Randvi's quill hovered above the parchment, dripping ink on the pale page. The runes she'd penned had already dried. Still, even if the words were right before her eyes, Randvi could barely comprehend what she had just written, as if for a brief instant someone else had seized control of her hand to record the following confession.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to look across the alliance table at Eivor and not think of what could be.

She felt cold as the words echoed in her mind. Ceolbert had told her it could be soothing, to pen down one's worries onto a page. "One of Rome's wisest emperors wrote his thoughts and observations in his diary every day," he had said. "Even now people still read his words to find guidance. Perhaps you should do the same. Who knows what wisdom future generations might find in the story of your life?"

The lad was sweet, but Randvi was only halfway convinced he was right. Still, she had given it a try, writing the first words that came to her mind as she had stared at the blank page. The result made her stomach twist into knots. The confines of the war room suddenly seemed too small, too stifling. Of course Randvi had been lonely in Norway, of course she'd disliked being left behind as Sigurd went to gain glory while she fretted over inconsequential things. But something had changed when they had first reached England's green shores. Randvi had thought—well she had thought Sigurd would finally settle down, would finally do right by his wife and by his clan. But again he had taken off, discarding Randvi as if she was a lame mare to put down rather than his lawfully-wedded wife. The realization was a bitter draught to swallow.

Randvi was so caught up in these dark thoughts that she barely heard Ceolbert's voice when the boy ran inside the war room. She blinked owlishly, feeling rather foolish as he spoke again. Had he noticed her unease? Randvi hoped not; she dreaded that he would ask her if she was all right.

"Someone just rode into town," Ceolbert explained, finally. "A woman."

Randvi frowned. "A woman? What does she want?"

"She wouldn't say. But the horse she's riding, it's… I think it's Eivor's horse."

Randvi's guts twisted again. "Vindr? She's got Vindr?"

The boy motioned at her to follow him, and Randvi hurried out of the longhouse, heart hammering painfully in her chest. Not far from the docks, surrounded by a gaggle of curious onlookers, there was a woman on a black horse. Yes, that was Vindr; Eivor loved that horse, and she would never had left the sweet-tempered mare behind. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong.

Vindr's new rider was young, barely a few years older than Ceolbert. She was wearing a dress made of a tufted fabric, dyed a deep blue. Randvi had never seen such a rich hue before. Was she a noblewoman of some sort? Her silvery-gold hair was partly hidden under a veil of the same colour as her dress. The young woman's skin was pale, as perfect and smooth as those marble Roman statues Randvi had sometimes seen in Saxon cities.

The young woman turned to look at Randvi as the latter approached. Her smile was polite, but there was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Her irises were a striking colour—a pale amber, more yellow than brown. Again, Randvi felt uneasy as she held the woman's unusual gaze.

She pushed aside her apprehension to grind out, "Who are you and where did you find that horse?"

"My name is Ealhswith," the young woman introduced herself. Despite the Saxon name, she spoke Norse flawlessly, with nary a hint of an accent. "Is this the village where this lovely four-legged creature hails from?"

"It is," Randvi confirmed. "I'll ask again: where did you find that horse? And more importantly: what happened to her previous rider?"

"Oh, I'm afraid she might be in a bit of trouble," answered Ealhswith. She appraised Randvi with a strange little smile. "You seem capable. Would you come with me to find your friend? I'd hate it if something happened to her."

Randvi felt the heat of anger rising within her. "You will tell me where Eivor is, now, or else—"

"Oh, no, no, there's no need to worry!" Ealhswith said, undeterred by the unsaid threat. "I'll take you to your friend, I swear! My uncle's cabin is not far from here. He's fond of playing tricks on travellers and…" She sighed, though she did not lose her smile. "It would be easier to just show you, really."

"Randvi…" began Ceolbert. Anxious whispers went through the crowd. Randvi did not want to cause a commotion, but…

"Randvi!"

Among the villagers, Valka was standing tautly, blue eyes wide and—fearful? Randvi had never seen the völva show so much a hint of fear. Yet now Valka seemed terrified out of her wits.

"Randvi," the seeress continued, "do as she says. You must."

"What?" Randvi looked back and forth from Valka to Ealhswith. The blue-clad woman had not lost her little smile. "Why?"

Valka came closer, grabbing Randvi's arm. "Do not ask me to explain, I beg of you," the völva whispered. "I do not know what strange fate has befallen Eivor, but… she needs you. This, I know."

Randvi searched Valka's face. The völva was in earnest, it was plain to see. Randvi nodded. "All right. I will go to her."

"Good!" said Ealhswith, clapping her hands. "Hop on, then!"

Randvi mounted Vindr, taking the reins. Ealhswith began to hum as they departed from Ravensthorpe under the nervous stares of the villagers. They had been riding for a while when she finally said, "She seems astute, that friend of yours."

Randvi blinked, surprised by the sudden comment. "What?"

"Observant. Discerning. Keen-eyed. Is that not the correct term? I have not been living very long in these parts, you see, and your language is very strange. Very strange indeed."

She was speaking of Valka, Randvi suddenly understood. "She is our clan's völva. Our seeress."

"Is that so? My, that is quite the responsibility for one so young!" Ealhswith herself appeared to have seen barely nineteen or twenty winters. "Völva. Wand-carrier. I wonder what purpose it serves…"

"What purpose does it… what?" Gods, Randvi could barely keep up with the other woman's rambling. "What are you talking about?"

"The wand. Does she whack people with it, you think?"

"I… no, that is not—" Randvi let out an irritated noise. "Why can't you explain what has happened? What has your uncle done to Eivor?"

"My un—oh!" Ealhswith's pretty face had scrunched up, as if she had to search for the correct term. "My uncle, yes. He will know where your friend has gone. Definitely."

There was no straight answer to wrench from that one, Randvi suspected. For a few hours, they followed the forest path, Ealhswith peppering Randvi with inane question ("Why have they called this river Nene, do you think? It is a silly sound, is it not? Ninininini. Weren't there some knights who went by that name? Oh, knights aren't a thing in these lands yet. My bad!") while the latter could only remain silent, sick with worry. The sun was at its peak when they finally reached a small wooden shack by the side of the road. An old man dressed in black sat by the door, humming tunelessly and tapping his foot on the ground.

The old man lifted his face as Randvi and Ealhswith dismounted from Vindr. He had a long, hooked nose and huge, bloodshot eyes. A chill crept down Randvi's spine at the sight of his face. Was he half-troll? She had never lay eyes on an uglier visage. If the situation had not been so dire, she would have run from the strange duo without so much as a glance backward.

But Eivor's life was on the line, and so Randvi could not flee. Would not flee. She would travel to the cold depths of Helheim for Eivor's sake—would tear her from Hel's icy grasp if she had to. This, she swore on her parents' names.

"Well, how is the situation?" said Ealhswith as they approached the old man. "Where is she?"

"The woman warrior, you mean?" the old man said; his voice was high and reedy. "Still in the cave, of course! Why, she's been there all morning!"

"She has been stuck there for half a day?" said Ealhswith. "Oh dear, that has been a long time in coming, hasn't it?"

The old man cackled. "She'll come out… sooner or later."

Randvi felt a low growl coming from the back of her throat while Ealhswith only exclaimed, hands over her hips, "What a meddlesome old man you are, Master Ingwine!"

"Tell me where Eivor has gone!" Randvi said, stomping over to him and jabbing a finger into his face. "Tell me now, or else—"

"Why, she must be quite important to you," the old man cut her off, sounding still quite cheerful. He exchanged a knowing glance with Ealhswith. "Young love! Rather sweet, is it not?"

"Oh yes," Ealhswith said, nodding enthusiastically. Before Randvi could let out another threat, the younger woman said, "I know where the cave is. I'll bring you to your friend, don't worry. It's simple." She gave a little giggle. "You just have to follow the butterflies."

Randvi was forced to enter the cavern alone.

"Oh, I'm not allowed to go in," Ealhswith had explained her when Randvi had asked if she would join her. "It's meant for people, you see?"

"And you're not…" Randvi had begun, letting the question hang in the air.

Ealhswith had simply stood there, arms crossed behind her back. Her eyes had been round and guileless. "I'm not what?"

"Forget about it," Randvi had muttered. "What will I find, in there?"

Those golden eyes had gleamed. There was no trace of a smile on Ealhswith's face, now. She seemed terribly out of place, standing among the trees in that richly-hued dress. What kind of dye had she used to obtain such a colour, Randvi wondered?

"Your shadow," Ealhswith answered. "Hers must be pretty dark. Your friend's, I mean. Otherwise, she would have come out already."

Randvi had felt a painful jolt in her chest at those words. Her instincts had been correct; Eivor was in danger. "And how," she had said, quite hurriedly, "might we defeat those 'shadows'?"

"Defeat?" Ealhswith had tilted her head. "Who said anything about defeating your own shadow? Sounds silly, don't you think? What a strange one you are."

Randvi had let out a curse at that inconclusive answer. Without another word, she had turned to descend down the dark depths of the cave. The last thing she had heard had been Ealhswith's cheerful call of, "Good luck!"

For a while, Randvi wandered in the dark and the wet, her path only lit by the few torches hanging on the walls. Someone was tending to that cave, then. Randvi inwardly cursed; perhaps this was the lair of some rather ingenious bandits—and she had walked right into their trap. What a fool she had been! Still, she had to save Eivor. Nothing else mattered.

A strange smell hung in the air. Randvi wrinkled her nose at the stench, gingerly making her advance on the uneven ground beneath her boots. Her hand had not left the hilt of her hammer. Finally, some sunlight came to join the flames of the torches.

Randvi cocked her ear to listen for a cry for help—or the rustle of a weapon being drawn from its sheath. She could hear neither. Tentatively, Randvi called out, "Eivor? Are you there?"

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a voice drawled from behind Randvi, "Oh, look, the faithful wife finally came out of hiding. Lovely."

Randvi whirled around with a sharp cry, hammer raised and ready. Before her was a woman—no, Randvi realized, the shock freezing her into place, before Randvi stood another version of herself, like a reflection brought to life by dark seidr. Randvi nearly dropped her weapon, and all she could utter was, "What… how…"

Her other self made an exaggerated roll of the eyes. She shared Randvi's face, but not her simple travel clothes. Instead, the other woman wore a richly embroidered apron dress. She was bedecked in jewels, her shoulders covered by the finest of silver furs. The wedding crown sitting on her red hair was made of gleaming gold and shimmering sapphires. Randvi noted the keys hanging by her belt; they were disproportionally large in comparison to the ones Randvi wore, which had been gifted to her by Sigurd on the day of their marriage.

This fake version of her was also more beautiful than Randvi could ever hope to be. There were no lines on her brow caused by too much worry, no wrinkles by the corner of her eyes brought by too many frowns. Her face was smooth, perfect. And yet the woman facing Randvi was repulsive in her artificiality—like a chauvinistic artist's version of beauty, a figure that could only exist in some man's puerile fantasies.

"She has come, finally!" the woman exclaimed. Randvi noted that her eyes were a bright, shining gold, not the pale blue she saw whenever she looked in the mirror. "And here I thought she would never leave her table! Are you chained to the cursed thing, I wonder?"

"What are you?" Randvi ground out, hand tightening around her hammer. "What sort of spirit are you, to wear my guise as if it is a mask?"

The fake Randvi eyed the weapon. "Why, she still thinks herself a shieldmaiden. Adorable."

"I am a shieldmaiden," said Randvi. "I've followed my father and sister on raids. I've bled beside them. I have won glory in battle for my people, and for myself as well."

"You could have fooled me!" the other woman said with a nasty laugh. "How many battles have you fought lately, hm? Were they waged against perilous foes? And no, the carved figures on that table of yours do not count!" And she laughed again.

Those words were like a blow to the face. In a rush, Randvi said, "The village needs me. We are barely settled in this new land and—"

"How many hours have you spent practising those excuses? Does anyone even care to hear them?" The fake Randvi made a dismissive sound, waving her hand around. "Oh, how you have gorged yourself on bitter fare these last few winters. It might be why you have grown so sour." The golden eyes were full of cruel contempt. "It might be why your own husband now disdain your company."

Randvi gritted her teeth. She had to breathe in deeply through her nose to soothe her frayed nerves, before uttering, "Are you done with your childish taunts? Be on your way, spirit. There is one I must find."

"So strong!" the other Randvi cooed. "So admirable in her resilience! Randvi the all-loving, who is so well-loved in return by her people." Her smile grew ugly. "If only they knew. If only they knew just how you loathe what a burden they have become."

"Stop," Randvi said, abruptly. "Stop it!" The others in Ravensthorpe were far, far away, too far to hear those loathsome words, but…

"'Oh Randvi, have we have enough foodstuff to last the winter?' 'Oh Randvi, where will I find the timber to build a new pen for my pigs?' 'Oh Randvi, oh Randvi, will you put an end to yet another of our childish squabbles?' Tell me, how long will this last? How long will it take before this seed of hatred grows and grows, and you turn your blade against those you are sworn to serve?"

"You speak of something you know nothing about—"

"Oh, but I know. I know everything." The fake Randvi stalked about, proud and voluptuous, like a predator circling its prey. She had the graceful gait of a feline—with the cruel arrogance to match. "I know how tempted you are to leave them all to rot, Randvi Asgeirsdóttir. I know that you would not shed a single tear if that husband of yours found death on his many voyages. I know the name you whisper like a prayer when you slip your hand between your thighs at night…"

These accusations rushed over Randvi like a wave surging over a cliff. This time, she could only shake her head and say, "No, no, no… this isn't—it's not—" In the distance echoed a cry of help. Randvi's blood froze in her veins. She knew that voice, even though she had never hear its owner make such a pitiful sound before. "Eivor. Eivor is there. Eivor needs me!"

"Eivor needs me!" the other woman shrilled, mocking Randvi's panic. "Oh, Eivor, Eivor, would you love me if I rush to your aid like a hero of some saga?"

Randvi had heard enough of this madness. She turned on her heel to rush away from the other version of herself—from her Shadow. She immediately tripped as something twisted around her ankle—something hard and cold, like a metal chain. Randvi cried out as she was yanked backward. The other end of the chain was tied around the fake Randvi's wrist. Her golden eyes flared menacingly in the gloom.

"Let me go!" Randvi screamed, with all the defiance she could muster. She was a shieldmaiden and a Jarl's daughter; she would not let this creature feed on her pride as well as her dignity. "Let me go, you fake—"

"Fake?" The Shadow cocked her head; her too perfect face was now fully shrouded in the darkness. "I am not fake, far from it." She edged closer to Randvi. There was a slave collar fastened around her neck, and heavy manacles weighing down her wrists and ankles. Randvi let out a whimper despite herself, shaking as the Shadow murmured, ever so softly, "Because I am you, and you are me."