SCENE ONE

The afternoon sun filtered through the cracks in the thick wooden walls of the longhouse, tinting the smoke rising from the central hearth in shades of amber. Astrid, seated on her raised bench by the fire, adjusted one of her thick silver braids while keeping an eye on the stew pot. The children played nearby: Björn sharpened a stick with his small knife, Freyja braided the hair of a rag doll, and Sigurd crawled after a leather ball.

Suddenly, the heavy door opened with a familiar creak. Eirik strode in with a firm step, the cold wind from the fjord slipping in behind him. His cloak was speckled with sea salt, and his weathered face bore a beard longer than usual, but his eyes shone with the satisfaction of return.

“Father!” Björn shouted first, jumping to his feet. All three children ran to him.

Eirik let out a deep laugh and welcomed them with open arms. He lifted Sigurd onto his shoulder first, ruffling the boy’s blond hair. Then he hugged Freyja tightly, kissing her forehead, and finally clapped Björn on the back with the pride of man to man.

“You’ve grown again, my little cubs,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I’ve brought you things from distant lands.”

Only then did he step aside and turn to Astrid. She had risen slowly, standing tall, her hands clasped in front of her apron. Eirik approached, cupped her face in his large hands, and kissed her with the pent-up urgency of months without her touch.

“My Astrid,” he murmured against her lips. “More beautiful than ever.”

She returned the kiss, but her ice-blue eyes remained open a moment longer, looking over her husband’s shoulder.

Behind Eirik, in the dimness of the entrance, stood the girl. A thick rope encircled her neck, tied with a firm knot to the warrior’s hand. She walked in silence, head bowed.

Eirik pulled away from Astrid and, without releasing the rope, gestured toward the figure with a broad smile.

“And this is my gift to you, my wife. One of the slaves we took in the last raid. Strong, healthy, and willing. She’ll help you with the children and the household chores. It was time you had a reliable extra hand.”

The children looked on curiously. Freyja tilted her head, Björn frowned in assessment, and Sigurd simply hid behind his mother’s leg.

Astrid kept her face serene, her jaw only slightly tense. Her fingers tightened on the edge of her apron. She said nothing at first; she merely nodded slowly, as if accepting a new barrel of ale or a sack of flour.

“A... useful gift,” she replied at last, her voice calm, though her eyes lingered on the girl a second longer than necessary.

Something unexpected and warm stirred in her chest—a forgotten tingle that rose from her belly to her throat. For the first time in many years, she felt desire. Not for her husband, who watched her awaiting approval, but for the silent figure who now belonged to her house.

Astrid swallowed, looked away, and turned back to the fire.

“Let someone remove that rope from her,” she ordered in a neutral tone. “And prepare a place for her with the other thralls. She starts early tomorrow.”

---

The next morning dawned cold and clear, with kitchen smoke rising toward the soot-blackened roof of the longhouse. Astrid had risen early as always, overseeing breakfast, milking, and the cleaning of the home. Her eyes, however, kept drifting again and again to the new slave, who had been assigned to help with the children from the very first moment.

In the center of the hall, near the fire, little Freyja laughed uproariously. The girl spun in circles, arms outstretched like raven wings, dancing to a song only she could hear. The new slave tried to approach her patiently, holding a bone comb and leather strips to braid her morning hair.

“Come here, little lady,” she could be heard saying softly, in a strange, gentle accent. “I just want to comb your hair...”

But Freyja would not obey. She ran in circles, hid behind benches, jumped onto wool sacks, forcing the slave to chase her all over the space. Each time the girl took a quicker step, a slight limp became evident in her right leg; she shifted her weight carefully, as if it hurt. And twice, when bending to catch the child, she discreetly pressed a hand to her left side, lips tightening in a contained grimace of pain.

Astrid watched from the pantry doorway, arms crossed beneath her apron. At first she only observed: she wanted to see if the new one was clumsy, lazy, or—worse—if she hid any veiled insolence. But the longer she watched, the more she noticed those small signs of suffering.

Images she had tried to push away the night before rose in her mind: the village in flames across the sea, the screams, the swords of Eirik and his men cutting lives like stalks of wheat. Women, children, the elderly... all dead or scattered. Only a few brought back as spoils. And this girl had been one of them. She had watched her people die, been dragged away, roped, carried on the ship for weeks. And now she limped and touched her side because, surely, some wound from that night had not healed.

For the first time since Eirik began his voyages, Astrid felt something akin to empathy. A tight knot in her throat. It was not cheap pity; it was the recognition that this girl could have been her, in another time, in another raid.

Freyja escaped again with a laugh, and the slave straightened too quickly, pressing her hand to her side once more in a gesture she could no longer hide.

Astrid lowered her arms and stepped forward.

“Enough,” she said firmly but not harshly. “Freyja, go help your older brother with the chickens. Now.”

The girl protested a little, but her mother’s look allowed no argument. She ran out toward the door.

Astrid then approached the slave, who stood still, head bowed, the comb still in her hand.

“Come here,” she ordered, though this time her tone was lower, almost gentle. “Go into the back chamber. I’m going to look at that wound on your side.”

She nodded toward the small adjoining room where she kept herbs, bandages, and ointments. Without waiting for a reply, she turned and began walking there, certain the girl would follow.