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Three days passed in a blur of routine for Freya. The village was bustling with preparations for the inevitable confrontation with the Danes. Every able-bodied person was sharpening weapons, fortifying defenses, and stockpiling food. Despite the quiet tension that hung over the village, Freya found herself once again immersed in her duties, helping organize supplies, checking in with the families, and occasionally taking a few moments to herself to think of the news she hoped would soon arrive from Thorir's scouts.
That morning, however, Freya's thoughts were elsewhere. Leif had returned.
Freya stood by the edge of the longhouse, watching the sun sink lower over the hills, casting the village in a soft, golden glow. It was the quietest time of day, when most of the village had completed their tasks and retreated to their homes. Leif had just returned from a council meeting, and his presence loomed large as he approached her, his steps purposeful.
"Freya," Leif greeted her, his deep voice steady as always. He was a man of few words, but the authority he commanded was clear in every movement. His weathered face bore the scars of countless battles, and his grizzled hair and beard made him look older than he was. But his eyes, sharp and unyielding, had not aged a day.
Freya inclined her head. "Leif," she replied, stepping aside to give him room on the bench by the longhouse wall. "You've spoken with the council?"
He nodded, lowering himself beside her. The firelight from inside flickered faintly on his face, casting deep shadows. "We've heard troubling news," he said, his voice rough. "The Danes are gathering more men. Thorir's scouts haven't returned yet, but I expect word soon. Erik and Sigefrid won't sit idle for long."
Freya nodded, her thoughts spinning. She'd known this was coming, but hearing Leif's confirmation sent a chill through her. "We'll be ready," she said softly.
Leif looked at her for a long moment, studying her with those keen, unreadable eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he said, "You've grown strong, Freya. Stronger than when we first found you."
Freya stiffened at his words, her heart skipping a beat as memories came flooding back. The time before she had come to this village—the time before she was free—was something she rarely allowed herself to think about. But Leif's words, and the weight behind them, pulled her back into those memories.
The chains had been cold and unyielding, biting into her wrists and ankles as she lay in the dirt, her body aching from days of toil. The slaver had been relentless, using her and the other captives for his own gain. Every lash of the whip, every harsh command, had seared into her skin and mind until she had nearly forgotten what freedom felt like.
But the worst had been the nights—those long, dark hours where the torment wasn't physical but mental. The slaver had enjoyed breaking the spirit of those he held captive, and Freya had been no exception. He had taken pleasure in reminding her that she was nothing, that she had no one, that her life was his to control. She had been little more than a ghost of herself then, her hope drained with every passing day.
