Being in the wrong place at the wrong time was all it took for Adelasia's whole life to turn upside down. After being captured by the heathens raiding her city and taken all the way to the cold North, the youngest Ragnarsson takes an interest in her...
Gathering her skirts in her hands, Alasia hurried through the courtyard to the castle, carefully avoiding all the stares in her direction. A week had passed since she had spent the night in Ivar's chambers and despite her best efforts, Freydis had run her mouth to all the slaves and warriors alike, earning Alasia attention she did not like. There were those who treated her with newfound respect, as though they expected her to become Ivar's wife and hoped to end in her good graces, and those who treated her like outside scum, as if she were a stray dog which carried the plague. It didn't help that everyone was on edge either. The sails were mended, the longboats repaired and the Vikings were waiting for Ivar's word to sail to Tamdrup and King Harald.
Not too long ago Svend had come to inform her that Ivar had summoned her, for the first time in a week. Of course, he spoke to her during dinner and whenever he countered her in the castle hallways, but he had not invited her into his room again. She had no idea whether she felt regret or relief at that fact. Finally coming to Ivar's war room, she briefly rapped her knuckles against the door before opening it.
She closed it quickly, smoothing out her skirts as she turned around to face Ivar. He was regarding her with that indescribable glint in his eyes, as if he was thinking of great things while his eyes were perchance on her figure. She watched as he snapped out of it, a pleasant smile coming to his face. Alasia ignored the way her heart jumped and the heat rising to her cheeks, folding her hands behind her back. "You wished to see me, Ivar?" she said.
"Yeah, I did," Ivar replied, nodding. His blue eyes flickered from her face to her hair and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You changed your hair?"
Tentatively, she reached out to her head, wondering if any of her strands were tangled or in a strange position that caused Ivar to look so in awe. It was true, for the first time in months since Helga's death she had asked her sister to redo her hair in a completely different style. The Norse woman was still on her mind every now and then, but the grief had turned into distant happiness whenever she thought of her, and so her mourning had come to an end. When Imeldina was finished and Alasia had stared at her reflection in a polished plate she had almost ordered her sister to start anew. Instead of two simple braids that connected at the nape of her neck as she had usually worn in Naples, her sister had braided her curls in a Norse style with many braids coiling around each other.
Realising she still hadn't replied to Ivar's question, she nodded once. "Imeldina did it this morning."
"The Northern style looks beautiful on you," Ivar said absentmindedly. As if he suddenly realised what he had said, he pushed himself from the desk and made a dismissive wave. His infamous mask had glided back in place, carefully guarding his emotions. "If you consider the fact that your facial structure looks nothing at all like ours and-"
