Mist & Moonlight

Chapter 2 | Whispers of Power

The hall of Jarl Arlick's keep was alive with murmurs and discontent. Freydis sat beside the jarl on the raised platform, her hands resting gently on her growing belly, while her eyes scanned the faces of the gathered villagers. They had come with their grievances, some trivial, some more serious, and it was their duty to listen and offer justice where needed.

Jarl Arlick, tall and stern, listened with a practiced disinterest, nodding occasionally but letting the complaints slide past him. His hand rested heavily on the arm of his chair, fingers tapping as the villagers spoke.

One man, a gaunt figure with rough features and eyes that gleamed with a dangerous fervor, stepped forward. He shifted uneasily, casting furtive glances at the others before his voice broke the stillness.

"My jarl," the man began, his voice hoarse from years of hard living, "we speak often of justice and order, but I tell you, there is a man who holds neither of these virtues. King Rorik," the name dripped from his mouth like a bitter poison, "has neglected us. The east, under your leadership, prospers more than any other. Why should he sit on the throne when you, Jarl Arlick, should rule?"

The room fell silent, tension thickening the air. Freydis stiffened, feeling her breath catch. She had long since grown accustomed to hearing murmurs of discontent, whispers of ambition, but no one had ever been bold enough to speak it so openly. She glanced at Jarl Arlick, who sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the man.

"Your words are dangerous," Arlick said at last, his voice low but menacing.

The man pressed on, undeterred. "Is it so wrong to speak the truth, my jarl? Look at what you have built here—stronger than the other regions, more prosperous. You deserve the throne, not Rorik. You would rule wisely, lead us to greater glory. The east is yours, why not all of Norway?"

Freydis felt her pulse quicken, her hand instinctively resting on her belly. She could not let this go unanswered. Her father, King Rorik, had earned his place through blood, fire, and hard-fought battles. She could not allow this insult to fester.

Before Arlick could respond, Freydis spoke, her voice steady but firm. "You speak treason," she said, her eyes locking with the man's. "My father, King Rorik, has done more for this land than you know. His rule is just and earned. Jarl Arlick is a strong leader of the east, yes, but he has no desire to betray his king. Do not presume to speak for him."

A murmur rippled through the hall, the tension rising further. Arlick's eyes darkened as he slowly turned toward her, his jaw clenched. Freydis held her ground, her heart hammering in her chest. She had deflected the man's dangerous words, but she had also spoken out of turn.

The man bowed slightly, his lips twisted in a sneer. "Forgive me, my lady," he said, though his tone carried little apology. "I spoke only of what I see, and what others whisper."

Arlick raised his hand, silencing the man. "Enough. Go back to your fields," he ordered, his voice cold. The man hesitated, then bowed low before slinking out of the hall, leaving the heavy tension in his wake.

The villagers began to disperse, but Freydis felt the weight of Arlick's silence beside her. She glanced at him, but his expression was unreadable, save for the storm brewing in his eyes.

Once the hall was empty, Arlick stood and motioned for her to follow him into the adjoining chamber. Freydis rose, her heart heavy.

When they were alone, the door closed behind them, Jarl Arlick's mask of calm shattered.

"You dare to speak out against me in front of my people?" His voice was low but simmering with anger. He stepped toward her, his imposing figure casting a shadow over her.

"I only defended my father, your king," Freydis replied, her voice steady but quieter now. "You would have let him—"

The sharp crack of Arlick's hand across her face cut off her words. She staggered back, her cheek stinging from the blow, her breath caught in her throat. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. The taste of copper potent on her tongue.

"Never," Arlick growled, "speak against me in public again. I am Jarl here. These are my people, my rule. Not Rorik's. Do you understand?"

Freydis swallowed, tears stinging her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "Yes, my jarl," she whispered, her voice steady despite the pain.

Arlick stared at her for a moment longer, his chest heaving with restrained fury. Then he turned and walked toward the door. "You will learn your place, Freydis. In time. Your duty is to bear me a male heir. Let us hope you carry one now."

As the door closed behind him, Freydis stood alone in the dim chamber, her cheek throbbing and her heart heavy. She touched her stomach, her child kicking gently within her, and whispered softly, "That is not your father, little one. Your father would never raise a hand against me. He would defy the gods themselves to protect us."

But as the walls of the keep seemed to close in around her, she knew the battle she faced was only just beginning.