𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 - 𝑰𝒗𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔

24

Harald stared into Bishop Heahmund's eyes, then turned with a scoff.

"What's the point of him?"

Daenaera rolled her eyes so far back she almost saw her past lives. Must he always ask the dumbest questions? she thought bitterly.

"Why don't you just kill him?"

"Because he's a great warrior," Ivar answered, stepping a little closer to his wife. "I've seen him fight. With my own eyes. And I admire great warriors."

He nodded toward the bishop, the praise casual but firm.

"He'll fight for us?" Harald asked, tone still mocking, but something in him shifting. Finally, a good one, Daenaera thought to herself, lips twitching.

"Maybe," Ivar said with that strange, crooked smile of his. "If he doesn't want to be crucified."

That made Harald laugh—and Hvitserk joined in. Even Daenaera couldn't help herself. She had been waiting for this moment, this release, for days.

"The Lord rules me," the bishop said suddenly in his own tongue. Only Ivar and Daenaera understood. The rest stood still, oblivious. "I shall want for nothing."

Ivar reached for the bishop's head, pushing him back to silence him.

"No, no," Harald said, waving a hand. "Let him continue."

Ivar shrugged and let go. The bishop's voice carried again, low and grim:

"He has set me in a place of good pasture, fed me by the waters' shore. He led me in the ways of righteousness for His name. Yet now, I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I shall fear no evil—for You are with me, Lord. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me..."

Harald's expression shifted. For a moment, it looked almost like fear.

"What did he say?" he asked, uncertain.

Ivar laughed.

"He's praying to his god. Nothing important."

It wasn't quite a lie. But Daenaera knew—Heahmund wasn't praying for mercy. He was readying himself.

"A fat lot of good that'll do him," Harald said, and the men chuckled again.

—

Later, Ivar and Daenaera walked hand in hand through the market square, speaking softly. Salt hung in the air. Fresh-caught fish dangled from hooks, glistening like silver armor.

Without warning, Ivar drew the bishop's sword and sliced a fat fish clean in half. A single stroke—clean, straight, effortless.

He grinned, inspecting the blade. Even Daenaera looked impressed.

"That's a fine sword," came Harald's voice from behind them.

"Daor zirȳla arlī," Daenaera muttered under her breath. Not him again. She shifted subtly closer to Ivar.

"It was the bishop's," Ivar said aloud, keeping his eyes on the blade. "He must've paid the dwarves handsomely. It's no ordinary iron—this is stronger. Sharper. I've seen him kill many with it, and the edge never dulled."

He looked up, smiled. "And now, it's mine."

Daenaera's gaze flicked to the sword thoughtfully. Perhaps she could ask Uncle Daemon for a gift—for Ivar. A sword worthy of a dragon prince.

"To wield such a blade is a great advantage," Harald said, stepping closer. Ivar towered over him even as he leaned on his crutch.

"Think of Odin's spear..."

Ivar turned his head, one brow raised, a devil's grin curling his mouth.

"And now think of Ivar's sword."

Harald smirked. "What is it you really want, Ivar Lothbrok? Hmm?"

"Revenge."

Ivar extended his hand, and Daenaera took it, his quiet signal grounding her. She stepped beside him, proud and loyal.

"I dream of the many ways I'll make Lagertha suffer before I kill her," he said evenly. "I want revenge because she killed my beautiful mother."

"And the kingdom?" Harald asked. "What of Kattegat?"

"It's not so important to me," Ivar replied.

"But surely your brothers—"

"I said," Ivar interrupted sharply, "it is not so important to me. What is it about the word king that makes reasonable men behave like fools?"

"Ivestragī's jikagon ābrazȳrys," Ivar said under his breath, glancing at Daenaera. Let's go, wife. She nodded and began walking with him.

Harald laughed behind them, then called, "Ah! Married life, eh? You're wed to Astrid—Lagertha's lover. I do hope she's worth it."

Daenaera laughed as they crested the hill.

"Nyke can't pāsagon vestā bona," she said, looking at Ivar, her smile wide with mischief. I can't believe you said that.

Ivar only grinned, satisfied.