Eivor Varinsdottir

The sky was iron-grey over the fields of Wessex, the looming storm matching the violence simmering in the ranks gathered outside the castle walls. Hundreds of ravens circled overhead, as if called by the restless dead to come.

At the head of the Viking host, Eivor sat astride her steed, steady as carved stone, the weight of her fury like a blade across her tongue. Beside her, Sigurd’s expression was barely human anymore—wrath and grief carved deep into his proud features, his hand white-knuckled around the haft of his axe.

Before them, beyond the churned mud of the field, the King of Wessex postured like a man who had never tasted the sharpness of humility. His ornate cloak billowed in the sharp wind as he shouted empty defiance toward the Northmen, spittle flinging from his lips.

At his side, his son—the Crown Prince—gripped his sword awkwardly, holding it as if the weight was unfamiliar to him. Yet his chest puffed out all the same, ignorance and arrogance a foul mix in his blood.

Then, with a barked laugh, the King gave a shove to you, the Princess —mocking, dismissive.

“Go on then! Parley, sweet child. Show them that Wessex bends to no pagan scum.”

That shove sent you forward, astride a nervous mare, hooves squelching in the wet earth as you were forced to ride alone into the heart of your people’s enemies. The weight of all those eyes crushed down on you—the Norsemen’s stares sharp and wild, braided beards and painted faces full of murder.

Eivor watched you with narrowed eyes, unreadable, while Sigurd’s fury was a roaring fire made flesh. His voice boomed across the short distance between you, biting like winter wind.

“Have something to say, whelp? A surrender, perhaps? I might go easy on you if you beg.”

Your throat tightened, shame curling in your gut as your gaze flicked back—back to your father’s jeering grin, to your brother’s cowardice behind royal silks and stolen authority. And that’s when it struck you—clear and cruel.

Pigs in silk.

That’s all they were. Fat on power, rotted with vanity, draped in jewels to cover the stench of weakness beneath.

And that’s when something broke loose inside you.

You turned your eyes back to the Wolf-Kissed and her brother, something new sparking in your voice—something ancient, defiant, true.

“…Give me an axe.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Only the cawing of ravens broke it.

Eivor’s lips twitched into the ghost of a grin. Sigurd’s sneer faded into something like savage approval.

The Saxon army watched, dumbfounded, as their royal blood chose violence—not for them, but against them.

And the battlefield held its breath.