A Viking's Rage

Chapter 9

Jarl Roel Lowzow stood in his chambers, one foot propped on a wooden bench as his thoughts spiraled. His wife, Lady Ingrid, sat at her vanity, meticulously combing her fair hair. Though her youth had begun to fade, she still held herself with the elegance befitting her station.

“That girl,” Roel muttered, his voice heavy with contemplation. “She reminds me of someone.”

“Just a slave, my lord,” Ingrid replied, not looking up from her reflection. “You waste your time thinking of her.”

Roel’s patience snapped. “Ingrid, if I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it,” he barked.

Unfazed, Ingrid returned her attention to the mirror, accustomed to her husband’s temper. Their marriage had always been more alliance than affection, and she no longer sought his approval.

Roel paced the room, his mind fixed on the girl. Something about her features tugged at old memories, long buried but never forgotten.

“She looks like Aiyowind,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ingrid stiffened. “The long-dead queen?” she scoffed, turning to face him. “Impossible.”

“When the King and Queen were murdered, their daughter was taken. They never found her body,” Roel said, his tone grim.

“And for good reason. She perished like her parents,” Ingrid replied sharply. “The steward has ruled in their stead for years. Why dredge up such dangerous thoughts, husband? The past is better left buried.”

But Roel was not listening. When he had seen the girl in the hall, it was as if the late Queen Aiyowind herself had appeared before him. Her face, her bearing—it was too uncanny to dismiss.

“I must consult the seer,” Roel said abruptly. “If the gods have sent me a message, he will know.”

Without another word, he left the chamber, his cloak billowing behind him. Ingrid returned to her mirror, her expression dark with unease.

---

Aiya stood against the cold stone wall of the feasting hall, her shoulders stiff from hours of standing. She was flanked by Annie on one side and Esma on the other, their silent presence a small comfort.

The hall was alive with raucous laughter and the clatter of wooden trenchers as the Jarl and his household dined. Long tables stretched the length of the room, packed with men and women feasting on roasted meats and hearty stews. Horns of mead and ale were raised high as revelers shouted “Skål!” before draining their cups.

Despite the lively scene, Aiya felt deeply unsettled. She could feel Dagr’s eyes on her, watching her like a hawk eyeing its prey. From across the hall, Ragda occasionally glanced her way as well, his expression unreadable. But it was the Jarl’s lingering gaze that disturbed her most. Unlike the others, his look carried something more—curiosity, or perhaps recognition.

“Have you noticed the way they look at you?” Annie whispered, her voice low. “The Jarl never gives slaves a second thought. Yet he watches you as though you hold some secret.”

“I’ve noticed,” Aiya replied quietly, her unease growing.

A man seated nearby beckoned to Annie, holding out his empty horn. She hurried to refill it, keeping her head bowed. As she handed it back, he grinned lasciviously and swatted her backside. Aiya tensed, but Annie merely smiled coyly and returned to her place.

“Who is that man? Why did you let him treat you so?” Aiya asked, her voice laced with shock.

Annie shrugged. “His name is Taavi. That’s his way of showing thanks, I suppose.”

But her tone was evasive, and Aiya suspected there was more she wasn’t saying.

Across the hall, Dagr and Ragda were locked in a heated exchange. Dagr’s sharp features were set in a smug grin, his expression one of triumph. Ragda, by contrast, seemed tense, his posture stiff as he responded. After a moment, Ragda pushed back his chair abruptly, muttered a curt bow to his father, and stormed out of the hall.

Dagr, clearly pleased with himself, raised his horn toward Aiya in a silent, mocking toast. Her stomach churned as she turned her gaze away.

---

As the evening wore on, the servants and slaves were finally dismissed. Aiya’s feet ached from standing for so long, and she was eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the hall. But as she passed a darkened archway, a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her into the shadows.

“Ragda!” she gasped, her voice a mixture of surprise and relief.

His face was flushed, his breath coming fast as though he had run to reach her. Before she could speak further, he pulled her close, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was both desperate and consuming. Aiya froze, her heart racing, but the fire in his touch melted her resistance. When he pulled away, her eyes remained closed, unwilling to let the moment end.

“I don’t want you to be his,” Ragda said, his voice tight. “He told me what he plans to do tonight. You can’t let him.”

Her chest tightened. “What am I supposed to do about it?” she whispered.

“Come with me,” he said, clutching her hand.

“Ragda, I can’t—”

“You can, and you will,” he insisted, his grip firm. “I won’t let him touch you. Trust me.”

His words carried an urgency she couldn’t ignore. Against her better judgment, she allowed him to pull her along, their footsteps echoing softly as they slipped into the night.