Erik's breath billowed in the cold morning air as he approached the gates of Ekkila, the fortified village that crowned a windswept hill. The guards stationed there eyed him warily, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords as he drew near. His worn cloak flapped behind him, and mud from his journey caked his boots and leggings, marking him as a traveler who had braved many leagues.
"Halt," one of the guards called out, stepping forward. His gaze swept over Erik with a look of suspicion. "What business does a stranger have in Ekkila?"
"I come bearing a message for Princess Freydis," Erik replied, keeping his tone even. "From King Rorik himself."
The guard's brows furrowed, and he glanced at his companion, who did not lower his weapon. "And what proof do you have of that?" he demanded. "Anyone could claim to speak for the king."
Erik drew a deep breath, his hand sliding beneath his cloak to retrieve the seal that hung from his belt. He lifted it for the guards to see—a metal pendant emblazoned with Rorik's sigil. The polished surface caught the light, glinting with an unmistakable authority.
"This," he said, meeting their gazes with unflinching calm, "is King Rorik's seal. I am his royal messenger."
The guards exchanged a look before the first one gave a grudging nod. "Very well," he said, stepping back to allow Erik through. "You may enter, but be warned—Jarl Arlick doesn't take kindly to unannounced visitors, even those sent by the king."
Erik gave a curt nod in acknowledgment before striding past the gates, which creaked open to reveal the bustling village within. Smoke drifted lazily from the thatched roofs, mingling with the scent of roasting meat and fresh-cut timber. Villagers went about their daily tasks, casting curious glances his way as he navigated the narrow, winding paths.
His pulse quickened as he made his way to the longhouse at the village's heart, where the Jarl held court. It was an imposing structure, its sturdy wooden beams adorned with carved patterns of knotwork and dragons. He knew Freydis would be inside, but uncertainty clawed at his mind. What would he find there? What would she say to him, or he to her, after all this time?
He pushed through the heavy doors, the warmth of the fire washing over him as he entered. The longhouse was alive with the sounds of conversation and the crackle of burning logs in the central hearth. Warriors and servants alike turned to eye him as he strode further in, but Erik's focus narrowed to a single figure near the Jarl's high seat.
There she was.
Freydis stood beside Jarl Arlick, her fiery hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her hands folded before her round belly as she listened to whatever the Jarl was saying. Her bearing was as regal as he remembered, yet a tension lingered in her posture, a weight in her gaze as she glanced toward him.
The world seemed to fade around Erik as his eyes locked with hers, the distance between them shrinking to nothing in an instant. It was as though the months apart, the secrets and the burdens they carried, melted away. For a heartbeat, there was no Jarl, no village, no walls or guards—only the woman he had come for, and the unspoken words that hung between them like breath in the winter air.
He had found her. And now, there was no turning back.
YOU ARE READING
Mist & Moonlight
Historical Fiction*The Threads of Fate Saga- Book 3* Freydis, now married to Jarl Arlick in a strategic alliance to protect her father's reign, carries Erik's child, a secret that could unravel everything she has sacrificed for her people. Erik, determined to stay by...
