This Day Forward
Kaya sat atop her horse; her gaze fixed on the fortress looming before them. The stone walls stood high and unyielding, a testament to the Saxons' stubbornness. Guards lined the battlements, gripping their spears and shields, their watchful eyes scanning for any sign of an attack.
A group of strong warriors were already prepared to go through the gates.
She had anticipated a fight. No king surrendered his throne without blood being spilled. Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to unsheathe her blade, to carve through the resistance that would surely meet them at the gates.
Above, the raven let out a piercing caw, circling in the sky like an omen of death. It was as if the gods themselves had granted permission for the slaughter to begin.
A voice bellowed from the fortress, echoing over the open field.
"Look at these pagan rats!"
Kaya's jaw tightened. Her head snapped up, eyes locking onto the man who stood atop the battlements, his presence radiating self-righteous arrogance. King Burgred.
The so-called king clutched his sword at his side, his expression contorted with disgust as he peered down at the force gathered before his gates. "Ravenous, unseemly beasts, teeming over holy ground," he spat.
Kaya felt her eye twitch at the wordpagan.She was many things, but that was not one of them. A fool who barked from the safety of his walls was a fool who would fall hard.
Her voice was quiet but laced with venom.
"This land is far from being holy," she muttered, her eyes locked onto Burgred with a deadly gleam.
Kaya narrowed her eyes, studying the exchange atop the fortress. King Burgred was not pleased with the man beside him. His expression twisted with barely concealed irritation; his movements sharp as he leaned into whisper something harshly. The man—his posture betraying nothing, though there was an air of quiet defiance about him.
They had unmounted their horses by now, stepping closer to the fortress, their boots crunching against the dirt and gravel beneath them.
Kaya's gaze lingered on the man. She had expected him to be long dead after their last encounter. Hanging upside down, left to the mercy of Ivarr's twisted games—it should have been the end of him.
Thought he'd be dead,she mused.
Then, to her irritation, Ivarr's voice shattered the air like an axe against stone.
"Is that you, Leofrith?" he bellowed, his tone drenched in mockery.
Kaya clenched her jaw as Ivarr strode forward, grinning like a beast that had found its prey once again.
"How quickly you recover," he continued, his voice carrying easily to the walls. "I'm beginning to wonder—are you man, or somethingelsebeneath all that armor?"
Kaya exhaled slowly through her nose.Gods, he never shuts up.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to silence him herself. But maybe the battlefield would do it for her soon enough. Unlikely, but one could hope.
"A man of God stands before you, Ivarr. Proud and resolute," Leofrith declared, his voice steady despite the bruises still marking his body. His wounds had not broken him—neither in spirit nor mind.
Kaya smirked, scoffing at his words.As if their god could protect them from the men standing at her side.Faith was a fragile shield against steel, and she had seen too many men clutch their prayers as their lifeblood spilled into the dirt.
Then again, she was no better. Her hands were stained red, just like theirs.
"That's Burgred's war-thegn," Ubba cut in, his voice calm but firm. "Killed a dozen of our men in an ambush along the River Trent." He tilted his head toward Ivarr. "It was his axe that stopped him."
Kaya exhaled sharply, unimpressed. "Fascinating," she muttered, sarcasm thick in her tone.
Beside her, Sigurd let out a quiet chuckle before nudging her side with his elbow. Kaya let out a gruff sound, rubbing at her ribs where he had struck her.
"What?" she snapped, shooting him a glare.
Sigurd only smirked, clearly enjoying himself.
"That is a perfect description of a perfect thirty-yard toss," Ivarr declared, as if his words were undeniable fact. His grin stretched wide; his eyes gleaming with unhinged amusement.
Kaya opened her mouth, fully prepared to cut him down with a remark of her own, but before she could get a word out, Sigurd elbowed her—again.
She let out a sharp exhale, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Can you stop that?" she hissed under her breath.
Sigurd smirked but said nothing.
Ceolbert, watching the exchange with mild hesitation, turned to Eivor. "Is she always so…?"
Eivor didn't even glance at Kaya before answering. "You get used to it."
Before Kaya could decide whether to be insulted or not, a voice cut through their banter like a blade.
"Enough jawing, heathens! Speak your piece," King Burgred barked from the battlements, his impatience plain as day.
Kaya tilted her head slightly, her gaze settling on the so-called king.
"We've come for your crown,lord," Ubba stated, his voice even, unwavering. There was no hesitation in his tone—only certainty.
"With or without your head attached," Ivarr added, his grin sharp as a blade, his amusement thinly veiled beneath the promise of violence.
King Burgred stood tall atop his fortress, his expression one of feigned indifference. "I admire your ambition, pagan," he shouted down, unimpressed by their threats. "But what you ask is impossible. No Dane ever has, nor ever will, occupy Mercia's sacred throne."
Kaya scoffed quietly.Sacred throne?There was no such thing. Thrones were built on blood and war, not sanctity.
Eivor smirked, his tone laced with amusement. "Would you settle for a Norse? We're not as gentle, but we are much better poets."
Kaya smirked at that. Whether Eivor aimed to irritate Burgred or simply entertain himself, she appreciated his ability to do both.
King Burgred's face twisted, his patience thinning.
Kaya exhaled slowly, then lifted her gaze to him. "Or maybe a desert nomad?" she called out, her voice carrying across the open field. She reached up, pulling down her hood, letting the wind catch her dark hair. "Daughter of a chieftain? The ancient pharaohs made better kings than you."
Eivor's brows lifted slightly at Kaya's words.A daughter of a nomad chieftain?He had always known she hailed from the desert, from a people who lived and fought in the shadows, but this—this was something else entirely. Pharaohs? That wasn't just any desert clan; it was a lineage steeped in history and power.
Sigurd, however, remained unfazed. He had known. He had heard whispers of her past before, from Mentor Ishmael, from the fragments she had allowed to slip. Kaya had been destined to lead her people—not to be swallowed by the Hidden Ones, not to be standing here among Norse invaders. Yet here she was.
Ubba and Ivarr exchanged glances, their own thoughts simmering behind unreadable expressions. It explained the fire in her belly, the way she never backed down. A woman who carried herself like a warlord despite keeping her past buried.
Ceolbert, young and eager, watched her with newfound curiosity. She was an enigma—a warrior from the desert, clad in strange clothing that veiled her identity. And when his gaze drifted to her left hand, he noticed it.
A missing ring finger.
Ceolbert frowned slightly, his curiosity deepening. How had that injury come to pass? Was it a battle wound? A punishment? Or something more ritualistic? He wanted to ask, but something about Kaya's demeanor made him hesitate.
King Burgred, however, was unimpressed. His lip curled as he spat toward them from atop the fortress wall.
King Burgred let out a sharp scoff from his perch atop the fortress. His lip curled in disdain. "Norse. Dane. Desert rat. Dog. You're all the same to me—allgodless."
Then, with deliberate disrespect, he spat in their direction. The glob of saliva landed in the dirt just shy of their boots.
Kaya's fingers twitched. Her hidden blade ached to extend, to carve the insult from his tongue.
Up above, Leofrith turned toward his king, his posture formal but his voice low, words exchanged in hushed whispers. Whatever he said, it did little to soothe Burgred's temper.
The so-called king turned back; his face twisted with frustration.
"I grow weary of this palaver!" he shouted. His voice carried across the open air, laced with bitterness. "You have trampled our lands, toppled our monuments. We've given you silver, fed your people."
"And yet, in spite of all this, your encroachment on my kingdomcontinues!"
King Burgred's voice thundered from the battlements, his frustration spilling over like an overfilled goblet. His hands gripped the stone edge before him, his knuckles white with strain.
He was a man burdened by duty, by desperation—a king trying to protect what was left of his people. But desperation made men reckless. Kaya had seen it before. And she knew how it always ended.
"No more!" Burgred bellowed. "We willdiedefending what is ours, whatsoever the cost!"
There it was. The final, mad declaration of a man who had already lost but refused to see it.
Kaya exhaled slowly, fingers curling at her sides. The Hidden Ones had taught her not to choose sides, only to honor contracts, but she had seen men like Burgred before—men who clung to their crowns even as the world crumbled around them. He would fight to his last breath, not for his people, but for himself.
His pride would see Mercia burn before he relinquished his throne.
Burgred straightened, his chest rising with forced bravado. His next words rang out for all of England to hear.
"If you want my crown, Ubba Ragnarsson, you must pry it from mybloodlesscorpse.Man the walls!"
The fortress stirred to life.
Guards scrambled, weapons drawn, shields raised. The clatter of steel and shouted orders filled the air as Mercia prepared for war.
Kaya rolled her shoulders, letting out a quiet breath.
"Back to the camp. Round up the men.We're taking Tamworth tonight!" Ubba's voice rang with command, his words a call to arms.
Kaya didn't look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the stone walls of the fortress, studying them, measuring their height, their weaknesses. She could scale them with ease. If only she had a contract to end this stubborn king who would rather starve his men than surrender in peace.
Her fingers twitched at the thought.
Ubba turned to Eivor, his tone brisk. "Eivor, tell the captain we're ready to march. Ivarr and I will round up the men." He smirked. "Do you know your way around a battering ram?"
Sigurd, standing nearby, turned toward Kaya—only to find empty space where she had been a moment ago.
His smirk faded.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
Kaya had vanished.
And knowing her, she wasn't waiting for a battering ram.
It didn't take long for the men to notice.
Kaya was gone.
Eivor scanned the gathered warriors, his brow furrowing. His gaze flicked to Sigurd, silently demanding an answer.
Ubba, Ivarr, and Ceolbert had noticed as well.
"You know where she went?" Eivor asked, raising a brow.
Sigurd smirked faintly but didn't look at him. His gaze was fixed on the fortress ahead, the spot where Kaya had stood just moments ago.
Ubba let out a short breath, shaking his head as he walked back to Eivor's side. "Your friend," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "She is truly a spitfire."
Ivarr, of course, couldn't let the moment pass without adding his own commentary. "Shame, really. I was starting to enjoy hersweetwords," he said, grinning. "Almost miss them already."
Sigurd finally spoke, his voice even, assured. "There is still much you need to learn, Eivor." He gestured toward the looming fortress, its stone walls standing firm beneath the afternoon light. "When a wall is high and seems impenetrable, the shadows find the cracks within it."
Eivor exhaled sharply, understanding dawning. "She's inside, isn't she?"
Sigurd nodded. "She will not yet kill King Burgred. She knows her creed." He tilted his head slightly, watching as a raven cawed high above them, circling before disappearing into the sky. "She will sit and wait."
Ubba crossed his arms, watching the fortress warily. "Thisclanshe comes from," he said, glancing at Sigurd. "Who are they?"
Sigurd's smirk deepened ever so slightly.
"The Hidden Ones," he said.
Ubba let the words settle. He had heard of them in passing whispers of a silent war fought in the dark, unseen hands pulling at the strings of kings and empires.
Ivarr only chuckled. "Oh, this just gotinteresting."
Eivor remained silent, his gaze locked onto the fortress, thoughts weighing heavy.
Inside those walls, Kaya was already moving.
And soon, Burgred would come to understand the patience of a hunter.
Kaya had counted each guard, memorized their movements. They walked their rounds, stood watch for a time, then moved on to another section of the fortress, repeating their routine like clockwork.
The walls were high, imposing to the untrained eye, but to Kaya, they were merely an obstacle. Her calloused hands gripped the rough stone, her fingers finding the smallest imperfections, the hidden holds that others overlooked. She scaled the fortress with silent precision, keeping to the shadows, her breath controlled, her muscles burning with steady exertion.
By the time she reached the top, she was already gone from their sight.
She moved swiftly, ducking low, making her way along the inner side of the walls where prying eyes would not follow. The stone was cold beneath her fingertips as she pressed against it, listening—watching.
Then she found it. A small crevice in the stonework, just large enough to disappear into.
She settled in, her body coiled but at rest. Here, she would wait.
The sun was still high, but she would not move until it dipped beyond the horizon. Until shadows consumed the land, and she could slip through the fortress unseen.
Kaya exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing the hilt of her blade. She would need her strength later—no use wasting it now.
For the first time since slipping away from the others, she allowed herself tobreathe.
To be alone.
But even here, in the stillness, her mind refused to quiet.
She had nearly killed Eivor.
Her hidden blade had been inches from killing him, her body poised for the kill. And for what? A nightmare? The black wolf had always watched from a distance, a phantom that lurked at the edge of her mind. But this time, it had lunged. This time, it hadattacked.
She clenched her jaw, pushing the memory away.
Below, voices drifted up from the courtyard. The guards spoke in low tones, their words unremarkable complaints of cold food, of boredom, of long hours on watch.
Simple things.
Kaya remained still, listening, waiting.
By nightfall, she would move.
And by dawn, King Burgred would learn that no walls could keep out the inevitable.
Hytham sat hunched over the desk, quill scratching against parchment. His mind was occupied, focused on the task at hand.
Since Kaya's departure, he had not allowed himself the indulgence of idleness. Even with the dull ache in his side, he found ways to be useful assisting where he could, gathering reports, ensuring the village remained secure. But more than anything, he had thrown himself into his work.
Before him, maps of England sprawled across the table, the inked lines detailing the fractured lands, divided by war and ambition. His fingers traced over areas marked with symbols—places once whispered to hold Hidden Ones' structures, long abandoned, or worse, taken by those who would see their order erased.
He was so deep in thought that he did not hear the flutter of large wings outside.
A sharpthudagainst the wooden door jolted him from his concentration. A second knock followed; this time more deliberate—strong, precise.
Hytham's brow furrowed. He set the quill aside and rose from his seat, moving swiftly to the door.
When he pulled it open, the evening air greeted him, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant smoke. His gaze dropped to the ground.
A parchment.
His heartbeat quickened.
Reaching down, he plucked the rolled message from where it had been dropped, his fingers moving deftly to unseal it. The wax cracked beneath his touch as he unfurled the parchment, his eyes scanning the words written in careful, practiced strokes.
His breath caught.
With each sentence, his pulse pounded harder against his ribs.
"Mentor Ishmael has set foot in England."
The words left his lips in a whisper, barely audible over the wind.
His grip tightened around the parchment, his mind racing.This changes everything.
Kaya revered Mentor Ishmael. She would heed his every word without question. And if what he suspected was true… if the Mentor had come to finalize anarrangement—analliance—then Hytham had no choice.
He could not let Kaya's fate be dictated by another.
Even if it meant going against the Hidden Ones.
Even if it meant breaking every rule he had sworn to uphold.
Hytham closed his eyes for a brief moment, steadying himself.
If Ishmael had come with the intention of offering Kaya's hand to another, then Hytham would make a choice of his own.
He would make Kaya his wife—no matter the cost.
The parchment crumpled slightly in his grip.
He would not let her freedom slip into the hands of another.