In Dunholm's crowded hall, warriors gathered, mingling amidst jeers and raucous laughter that filled the great mead hall. The rafters echoed with various sounds: men bellowing for more mead and food, the gentle singing of a pretty servant girl.
However, to Beocca, all these noises merged into a dull roar.
The clamor of the mead hall and even the sound of his boots thudding against the cobblestoned floor were overshadowed by the pounding of his heart. He had no choice but to follow Thyra's brother, Ragnar, through the boisterous hall.
His mouth felt dry, and he nervously licked his lips. He wished this conversation would end swiftly. Whatever Ragnar wanted from him now, he hoped to get it over with quickly, so he could return to his original mission: finding Uhtred, speaking with him, and then checking on Thyra.
Beocca yearned for Ragnar to unleash all the insults and scornful words he desired, to get this painful conversation over with swiftly. He silently bristled, reluctantly following Ragnar's lead as they made their way to a secluded table in the corner, away from the chaotic noise of the hall.
Ragnar motioned for Beocca to sit, and though he felt a surge of irritation at being ordered around by a heathen Dane without a soul, he suppressed it.
Apart from obeying the commands of the king or Lady Aelswith, Beocca was not accustomed to being told what to do.
However, he understood that he had to accept the authority that Thyra's brother, despite being a godless man, naturally wielded. As he sat across from Ragnar, enduring the contemptuous gaze directed at him, Beocca knew he had to learn to respect the man's accustomed authority, whether he liked it or not.
As Ragnar's icy stare pierced through him, Beocca felt a rush of mental curses and pleaded for God's forgiveness.
He sensed the imminent confrontation and his appetite waned despite the arrival of ale and a meal before them. Ragnar remained silent, his baritone voice dripping with judgment as he asked about his sister in Winchester. Beocca furrowed his brows, realizing he was in no mood for company, especially not with Thyra's brother.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of Ragnar's voice.
"How does my sister fare in your Winchester, Father?" he asked coldly.
Beocca frowned. He could not quite put his finger on how such a simple means of this man speaking could make the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. Nevertheless, he maintained his composure and was ever mindful of social decorum, and responded. A faint smile tugged at Beocca's lips as he reminisced about Thyra's life in Winchester over the past six months. The memories flashed in his mind, some too fleeting to fully grasp, but others remained vivid.
"She has settled into it as though she were born to it," Beocca praised the Dane woman he had grown fond of. His guarded expression softened as he thought of Thyra, who had brought warmth and comfort to his once desolate home.
With her radiant presence, she seemed to rival the very rays of the sun, and Beocca felt grateful for the positive change she had brought into his life. Even Beocca had to admit that Thyra Ragnarsdottir was a sweet sight to behold.
Despite her appearance when he first laid eyes on her, coming out from Kjartan's hall, with her tattered and grimy dress, lifeless and tangled locks, and overgrown fingernails, he could see the underlying beauty even then. But after the madness had been cleansed from her heart, soul, and body, she had transformed into an even more stunning woman that night, leaving no trace of that previous state. Her autumn-colored locks now flowed neatly, adorned with braids, framing her face in a captivating manner.
For the last six months, Thyra spent as much time outside as possible, relishing the feeling of sunlight on her skin after years of being confined in the fortress dungeons.
The mere thought of those dark times sent shivers down Beocca's spine, but he pushed those memories aside, focusing on Thyra's radiant presence. Freckles lightly dusted along the bridge of her slender nose, and her blue eyes resembled the sky after a refreshing rainfall.
Just a while ago, as they walked together around the bailey, Beocca could feel Thyra's warmth extending to him, comforting him several times over. Amid the gloomy walls of Dunholm, Uhtred and Ragnar's sister stood out like the embodiment of summer.
Beocca's brows furrowed as he observed Ragnar, who seemed to almost expand to his full height and bulk, even though he was seated across the table. The imposing figure of Ragnar towered over him, making Beocca feel small in comparison. Ragnar appeared to be struggling to contain his escalating anger, but the internal battle was becoming increasingly difficult to win. His emotions were reaching a boiling point, and it was evident that he was on the brink of losing control.
During the growing silence, Beocca found himself overwhelmed by the deafening noise of his thoughts. Words burst forth from his lips before he could process them, driven by frustration.
"You invited me into your hall to speak, didn't you?" he retorted sharply, sensing that his words struck a nerve as Ragnar's gaze hardened with a touch of rueful superiority. But Beocca refused to be intimidated. He took a deep breath, sitting up straighter, and locked eyes with the heathen Dane, resolute not to divert his attention.
"Yes," Ragnar scoffed, his expression unyielding, "I want to talk about Thyra."
The warrior's request was not unexpected, yet Beocca was surprised by the sharpness in Ragnar's tone. Suppressing a lump in his throat, Beocca felt his throat beginning to burn as if he had swallowed knives. He took a moment to collect himself, willing his anger to subside, and spoke with a deliberate attempt to remain composed and level-headed.
"What of Thyra, Ragnar? She is well-cared for in Winchester and content. What is there to discuss?" he asked, nearly flinching as he realized how cold and impersonal he sounded.
Ragnar's head lowered, and his scrutinizing stare bore into Beocca, who sat across from him.
"I've heard rumors from Haestan, recently arrived in Dunholm, perhaps you spotted him on the road on your way here, Father," Ragnar accused haughtily, his voice carrying a newfound edge. "My sister rarely shows herself in the streets of your Winchester. She keeps to herself within the confines of your house, priest. I've heard of her seclusion but did not want to believe it," he continued, his tone filled with displeasure. "She is hidden away like some… shameful secret, priest. I granted her permission to go to Wessex to make a new life for herself there, but I did not expect to learn that she had traded one cage for another. You have imprisoned her in your wretched hovel of a godforsaken house, away from the rest of society!"
Beocca felt his face flush with humiliation and anger, the weight of Ragnar's accusation pressing down on him like an anvil on his shoulders. Defensively, Beocca retorted, his hands turning clammy and beginning to shake with rage until he dug his fingernails into his palms. The pain was a grounding force, reminding him of what truly mattered.
"You dare accuse me of trapping her inside my home, boy?" he snapped. "Since the king appointed me her protector, I have only ever acted with Thyra's best interests in mind. Your sister has the free will to move about the city as she pleases, though she finds comfort in my home. I am not keeping her trapped; she is not a prisoner."
His face flushed a deep shade of crimson as the image of Dane Earl Haestan's 'charming' face flashed through his mind's eye, searing itself into his brain. He and Thyra had indeed spotted Haestan and his men on the road to Dunholm, but they had wisely hidden themselves and their horses, avoiding any trouble with the Dane's men and certainly not inviting him to join them. Haestan had been a frequent visitor to the palace in Winchester, informing Alfred about his own people's plans multiple times.
Sly and self-interested, Beocca knew Haestan to be a master of self-preservation, willing to do anything for personal gain and to save his skin.
He had always regarded Earl Haestan as a sly and roguish figure, constantly questioning the man's every motive. Nonetheless, Ragnar seemed to trust the Dane enough to allow him entry into Dunholm, but Beocca could not allow Haestan to spread lies.
"That filthy bastard would do anything to see chaos spread throughout the realm like wildfire," Beocca snarled.
Ragnar flinched at the harsh words.
"I'd pretend you had not just said that. You are quick to call someone 'bastard,' priest," he hissed. "And you do not let my sister venture beyond the walls of your home. Are you afraid of what Thyra will say about you? Is that it? I know that she has seen and done things, Father Beocca, things that you surely do not want other Saxons to know about!"
Ragnar's accusation struck Beocca like a stinging slap to the face, reverberating like a cracking palm against his cheek.
Beocca's eyes widened, and the color drained from his face as he grappled with the implication. However, he knew he had to conceal his emotions, quickly regaining his composure before Ragnar could sense how deeply their conversation affected him.
"You dare accuse me of such things, Ragnar?" Beocca growled through clenched teeth, forcing his emotions under control. He ran his nails down the side of the table, not even registering the pain as they scraped against the wood. "As I've just said to you before, I've always acted with your sister's best interest in mind."
Ragnar leaned forward, his bear-like hands resting on the table as he bared his teeth at Beocca. The priest fought the instinct to flinch, determined not to show any sign of weakness. Ragnar's voice lowered, a clear attempt to control his temper and prevent tensions from escalating further, while still maintaining an intense demeanor.
"And what about your 'best interests,' Beocca?" Ragnar questioned. "Do you relish having my sister under your care, Father? Hmm? Is she merely here to satisfy your desires and warm your bed during these cold, lonely nights of winter? How does she ride then, if that's the case?" he growled accusingly, his dark eyes now smoldering with unbridled fury.
Beocca recoiled, his anger reaching a boiling point, and he felt the urge to launch himself across the table at Thyra's brother, wrapping his hands around his throat. His hands trembled with rage, and a dark part of him even entertained thoughts of Ragnar Ragnarsson's demise, envisioning the table's clean wood stained red with the man's blood.
How dare he make such a vile accusation?
"How dare you?!" Beocca roared, his fury evident. "I am, and always will be, a man of God, first and foremost, Ragnar. I have devoted my entire life to serving Him and His people. My intentions towards your sister have been nothing but pure."
The edges of Ragnar's beard twitched involuntarily, and to Beocca's horror and fury, a smile played upon his lips, resembling more of a smirk.
As Ragnar looked at him, it felt as though he saw through Beocca, as if he knew something about Thyra, about Beocca himself, that he had not yet discovered. It unnerved the priest deeply as if his true self was being laid bare before Ragnar's perceptive gaze, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was that Ragnar saw or sensed beneath the surface. It was like peering through a façade, leaving Beocca unsettled and uncertain.
"Are they, Father?" Ragnar grunted, a smug tone evident in his voice. "You might deceive others, priest, but not me. I saw how you were looking at her in the bailey, Beocca, and how you treat my sister with such affection, just as a man should cherish his woman. Even she clings to your every word, drinking them in like a woman dying of thirst in a scorching desert."
Despite Ragnar's words, Beocca's expression momentarily softened before he swiftly veiled it with anger. His voice trembled, yet he noticed it growing more defensive as they discussed Thyra.
"You are wrong, Ragnar! I care for Thyra just as I would any soul in need of guidance," he snapped.
Ragnar arched an eyebrow in disbelief, scoffing and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling of his hall, clearly unconvinced by Beocca's words.
"Any soul, Father Beocca? Is that truly what you tell yourself, priest? Or do you try to convince yourself that it is just part of your duty as a man of your God?"
Beocca's face paled, and he swiftly turned his head to the left, deliberately avoiding Ragnar's eyes.
"You lack understanding, of God's work and His will. If you permit, I would rather leave this conversation before we say something we'll regret later. Thyra holds a special place in my heart, Ragnar. She is a delightful soul, and we often converse, especially in the evenings. As a priest of God, I have to protect the vulnerable and guide the lost. Thyra's spirit was deeply wounded by the heinous acts of Kjartan and Sven several months ago, and it is my responsibility to aid in her healing. She has seldom been apart from me."
Ragnar's eyes narrowed, showing his skepticism despite Beocca's sense that he was paying close attention. Nevertheless, Beocca found solace in the fact that Ragnar was at least listening. With a deep breath to steady himself, he endeavored to mend the palpable tension between them. His voice softened, becoming much gentler than before.
"Ragnar, believe me when I say I have never 'locked Thyra' away in my home, regardless of what you may think. It was her choice to come to Wessex, as you might recall," he retorted, the embers of anger flickering in his eyes as he recollected the morning Thyra had sat with Ragnar by the fire, discussing her wishes and dreams for the future.
She had expressed her desire to move to Wessex, seeking a new and happier life for herself, away from the painful memories of Dunholm.
His heart swelled with the memory of how Thyra had hardly left his side since then, and he continued to explain, "She needed a haven, a place where she could find some semblance of peace. Winchester, in Wessex, has become your sister's source of happiness."
But Ragnar remained steadfast. "And what about her freedom, Father Beocca? Thyra's right to make her own choices? You have taken that from my sister!"
"You wield power over her, Beocca, and you're well aware of it. Spare me your lies; I can detect them," Ragnar growled, his teeth clenched. Beocca's eyes widened, and his mouth formed a scowl as he glared back.
"You're talking through your arse, boy, if you believe I would ever dare to abuse my power over anyone, especially someone like your sister. Thyra is a delicate woman who has already suffered enough. She's like a wounded bird, and I'm merely trying to aid her healing and keep her safe until she's ready to soar again."
Beocca hesitated, nibbling on his inner cheek as he thought he detected a glimmer of understanding in Ragnar's dark eyes.
But Thyra's brother wasn't allowing himself to fully believe it. After a moment or two, Ragnar spoke, and his expression softened. He had perceived the genuine concern in Beocca's eyes and heard it in the tone of his voice. He lowered his voice, no longer accusatory and hostile toward his sister's protector.
"She will always be my sister, Father. I deeply care for Thyra, Father Beocca. I only want what's best for her, and given how I failed her, I suppose... perhaps it is best, after all, that Thyra went with you to Wessex."
Beocca nodded, recognizing the sincerity in Ragnar's words. A heavy silence settled between the Saxon priest and the Danish warlord, stretching beyond what felt comfortable.
Ragnar appeared torn, his conflicting emotions etched across his tired and careworn face. He released a frustrated sigh and momentarily averted his gaze, seemingly gathering his thoughts. When he looked back at Beocca, his expression was eerily calm, yet tinged with resignation in his gruff voice.
"I still don't know if I can fully trust you, priest. But as long as both of you are here, I will keep a vigilant eye on my sister. I'll spare no effort in looking after Thyra, and if I sense even the slightest hint of her unhappiness with you, I won't hesitate to keep her here and prevent her from returning with you."
Beocca nodded solemnly, though uncertain about the true meaning behind Ragnar's words regarding Thyra's happiness, he grasped the weight of the Dane warlord's promise.
"Fair enough, Ragnar. You are her brother, and perhaps you know her best, besides Uhtred. I will continue to do my best for your sister, but rest assured, I will not allow anyone to harm her," he growled, his determination unwavering. "That includes you, Ragnar."
Ragnar made a dissatisfied noise through his nose, almost attempting a laugh, as he stood up, apparently uninterested in the turn their conversation had taken. Despite this, he nodded, acknowledging Beocca's resolute commitment to Thyra's well-being and safety. As he turned to leave, his steps seemed heavy with conflicting emotions. He paused and slightly turned his head, his expression indecipherable to Beocca.
"I hope you are right, Father Beocca," Ragnar muttered darkly in a soft, almost timid voice, an unusual contrast to his gruff appearance. "I hope that you are the one who can truly bring Thyra peace, whatever else may happen to her."
Beocca frowned, watching Ragnar walk away, still puzzled by his words. However, a newfound sense of self-awareness began to bloom within him about his feelings for Thyra and their deepening bond.
Remaining seated at the table in the hall, lost in contemplation of the recent conversation, Beocca realized with a jolt that Ragnar might have recognized something in him that he had not yet acknowledged.
Arm in arm, Thyra and Brida strolled through the halls of Dunholm, but the tension between them was undeniable. Unspoken emotions filled the air, and Brida's anger over what she and Ragnar had witnessed in the bailey, their gazes lingering upon Thyra holding Beocca's hands as though she would never hold him again. Despite the years apart, Thyra believed she understood her closest friend well enough to sense when something was bothering Brida.
It was evident that she was upset, and Thyra longed to find the right words to console her, almost wishing Beocca was by her side. He had a way of soothing her with his words whenever she needed it most, and she hoped his skill would somehow transfer to her at that moment. Hand in hand, Thyra and Brida walked through the echoing halls of Dunholm. However, the tight grip between them couldn't hide the underlying tension and unspoken emotions that weighed heavily in the air. Brida's face was etched with anger, and Thyra couldn't help but pray, both to the old Norse gods and her new Christian God, that Brida's ire wasn't directed at her.
Guided by Brida, they found themselves in an isolated chamber within the fortress. Thyra's heart was racing, the sound thundering in her chest as they entered the room.
Ever since Brida had asked for a private conversation, her words had been scarce, leaving Thyra on edge. As they made their way down the hall, she struggled to steady her breath, her mind still reeling from the revelation she had encountered merely five minutes ago while standing outside in the bailey, holding Beocca's hand.
The weight of her revelation began to settle in, and her hand retained a faint tingle, as though Beocca had left a part of himself with her when he had departed through the hall's doors. It felt like a lingering connection—one that she hoped would never fade away.
With her fingers now tingling, she found herself silently praying that this sensation would remain with her for all time. Brida's anger remained unspoken, yet Thyra's familiarity with her dearest friend allowed her to sense the storm of emotions brewing within the warrior.
Brida's dark eyes burned with hurt and a sense of betrayal, emotions that Thyra couldn't help but feel partly responsible for, as she was involved in causing them.
She hoped that Brida would understand and respect her decision, even though it meant choosing Beocca, the man who brought her peace and happiness, just as Ragnar was the one who meant everything to Brida. The embarrassment flushed Thyra's cheeks as she silently prayed to uncover the truth about Beocca's feelings.
Perhaps, when the right time came and tensions eased between them, she could have that conversation. But she knew that the forthcoming talk with Brida wouldn't be easy.
There were difficult truths to confront, and Thyra was bracing herself for the storm that awaited them. As they entered a small room at the far end of the hall, the corridor appeared deserted, ensuring that their conversation would remain private, away from any potential eavesdroppers.
Thyra felt a shiver run down her spine as she turned to look at her dearest friend while Brida closed the door firmly. Thyra anticipated a storm of anger, expecting Brida to scold her for her choice of men and hurl insults at Beocca.
However, to Thyra's surprise, Brida didn't unleash her fury. Instead, she kept her back turned to Thyra and maintained a silence that puzzled her.
Inexplicably, Thyra sensed a glimmer of hope that maybe Brida could still be reasoned with. Gathering her emotions and trying to prevent her hurt feelings from showing, Thyra took a deep breath and spoke slowly, hoping to find a way to bridge the gap between them.
"Brida, please, before you get angry, allow me to explain," Thyra pleaded in a quivering voice. She nervously bit her cheek and began wringing her hands in front of her. Her voice carried a slight stutter, a clear sign of her nervousness, but she couldn't help it.
Brida's brow crumpled in pure curiosity for a moment as she studied her former dearest friend in silence. When she did finally speak to Thyra, it was in a voice that stuffed the chills down her throat, a voice that Thyra could only describe as a low and vicious growl.
"Explain what, Thyra? From what I could see, there is nothing of you left that needs explaining," she bit out in a hurt voice. "You are much changed, Thyra, since you went to live with that priest. I can see it in your eyes. The way you speak, the things you do. You've become more like them, the Saxons!" she accused, bitterness in her tone evident.
Thyra straightened her posture, meeting Brida's accusatory gaze with a mix of determination and sadness. Thyra felt her defenses rise, and her cheeks burned in both humiliation and anger at hearing her friend's hurtful accusations.
"I have changed, Brida, but not in the way you think. Beocca... I know you do not like him. You told me that day in Dunholm that he was loud and rude, but he's been kind and good to me. He had the words to comfort me when no one else did. He helped me heal from the pain of what those bastards did to me." Frustration bubbled to life within her chest, though Thyra forced herself to stamp it back down, refusing to let Brida see it. "He has helped me find peace in his Christianity, but it doesn't mean I have abandoned my roots or the gods," Thyra whispered, hoping and praying to God that Brida would understand her reasons.
Brida's expression softened for a moment as she processed Thyra's words.
"He... helped you heal?" she asked, her voice still laced with skepticism.
Thyra took a deep breath and nodded, her worried expression softening somewhat as she saw flashes of Beocca's face in her mind.
"He did, my friend. He has been nothing but kind and good to me, just as I am certain Ragnar has been to you since he became your man. I'm not abandoning anyone from my past, Brida. I've found some goodness in Christianity since I allowed myself to be baptized. The old gods let me down time and time again. They didn't answer my prayers when I needed them the most, facing Sven and his father," she confessed, her expression filled with pain.
Brida scoffed, and a dark cloud seemed to settle over her features.
"What peace could your new foreign god offer that Odin, Thor, and Freyja couldn't? You're forsaking our people and our traditions, Thyra! Your conversion to the Christian faith is an affront to your family's memory. We are Danes, Thyra, we do not seek comfort and 'peace,' we seek victory and glory in the halls of Valhalla, to be welcomed into Asgard with open arms!"
As Thyra observed Brida's physical stiffening, her stomach sank, bracing for what was about to unfold. Brida slowly raised her eyes to meet Thyra's, her face a tumult of anger and rage, hotter than dragon fire. But just as Brida's fury seemed ready to explode, she stopped herself upon locking gazes with her dearest friend.
"Why?" Brida's voice cracked, and she almost sounded on the verge of tears, her disbelief evident in the trembling words. "You are Earl Ragnar's daughter and his sister. What could have possibly driven you to this life, Thyra?" Brida demanded.
Frustration surged within Thyra, yet she suppressed it, determined not to reveal her emotions to Brida.
"What good has striving for a life in the halls of Valhalla brought us, Brida? It's been nothing but countless battles, bloodshed, and loss. As mighty as our gods are, they haven't shielded us from suffering. Perhaps it's time we consider a different path, Brida."
Brida staggered back, her face drained of color, and her lips fell agape in disbelief. It seemed as though Thyra's words had struck her like a physical blow.
"A different path, Thyra? These... these lies are what your Father Beocca has filled your head with? He has brainwashed you, Thyra, making you believe that his God is the only way to find peace and happiness!"
"No, you're wrong, Brida! Beocca hasn't forced anything on me; he respected my beliefs and supported me when no one else did. I made this choice, my friend. I chose to become a Christian," Thyra protested hoarsely, glaring at Brida.
Her eyes were fixed on her friend, unflinching and intense, though she cringed at the low and dangerous tone her voice had taken.
She felt a rising fear within herself, realizing she was every inch the Dane she had been raised to be, and she swore she heard the shadow of her mother's voice emanating from her lips.
Brida's shoulders slumped, the anger and resistance draining from her friend's stance.
"I... I do not want to lose you, Thyra, nor does Ragnar," Brida whispered, her voice cracking as the confession escaped her lips. She sniffed and quickly turned her head away, though not before Thyra caught the glimmer of unshed tears that threatened to spill from Brida's eyes unless she could manage to fight back the salty liquid.
Thyra drew in a sharp breath and held it for a moment as she dared to step closer to Brida and took Brida's hands in her own.
"Neither of you will lose me, Brida. We have been through too much together, all of us. My heart holds both the old and the new, and I need you to understand that. I have a new life in Wessex now, one that I am happy with."
Brida's eyes searched Thyra's face for a moment, and then something within her friend seemed to shift.
"You are in love with your Father Beocca, Thyra, aren't you?" she asked, her expression stern and unsmiling.
Thyra felt the color drain from her face, and her thoughts began to race uncontrollably. The word crashed into Thyra's small and sheltered world so abruptly that she could hardly process it in her head.
Throughout the six long moons that had passed as she adjusted to her new life in Wessex, Thyra had avoided explicitly defining her feelings for Beocca. Earlier, when she kissed his hand without any anxiety, she chose not to delve too deeply into her emotions, fearing what she might discover.
She had admitted to herself that there was indeed something, but she hesitated to fully commit and say... ...to say that she was in love with him.
In love with a Saxon priest, and the king's priest. How foolish it seemed.
"Don't start to, Thyra!" Brida's harsh words caught Thyra off guard, and she looked up to see her friend gazing at her with a mix of concern and worry.
Thyra instinctively lifted a hand to her cheek, and at that moment, she realized she had been openly crying without even being aware of the tears streaming down her face.
"What do you mean?" Thyra asked, her voice trembling with emotion.
Brida rushed forward, using her sleeves to wipe Thyra's tear-streaked face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but if you think this is the best life for you now, you're wrong. You are Earl Ragnar's only daughter, the last descendant of his family alongside Ragnar, and I won't stand to see his kin die in Wessex."
Thyra's brows furrowed in confusion, her eyes red and puffy from hours of crying.
Despite her distress, she couldn't ignore Brida's warning. As Brida sighed and averted her gaze, a sense of foreboding shrouded Thyra.
"Brida?" Thyra pressed, sensing that her dearest friend was keeping something from her—something that might also concern Beocca and even Uhtred.
Brida locked eyes with her and spoke with grave intensity, her words stripped of any jest or levity.
"Thyra, my friend, I know this is hard to hear, but you should consider staying behind. Do not return to Winchester with your priest. Ragnar and I intend to march on Wessex once their king, Alfred, is dead, and his weak pup of a boy Edward is put on the throne. We'd gut him and claim Wessex for the Danes. Your home would be razed and burned."
"Stop..." A tear slipped down Thyra's cheek as she gasped, unable to bear hearing more. "I-I don't want to hear anymore, Brida. I can't comprehend all of this right now." Feeling overwhelmed, Thyra stepped back, shaking her head, yearning for the frigid air outside.
She had abandoned hope of finding a place resembling home following her liberation from Dunholm until she met Beocca. Now, when she thought she had finally found a sense of belonging, Brida's news crashed over her like a tidal wave. She turned on her heels and, with a swift twist of her skirts, stormed away, leaving Brida unable to call her back.
Thyra slammed the door behind her, refusing to look back, not daring to confront the heart-wrenching choice that lay ahead.