Sigrún awoke after what seemed like a long, frightening nightmare. She did not know where she was—and she did not dare open her eyes to find out. She was lying on her back, with only a cloak draped over her to ward off a piercing chill. Around her flared a confusing clamour: shouts and people running, all while others moaned in pain. All she remembered was a thick red haze clouding her senses—and screams ripping through that fog. Yes, there had been so many screams. What manner of nightmares had just trapped her consciousness in its vicious grip?

And why had it all seemed so real?

Sigrún exhaled violently, like one who had nearly drowned. A white and orange blur met her eyes when she opened them. The sky in twilight. It had ceased to snow, it seemed. Beside her, someone quietly wept, begging for his mother. Not far another man let out a long, hoarse sound that made the hair on her neck stand on end. A death rattle, she understood, all too belatedly. With a shuddering gasp, she sat up, quite suddenly. All at once, an older man in blood-splattered robes came up to her, murmuring, "No, no, my child, you must rest. You were in quite a state when you were brought to us."

"Where…" Sigrún managed, on the verge of panic, "my friends, the battle—"

"You are safe now, among other wounded," said the man—a healer, perhaps? "The day is won—in no part thanks to your efforts, my lady." His expression was a bit bemused. "I've heard… quite the stories from the men I've treated. They said you came upon the battlefield like a Valkyrie—or an angel of the Lord, according to our Christian brethren. All seemed to turn in our favour afterwards. Some are calling it a miracle, even."

Sigrún felt cold, and her stomach churned. "Then," she said, with quiet horror, "it wasn't a dream?" Men falling to their knees, crying and begging for mercy. The warriors assembled before her, crashing over their enemies with the fury of the storm. And Sigrún herself, looming over them all, as she alone could preside over who deserved to live—and who instead deserved to die.

She attempted to stand, prompting the man to utter a few useless protests. "My cane, I need my cane," Sigrún ordered him. Thankfully, the healer had kept it close, along with the rest of her meagre possessions.

Her stomach made another somersault when she spied the gilded hilt of Naegling among them.

Sigrún took the relic as if it was a venomous serpent. She dressed herself with the help of the healer, then hooked the hilt at her belt. Touching the thrice-accursed thing made her want to expel what little remained in her stomach. Still, Sigrún set her mouth in a grim line, refusing to let her distress show. The man only looked at her in worry.

"Two people wanted to see you once you were awake," he told her. "A man with a strange name. And a woman with brown hair—all proper-like, she was."

Hytham. And Æthelflæd, obviously. "Thank you," she said. "I must go, now." The healer pinched his mouth in disapproval as she limped away.

She found a war camp in disarray. The battle might have been won, but now came the parts never sung in sagas. Treating the wounded. Taking care of the dead. Talking about the terms of a truce—or a surrender, in worse cases. Sigrún had been told of these things, but she had never witnessed them. She was a child born in a time of peace, after all; her aunt had fought fiercely so she'd never witness such things.

Sigrún raised her cloak to shield her mouth and nose. The very air stank of blood, piss and shit; it was heavy with the stench of fear and despair. Rather than snow, black flakes fell in a flurry around the camp—the ashes of funeral pyres. The wounded lay side by side on the bare ground, moaning and writhing while healers hurried to tend to them. And the dead were stacked in ever-increasing piles outside of the camp. Sigrún immediately looked away, unable to stomach the sight any longer.

Instead, she continued her trek southward. The pain in her leg flared with each stubborn step she took. Blood kept dripping from her left hand, adding to the red mud beneath her feet. The more she walked, the more intense grew the reek of death and decay. Here the chorus of crowing carrion was louder than the wails of the injured soldiers. Sigrún followed their call with grim determination. She'd dreamed of flying again during her recovery—ever southward, the peaceful snowy plains eventually giving way to the blood-red of the battlefield. That dream was murky, too soft at the edges compared to the violent recollections that had haunted her recent sleep. It made her think of home, of sweet moments spent playing with Sýnin and the other children of Ravensthorpe. Longing crept inside her, adding to her forlornness. Still, Sigrún trudged on through the snow-slicked mud. She wondered if she would ever feel peace in her heart again. If she deserved to have peace in her heart ever again.

Finally, Sigrún came upon what she sought. In front of her stretched an expense covered in—she drew in a shaky breath, forcing herself to look—a great expense littered with discarded weapons and shattered shields and corpses, so many corpses, corpses lying in broken heaps, watching the last twilit sky of their lives with sightless eyes. Braving the stench, Sigrún approached, shoes sinking in blood and mud. She was not alone; wary soldiers glanced at her as they gathered their dead, while ragged-looking scavengers darted away, arms filled with battlefield loot.

The more she advanced, the more she realized, with a sinking feeling, just how ordinary these dead men seemed. The Centish soldiers were not battle-hardened warriors like the drengir of her clan, clad in mail and armed with well-sharpened axes. The corpses at her feet wore no armour to defend them from enemy blades; they bore broken spears rather than swords made by a skilled smith. Ealdorman Sigehelm's fabled army was just a fyrd; his so-called soldiers were peasants taken away from their fields and families. She found echoes of Ravensthorpe's people in those dead faces, frozen forever in a final show of fright. Here was an older man with a beard as bushy as sweet Gunnar's own bristles; there was a freckled youth who reminded her of Hungerda's mischievous brothers. Sigrún looked around—and Holger's and Knud's and Bragi's and Tarben's eyes stared back mutely at her. She found it difficult to breathe. She had done this. She had brought doom to these poor men, making widows and orphans out of once happy families.

It should not be in your power to decide who gets to live and who gets to die! she had screamed to Seaxwulf, but she—had Sigrún deserved to wield that terrible power? No, the dead men seemed to shout with one voice, no. Naegling's hilt burned with a searing heat at her hip. She should have sobbed—but no tears came to her eyes. Instead, she stood and watched the sun disappearing over the horizon, welcoming the evening chill. At least she still felt something, unlike the men lying dead at her feet. They would never feel the warmth of the sun upon their skin again, just as they would never experience the cleansing coldness of another winter morning. Sigrún had robbed them of these small, mundane pleasures.

"Sigrún!" a voice called before her. "Oh, habibti, oh thank Allah, there you are!"

Sigrún turned just in time to be wrapped in Hytham's embrace. She stood, numbly, as he tightened his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder. When the man let go of her, finally, he put his hands around her face, looking into her eyes. "My dear," he whispered, "I am ever so glad to see you awake and well!"

"What happened?" was all Sigrún could mutter. "After the battle, I mean. I… I can barely remember… I know I rushed into the melee with Naegling in my hand, but…"

"You've turned the tide of battle, child," Hytham answered. "I do not understand how you did it, but… your arrival gave the East Anglians the push they needed to break the West Saxons' line. We've won, Sigrún."

"Did we?" she said, quietly, with a glance to their grisly surroundings.

A shadow passed over Hytham's face. Haltingly, he said, "We've suffered heavy losses, yes. Including, to our great sorrow, King Eohric of East Anglia."

The memory of a bright smile flashed into Sigrún's mind, and she felt a dull pang. "Eivor's brother?"

"Yes," Hytham said with a sigh. "Your friend was the one to bring his body back to the camp. She's disappeared since. I worry for her. There might still be enemies about."

Sigrún hung down her head. Part of her was concerned as well for Eivor, the part that could still feel the warmth of the blood coursing her veins. She replied, in a toneless mutter, "Eivor knows how to defend herself."

Hytham touched her cheek, searching her face with a worried look. "You should be resting, my child. You fainted back on the battlefield. I caught you before you could fall from your horse, but…"

"I'm fine." Sigrún evaded his concerned gaze. "Did it all truly happen? Did I really… kill all those people?"

"Kill? Oh no, no, no…" Hytham murmured something in Arabic, before adding, "You did nothing of the sort, child. You are not responsible for—"

"I am responsible!" she nearly shouted, taking Naegling in her hand and showing it to him, grasping the hilt so tightly that more blood oozed through the already reddened bandages. Hytham flinched at the sight. "It was not Naegling acting through me. It was not the power of the Ancients corrupting my mind. It was all me. Naegling took the feelings hidden in my heart, that anger, that resentment, and it—Naegling put them on display for all the world to see! When you gave Eivor your blade, you said my aunt used hers to protect, not to destroy. I wished—I wanted to do the same! I wanted to do good! To be better than Seaxwulf and his ilk! So why… so why…"

Her face crumpled, and she fell silent. Tears began to stream down her face, and she touched her cheeks, as if shocked to find them upon her skin. Sigrún could no longer utter a word—sobs instead lodged in her throat, blocking her voice. Wordlessly, Hytham gathered her into his arms again, stroking her hair as he had done when she had been a child looking for comfort.

From over his shoulder, Sigrún watched a raven perch itself on a lone sword planted in the ground. The bird fixed on her a keen—and curious—stare. She met its gaze, and it cawed, tilting its head almost in a quizzical manner.

I'm going mad, she thought. It was simply a raven—it could not think or feel as a person did. And yet the gesture brought some sort of comfort. Again she thought of Sýnin—how her aunt's loyal companion sometimes seemed to read the tenor of Eivor's thoughts.

The raven flew away as Hytham released his hold on Sigrún. He frowned, asking "What is it, child? Is something wrong?"

Sigrún wiped her eyes, sniffing. She'd lost track of the raven as it had taken to the skies to join its brethren. "It's nothing," she managed. "You're right. I should be resting. Let's go back, shall we?"

Night had fallen when Eivor Oswaldsdóttir finally reached her quarry.

The tent was the largest on the premises, and it was guarded by two men. So far Eivor had made her way through the camp without shedding any blood. Not that she was against the idea. If she could have slaughtered every soul present here, Eivor would have gladly done it. Traitorous dogs they were, looking the other way while her people had been butchered by the men of Cent. Perhaps once she would be finished with her current objective, Eivor would let loose, going on a rampage to kill as many of Æthelwold's men as she could before being cut down herself. It would be a good death, one worthy of a saga or two. But for now there was something else she needed to do. And a stealthy approach remained her best bet to pull off her self-imposed mission.

It was a moonless night, and Eivor put the blessing of darkness to good use. Hiding behind a tree, she fired an arrow at the first guard, before lunging at the second as he cried out in alarm. She silenced him with her hidden blade before he could alert more of his companions. Then she slid inside the tent, quiet as a shadow.

Æthelwold ætheling had his back turned to her; he was standing over a table on which a map of Britannia was unfurled. "Hadn't I asked not to be disturbed?" he said, with a weary sigh. "I thought I had been clear on the subj—oh."

The man had glanced behind him. His cheeks drained of blood at the sight of the cloaked figure facing him, yet to his credit he made no motion to flee. Instead, Æthelwold made a small reverence to Eivor as if to greet her.

"Why," he said, as if not surprised to see Eivor standing there, "you're the sister, are you not?"

Eivor did not answer. He returned her gaze without flinching.

"You've come all the way here without alerting the guards? Impressive. Your brother never knew the asset he had on his hands. In his position, I would certainly have put you to better uses."

Eivor remained silent. Blood dripped from the blade at her wrist. Æthelwold took one look at it, then raised his eyebrows.

"I've never seen one of these," he said, quite conversationally, "but are they not supposed to be worn on the inside? To hide the blade from your unfortunate targets?"

Eivor continued to stare. Æthelwold sighed, taking a cask and serving himself a drink. "You don't mind, surely?" he asked Eivor. "A man ought to taste a bit of good wine before he is to breathe his last, I believe."

"Your friend is dead," Eivor blurted out.

Æthelwold's hand went still before the cup reached his lips. "...I'm sorry?"

"Seaxwulf. He's dead."

Æthelwold backed away, holding the table for support. For a moment, the mask of affability broke, and he breathed, "Seaxwulf… dead? No, this cannot… it's not…" He put down the cup with a trembling hand, then hid his face, no doubt to shield that sudden show of emotion from her sight. "Seaxwulf… our dream, the new world we wanted to build… it shouldn't—no, it cannot end here, not like this…" Through his spread fingers, Eivor could still spy one of his eyes, fixed on her, filled with fury. He lost someone he loved, just as I have. Eivor was struck with vindictive satisfaction. Good.

Then the storm had passed, and Æthelwold's smile returned. "Well," he said, "I would still try to stay your hand by appealing to your reason, at the very least. Your brother was a sensible sort, after all." At her growl, he gave a sheepish chuckle. "Oh, please. I respected the man. He had integrity and courage, which are not qualities usually found in our supposedly divinely appointed rulers. It brought me no joy to cause his end." He shrugged—the dismissive gesture of a man used to talking his way out of hard situations. "You know I still remain East Anglia's best hope at survival. Edward would not allow the Danelaw to retain independence. I would. I've no wish to tell you Danes how to govern yourselves. By killing me… you would destroy East Anglia's final chance of remaining a sovereign nation. I've heard good things about your father. Would he want his precious kingdom subsumed into Wessex because you had to follow barbaric traditions to avenge your brother? Sometimes one must choose the lesser of two evils. Think on it, my friend."

Eivor looked at him with a blank stare. She had run out of rage. Now she was… weary. Empty of thought and feeling. Hytham's hidden blade, still dripping gore at her feet, felt as heavy as Eohric's corpse. Her fingers twitched. She continued to stare, unblinking, at the man who had betrayed her brother. The man who had all but killed him. She wanted to surge forward, yet she remained rooted to her spot. She wanted to tear him limb from limb, yet she could not move a muscle. She wanted to scream, yet her throat felt like a well gone empty. Eohric's death had cast a spell on her—powerful seidr that made her feel as if she was no longer inhabiting her own flesh.

Æthelwold drank a sip from his cup, then motioned at her with it. "And?" he asked. "What is your answer?"

She let the silence hang in the air a little longer. "It was necessary," she finally croaked. "That's what you would say, isn't it? Eohric was collateral damage. Not an enemy, just an obstacle in your path. A pebble in your princely shoe. That's all what my brother was, in the end."

"Now, now," Æthelwold said, with a chuckle, "don't you put words in my—"

Eivor lunged at him. Her blade sank into the soft flesh at his neck. Æthelwold's eyes bulged out a little, and he uttered, still smirking, "You cannot… fool yourself… this isn't justice…"

"No," she said, with a strange, toneless voice that didn't feel like her own, "it's not."

He fell at her feet without another sound, and then—and then, Eivor was upon him, stabbing over and over again, snarling in a silent scream of rage, until nothing remained of his face, of his smile, but a mess of red, raw meat.

Æthelflæd waited, hands folded primly in her lap, as the first rays of sunrise timidly peeked inside her tent.

The East Anglian soldier who had guided Æthelflæd here had been a bit bemused when he had first laid eyes on her. Even with her bloody sword and mud-splattered dress, she must have still looked the part of a nobly born lady; if the circumstances had been different, she would have laughed at the silliness of the situation. As things were, she had only asked him before he had left, "Once the lady Sigrún wakes up, would you ask her to come see me, please? Thank you."

Since then, Æthelflæd had sat in her tent, alone. She was anxious to hear how her allies fared after the dreadful events of today. A part of her felt that she did not deserve to be welcomed among the East Anglian survivors huddled in this camp. Often she told herself she should have headed southward, where she would have found her brother's own forces. Several skirmishes had been fought on the way from East Anglia to Holme, she had been told, and Edward had lost many men over the course of the last week. That is why he had ordered a retreat from Sigehelm and his brother; the former had then refused to obey, and the two men had paid this insolence with the price of their lives.

And yet Æthelflæd had guided Cisten north, seeking the remains of King Eohric's army. It was a baffling choice she could not yet explain. Sigrún had made her displeasure rather clear—and Æthelflæd suspected Eivor's welcome would not be any warmer. So why had Æthelflæd returned to face their admittedly well-deserved judgment? She was duty-bound to her brother, was she not? Æthelflæd of Wessex—that had been what Sigrún had called her, spitting out the name of her birth kingdom like a curse. Aelfredsdohtor, Edwardssweostor—that had been who Æthelflæd had been to that sneering snake Sigehelm.

Perhaps she had simply wished to prove them wrong.

Perhaps she had only wanted to show she was more than her father's daughter.

Eventually, she heard voices speaking from outside her tent. Æthelflæd stood up as Hytham helped a limping Sigrún inside. The girl was pale, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. Someone had thankfully changed the bandage on her hand. Æthelflæd sighed in relief; it sickened her to see the poor child in pain.

"Sigrún!" Æthelflæd called. She hesitated, not knowing if the girl would allow her to come forward. "How are you? I heard you were wounded in the battle."

"I am fine," said Sigrún. "Hytham carried me away before I could get hurt." The man gave her a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder in response, and Sigrún managed a slight smile. "He told me you brought about the retreat of Ealdorman Sigehelm's men."

"It was futile to keep on fighting," Æthelflæd said. "There didn't need to be more bloodshed on both parts."

Sigrún directed her smile, as faint as it was, toward her. "Thank you. I… I must apologize for the harsh words I've said before the battle. I was mistaken about you. You are not as self-serving as your cousin. Indeed, you've always tried to do the right thing, even when it was not directly profitable for Wessex."

"You were well within your right to criticise me," Æthelflæd replied, managing a smile of her own. Then, more sombrely, she added, "I've been told of King Eohric's passing—and of Eivor's disappearance. Do you know where she might have gone?"

"No…" Sigrún answered sadly. "God, everyone says we've won the battle, but this does not feel like a victory. Why would Æthelwold even betray the king? They were allies!"

"King Eohric was a charismatic figure," said Æthelflæd, " and he was well liked by his people. Perhaps Æthelwold perceived him as a threat. And there is another thing…" She took a silver medallion out of the pouch at her neck. Sigrún gasped while Hytham hissed out a curse in Arabic. "Sigehelm was part of the Order. Perhaps he and Æthelwold were following their own agenda. One that opposed my brother's—King Edward's will, it seemed." The Order had once sought to put their own puppets on every throne on the Isle of Britannia; certainly their successors had deemed Eohric Oswaldsson to be far too strong-willed to be moulded into a proper pawn.

"Another failure on the part of my Brotherhood," Hytham said. "We are called the Hidden Ones, but our enemies took to the shadows better than we did."

"It's not your fault, Hytham," Sigrún murmured.

"You are kind, my child, but—"

He suddenly turned on his heel, as if alerted by a sudden sound. Immediately after, the tent flap was pushed open, and a dark figure staggered inside, carrying something—a foul-smelling object that left a trail of gore as the newcomer stumbled forward. "Eivor!" Sigrún cried out, Something swooped low in Æthelflæd's belly as she finally realized what the huntress happened to be carrying…

Eivor threw Æthelwold's severed head in the middle of the tent—along with a medallion that gleamed silver in the dim sunlight filtering through the tent. "Æthelwold is dead," she uttered. "My brother has been avenged."

"Oh, Eivor!" Sigrún came forward, taking the huntress' hands in her own. "How am I glad to see you! We were so scared for your safety!"

Eivor did not answer. She met Sigrún's gaze with dark, empty eyes. Then she looked at their joined hands, as if not understanding the intent of such a gesture.

"Eivor?" Sigrún tried again. "Oh, speak to us, Eivor. You are among friends here. Please. Tell us what is wrong…"

Eivor shook her head in a barely perceptible motion. "I told him to do it," she muttered. "I asked him to kill Sigehelm. To avenge our father and restore our family's honour. He went to war because of me."

Sigrún glanced at Æthelflæd. The latter nodded toward Eivor, saying, "It's been done, Eivor. Sigehelm is no more. Your father's shade can finally find rest."

The blank eyes turned to Æthelflæd for a brief moment. "What does it matter? My brother's dead. And I'm—" Eivor let out a hissing sound—a sob she'd failed to stifle. "Eohric's dead because of me! Because I told him, because I asked him—"

"Sh, sh," said Sigrún, reaching to stroke her back, "it's not your fault, no, you didn't—"

Eivor's legs suddenly buckled under her weight, and Sigrún had to guide her fall. Then the huntress was laying her head in Sigrún's lap, clinging and clawing at the worn fabric of her dress, screaming, "Sigehelm's dead… and I don't care! Æthelwold's dead and I don't care! What does it matter when—when I've led East Anglia to her doom, and Thorunn and Eohric, Father and Mother—they're gone, gone, and all that is left is—instead, all I have is—"

"Shh," Sigrún continued, hands protectively enfolded around her friend, "let it all out, Eivor, let it out…"

Eivor responded with a keening wail that pierced through the morning air. She shrieked and screamed, holding on to Sigrún as if the other girl was the only thread still tying her to sanity. Sigrún continued to caress her head, humming words of comfort, until Eivor's sobs subsided, until she stopped shaking in Sigrún's embrace—until a new day dawned on the broken lands that once were the proud kingdoms of Mercia and East Anglia.