment.
Yvette spun around, a steaming pot of water in hand for her tea, her voice seething, "Of course you have to seek pleasure elsewhere, don't you?"
Hvitserk watched her, his eyes cold, and let out a heavy sigh. "I have to tell you something."
Yvette settled across from him, her tea clutched like a shield, "What?" she snapped.
"We're raiding tomorrow."
The words hit Yvette like a physical blow, bile rising in her throat. Images of bloodshed, of innocent lives snuffed out for mere greed, flashed before her eyes. Gold, was that all they sought? She could offer them wealth, but she knew, deep down, their thirst was for something darker, something that no amount of gold could sate. The thrill of violence was their true desire, the screams of the innocent their symphony, woven into their very fabric.
"I'll stay behind and—"
"No, Yvette, you're coming," Hvitserk cut her off, his tone non-negotiable.
Her head felt like it might explode, fury and despair intertwining. Was he really demanding this of her? To forsake her faith, her morals, to witness the slaughter in the name of his barbaric deities? Coming here was meant to be a spiritual trial, but this—this was beyond any test she had anticipated. Forcing her to bear witness to such atrocities was nothing short of torture on her soul.
"No. No, I refuse to go with you! Please, Hvitserk, don't force me into this!" Yvette's voice cracked, a mix of anger and desperation making her plea almost a whisper.
"You're coming, Yvette. Don't even think about resisting." Hvitserk's voice was cold, final.
