Outside the King’s Hall, Arkyn Pladsen had set up a long table on the front square, sorting documents with his aides. Then he heard celebration swelling in the distance—growing louder by the moment—until the sound reverberated through the entire fortress.

  This wasn’t ordinary noise.

  Arkyn frowned, set his papers down, and forced a stiff smile at the aides beside him.

  “Is all of Sandvika holding a feast this time?”

  The aides looked at one another, equally baffled. So Arkyn led them to the main gate to check. Sure enough, the settlement was in the middle of a grand procession.

  Arkyn narrowed his eyes and saw it at once: the crowd was lifting that pale-skinned, small-limbed little “white rabbit” again—Ga. But this time it didn’t look like a prank. They weren’t tossing her around or mocking her like before. Instead, they had built a proper litter decorated with bright cloth, carrying Ga upright and steady, as if honoring her for something enormous.

  The joy was loud—yet strangely solemn.

  That mixture made Arkyn instinctively wary.

  “Can we go, Your Majesty?” one aide asked.

  Arkyn turned—and found the aides’ feet already moving to the rhythm, their bodies itching to run. The suspicion on Arkyn’s brow cracked into a brief laugh. They were still teenagers at heart; forcing them to keep working while the whole settlement roared below would be pure suffocation.

  He waved them off.

  “Go. Enjoy it.”

  The aides whooped and sprinted down the slope—

  And at that exact moment, Viggo came charging up the slope in the opposite direction, dragging the other Jarls with him in a hurry.

  Viggo ran straight into Arkyn, his face split between panic and wild delight. Arkyn planted his hands on his hips.

  “I assume you’re going to explain what’s going on.”

  Viggo sucked in air and nodded hard. “Yeah. It was incredible. I was going to let Ragnhild rest, but I realized it’s all connected—so I sent someone to call that crazy woman over.”

  “That crazy woman is already here.”

  Ragnhild slid past Viggo from behind like a snake, rune-painted and sharp-eyed.

  Viggo nearly jumped. “What the—weren’t you back at the shrine?”

  “With the settlement this loud?” Ragnhild snapped. “And you lot running like that? How could I stay there?”

  Arkyn glanced at the chaos outside and pointed back toward the King’s Hall.

  “It’s too loud here. We’ll talk inside.”

  “Wise as always, Your Majesty,” Viggo said, suddenly performing obedience as he walked at Arkyn’s side.

  They hadn’t gone far when Viggo twisted around and called to Sivran.

  “Hey! Sivran—our royal mead stores are still plenty, right? Can we pull some for this meeting?”

  Sivran frowned slightly. “Plenty. But you understand the royal allotment belongs to His Majesty. To issue it, you need His Majesty’s approval.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Viggo said, then immediately turned to Arkyn with shameless speed. “Hey! Share some. Rare moment—everyone’s together.” He even swayed a little to the distant music.

  Arkyn ignored him and spoke to Sivran instead.

  “This settlement-wide feast may consume more reserves than expected. I authorize you directly—if citizens run short, draw from the royal stores as needed. Afterward we’ll plan how to restore the stock.”

  Sivran nodded. “Understood.”

  Arkyn turned to the woman beside her—Herma.

  “Meat will take the first hit. You know how they get—roasting like mad. Work with Sivran and assess what we’ll need.”

  “No problem,” Herma replied, dry as smoke. “I’m very familiar with sudden binge-eating among carnivores.”

  Arkyn couldn’t help a small smile.

  From the side, Viggo tried again. “So… mead?”

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  Arkyn turned to another aide—Leistr.

  “Right. And the catch—how are the fish stores?”

  Leistr nodded. “No need to worry. The catch around Sandvika is still plentiful, and we’ve stored plenty of dried fish. If you need exact totals, you can ask Sivran.”

  Arkyn sighed with weary amusement. “Fish is oversupplied? So everyone’s gotten picky, huh.”

  Viggo stepped right into Arkyn’s path, trying to physically block him into answering.

  “So can we drink during the meeting?”

  Arkyn finally snapped. “You’re so loud. Fine! Do whatever you want—just don’t drink yourself stupid. Last time you vomited on my carpet and slept on it all night. The stench nearly killed me.”

  Viggo slapped Arkyn’s shoulder. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic! I washed it after I woke up.”

  Arkyn shot him a sideways glare. “You didn’t wash it clean. I had to scrub it again myself.”

  Viggo exaggerated his mouth, hunched his back, and performed misery like a clown.

  “Ohhh? Washed it yourself? What a pitiful king—no servants to command. Always acting like your clothes magically clean themselves, so dignified—pfahahaha!”

  He burst out laughing and, clearly expecting retaliation, bolted ahead.

  A Jarl with a father’s helpless tone—Hallek—sighed.

  “Viggo. That’s enough. Stop disrespecting the King.”

  “It’s fine, Hallek,” Arkyn snapped, abandoning dignity and chasing. “He just hasn’t been kicked in a while. If you’ve got guts, don’t run!”

  “Come on, come on!” Viggo shouted over his shoulder. “Sat on the throne too long—can’t run anymore, huh?”

  “Fine. I declare you get no mead at the meeting.”

  “Hey! That’s cheating!”

  When they finally gathered in the King’s Hall, Viggo downed a full cup of mead at once and started spilling Ga’s story nonstop—from the bear-cage disaster to the unequal duel against the Baerum man. The Jarls listened in disbelief, half convinced he was embellishing.

  Arkyn raised an eyebrow. “You’re not having a drunken episode, are you?”

  “Oh, please!” Viggo scoffed. “Look at me—I’m totally clear-headed.” He poured himself another cup anyway. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll call everyone who watched it—”

  Arkyn thought for a moment, then spoke more quietly.

  “I have noticed the little white rabbit’s will is unusually stubborn. By any normal logic, she should’ve run back to the Roman camp already. That isn’t normal.” He turned. “What do you think, Ragnhild?”

  But Ragnhild wasn’t listening. She was already squatting on the floor, excitedly arranging rune-stones into shifting patterns. She kept changing the formation, cross-checking something no one else could see. The Jarls watched, completely lost.

  After a long while, Ragnhild finally stopped. She drew in breath like a beast, then laughed—ragged, delighted.

  “Hahaha… that girl… she has the will of the shield! She has the will of the shield!”

  Viggo jolted. “Whoa—girl? You’re saying he’s a girl? How many more surprises does that little rabbit have?”

  Arkyn’s expression tightened. “Then what should we do?”

  Ragnhild rose and swept her eyes across every Jarl.

  “What should we do? Or rather—what will you do… no. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.” She suddenly turned and stared at Arkyn, hands trembling as she giggled. “We should ask what she will do. Because she, she…”

  Her voice sharpened, thrilled and cruel:

  “She carries the breath of the shield. She is the shield given shape. She is the Valkyries’ oracle—she is the holy shield the Valkyries have granted us!”

  Viggo immediately turned it into a joke.

  “An oracle? So we grab the little rabbit, ask her the date we retake Oslo, and then we row our Viking fleet back like legends.”

  He even winked at Leistr.

  Leistr—who had been staring into his cup—suddenly brightened. “My Skí can finally see a real battlefield?”

  Viggo slapped Leistr’s back hard. “Not just that! We take Oslo with the rabbit, gain real standing in the world—then your beautiful, fierce Skí can row anywhere they want. The whole world will see how good your ships are.”

  “Wow… that would be amazing… real exchange with the world…”

  As Leistr and Viggo stared at the ceiling daydreaming, Ragnhild lunged forward, slapped Viggo’s cheeks with both hands, and clamped his face so hard it squashed like a crushed tomato.

  “You idiot,” she hissed. “Stop calling her ‘little rabbit.’ She is the chosen—A-Ga-Ga. Revere her. The gods chose her to weave your fate, my fate, his fate—all of it.”

  Viggo’s mouth was mangled, so he could only sputter:

  “Mmpph! Mmpph! Mmpph!”

  (Which clearly meant: I know! Let go! Ugly witch!)

  Ragnhild answered by driving a knee up into Viggo’s groin.

  Viggo collapsed to the floor with a strangled groan. The other Jarls burst into laughter.

  Only Arkyn drank in silence. He set his cup down with a little force.

  “If she is a holy presence,” Arkyn said, voice low and firm, “then we will hold a rite. The gods’ gifts are not to be treated casually. Ragnhild—think on what rite is appropriate. You will instruct us. The rest of you—after this meeting, return to your districts and begin preparations.”

  The room’s mood shifted at once.

  Heavier.

  A tremor moved through everyone, as if the settlement’s fate had turned a page because of one small foreign girl.

  “Your Majesty,” Synvar said quietly, stepping close to Arkyn as the others gathered around Ragnhild to argue details. “There’s something you should see.”

  Synvar produced several fragments—splinters of the shield Ga had used in the duel.

  Far away, Andrew saw thick smoke rising from the direction of the Oslo orphan settlement. He also heard high, loud chants—too unified, too strong.

  He assumed the worst: an enemy tribe invasion.

  “Why is there smoke? Today isn’t a mock battle day. Something’s wrong.” Andrew snapped orders immediately. “Heavy Cavalry, First Shift—emergency muster!”

  He led armored riders at full gallop, fully equipped, charging to support—

  Only to arrive and freeze.

  The smoke wasn’t war-fire.

  It was barbecue smoke pouring out of every household.

  And the thunderous sound wasn’t killing intent.

  It was children’s laughter—wild and bright.

  They were roasting meat around fires, playing instruments, singing, blasting horns, waving torches, competing to see who could chew a sheep bone the cleanest. Even shepherd’s crooks had become drumsticks.

  The whole settlement looked like it had been dumped into a barrel of mead and left there.

  Andrew and his cavalry were still staring when the orphans spotted them in “formal” Roman gear, assumed they’d come to celebrate Ga’s victory—

  and swarmed them like a tide.

  “Come on! Sit! Don’t be shy!”

  “Centurion! Down it in one!”

  “Give him meat! The biggest piece!”

  In seconds, Roman cavalry were shoved into seats at long tables, forced to hold overflowing cups and platters of roasted meat. Their solemn helmets were crowned with flower garlands by laughing hands.

  Andrew scanned the children and muttered under his breath.

  “A lawless pack of feral brats. What new mess have you made this time?”

  Then he raised the cup. The light gleamed in his eyes as his mouth twisted into a crooked grin.

  “Trouble. Of course it’s trouble.”

  And he drank it down in one go.