Chapter Text
Chapter One
The rain had been falling since before dawn, a thin, steady drizzle that whispered against the stone walls of the monastery. It slid down in glistening rivulets, soaking the moss between the flagstones, pooling in the grooves worn deep by the feet of generations of nuns. A heavy fog lay thick over the land, blurring the courtyard and swallowing the view of the coast beyond the walls.
Mary sat on her narrow straw pallet, pulling her coarse wool cloak tight around her shoulders. The damp clung to her skin, the cold creeping into her bones until her fingers ached. But it was not only the weather that made her shiver.
She could still hear Sister Agnes's voice—thin and trembling—repeating words that had unsettled them all. "Men of the north… they will arrive on the back of a serpent over the sea. The world as we know it will end…"
The blind nun had been pacing the long hallways of the monastery for days, her clouded eyes turned toward the wind as though listening for something the rest of them could not hear. Many had dismissed her mutterings as the ramblings of an old mind drifting toward its final rest, but Mary had felt the hair at the back of her neck rise each time she heard them.
Lately, rumours had begun to match the prophecy. Whispers carried from passing merchants and fishermen—stories of pale-haired heathens in long, narrow ships, their prows carved like dragons. Villages burned, churches defiled, people carried off into the unknown.
Mary's fingers curled around the wooden cross hanging from her neck. She tried to pray, but the words came haltingly, as though they resisted leaving her lips. It was easy to be brave if one did not have to be brave. But when danger came close, she could feel her faith shrinking as well.
Another reason why she would never be a perfect nun.
But the monastery was a safe haven. When her uncle had started talking about marriage proposals she had searched her refuge here. And the nuns had welcomed her, loved her, as one of their own.
She would always be grateful for it.
Loving God, being a good Christian came easy being surrounded by these loving women.
If his was heaven, then her uncles court must have been hell.
She would never return, she had promised herself. Even if it meant being scared at night of a serpent that might never appear.
The rain masked many sounds, but the first scream sliced through it like a blade.
She froze.
It came again—sharper, closer—followed by a confused chorus of shouts and hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor outside her cell. Somewhere beyond the walls, there was the deep, resonant thud of something heavy striking wood, followed by a crash as if a door had given way.
Mary was on her feet, her heart pounding. She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders and stepped into the narrow hallway, joining the swirl of movement as other sisters hurried toward the main entry.
A second scream rang out—this one cut short, abruptly swallowed by silence.
The acrid smell of smoke seeped in through the cracks in the stone, mixed with the damp chill of the fog. Mary's bare feet slapped against the cold floor as she ran toward the great oak doors.
They were already ajar. Through the gap, she could see shifting shadows moving in the mist—tall shapes bending and straightening, others dragging something heavy across the stones.
She hesitated, her breath clouding in the cold air.
A figure emerged from the fog.
The man was taller than anyone she had ever seen, his hair wet and tangled, falling to his shoulders in damp locks. His face was streaked with blue paint, the lines running down over cheekbones sharpened by the cold. His eyes—pale, icy blue—locked with hers for the briefest heartbeat. There was no mercy in them.
He stepped forward, an axe in his hand. The blade caught the light in a brief, silver flash before he swung it toward her. It was as if he had chosen her to be the one to die by his hand.
Mary gasped, stumbling back, her foot catching on the edge of the doorway.
The blow never landed.
Another man appeared, catching the first one's arm mid-swing. His face less marked, but his words were strange—harsh and guttural. Whatever he said made the warrior snarl, but he lowered his weapon.
Mary could not move. Her gaze stayed locked on the pale eyes, her breath shallow.
A strange numbness spread through her limbs, the cold and fear mingling until the edges of the world began to fade. Her knees buckled, the dim light above her spinning.
The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was the flare of her saviours breath in the cold air, and those unblinking, unsettling blue eyes watching her fall.
Floki crouched near the altar of the chapel. The rain ran down his face and dripped from the tips of his hair. His hands, long and restless, drummed on the golden coverings, fingers twitching with an energy that was never still.
He did not like the girl.
He did not like the way she lay there, wrapped in a rough wool blanket, her dark hair damp against her pale face. She was too still, too quiet, as though she belonged to another world entirely.
The gods whispered to him. They always did. But today their voices were sharper, more insistent.
She is dangerous, Floki… she is not of us. She will change the way things are. She will bring ruin.
He believed them. He had always believed them.
When Ragnar had ordered him to spare her life, Floki had tried to protest.
"She is nothing but trouble," he had told him. The Gods had told him and he could see it. He could see how she would bring in this unknown light.
This unknown God.
Ragnar had only smiled. "It's not up to you to decide who is trouble, boatbuilder. I forbid you to kill her."
Floki had felt the frown pulling at his face. "New worlds bring new troubles. She will destroy us in the end."
"Perhaps," Ragnar had said, already turning away.
And that was the end of it.
Ragnar never took him seriously. And now they would all pay the price.
She lay among them, hands and feet bound, like a curse. She smelled faintly of the monastery—of incense, smoke, and some sweet, cloying oil they must have used for their rituals.
Her scent made the Gods sick.
Floki tilted his head, watching her chest rise and fall.
Kill her, the gods urged. Before she wakes. Before she speaks her poison into his ears.
His hand slid toward the dagger at his belt.
But Ragnar's voice came again, low and certain: I forbid you to kill her.
Loyalty to Ragnar pulled one way. The whispers of the gods pulled another.
The girl stirred. Her brow furrowed, and she made a faint sound—half sigh, half moan.
Floki's eyes narrowed. His lips curled into something that might have been a smile or a sneer.
"Sleep, little lamb," he murmured, his voice thin and sing-song, almost tender. "Sleep while you can."
He wouldn't kill her now. Not yet.
But he would do it before she got her claws in him.
So then she wouldn't be able to corrupt him: the bear, their fiercest warrior.