BLOOD IN THE SNOW

1 Fate Worse Than Death

“ᚹᛖᛚᛚ, ᚹᚺᚨᛏ ᚹᛖ ᚺᚨᚡᛖ ᚺᛖᚱᛖ, ᚨᚾ ᛁᚾᛃᚢᚱᛖᛞ ᛒᚢᚾᚾᚤ, ᚺᚢᚺ? ᛋᚺᛟᚢᛚᛞ ᛁ ᛃᚢᛋᛏ ᛋᚴᛁᚾ ᚤᛟᚢ ᚺᛖᚱᛖ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚠᛖᛖᛞ ᚤᛟᚢ ᛏᛟ ᛗᚤ ᚹᛟᛚᚡᛖᛋ?”

I guessed it was something they said to everyone before cutting their head off.

“Pardon? I don’t understand,” I muttered, looking up at the tall, hooded figure.

The Viking tilted his head, a dark smirk playing on his lips as he studied me. Snowflakes caught in my lashes. I looked down and saw his grip tighten on the hilt of his sword. I flinched.

He crouched down, close enough to reveal more than a glimpse of the face underneath. “Bleeding in the snow. Why shouldn’t I let the wolves decide her fate?” he echoed in rough, accented Common Tongue. I could make out his icy eyes flickering, then narrowing. My mouth opened to speak, but I sensed it was rhetorical.

“So, you speak English... Could you repeat what you said before?”

His breath curled in a frosty cloud as he chuckled low. “You shouldn’t worry about that. I’m still deciding whether to patch you up or peel that skin off for a new fur lining.” His gaze dropped to my wound, then snapped back up, colder now. “Answer fast. My patience runs thinner than the ice you’re bleeding on.”

I cleared my throat, ignoring the threat. “Well, I suppose helping me would be the moral thing to do. You don’t seem like a bad person. If I squint, that is.” I couldn’t help but add.

“I don’t do nice. I fight and kill,” he growled. Suddenly, he stood, his face hardened. “I’ll play knight for a heartbeat, little bunny. Who’s after you?”

“Vikings.”

The man froze. Then a dark, rumbling laugh tore from his chest, echoing across the frozen forest. “Vikings? Look around—you’re bleeding out in Viking territory, talking to one.” He shook his head, letting out a sigh that was more amused than frustrated. “Up. Before I change my mind.”

With a swift motion, he slung his sword over his back and stood. I was mostly at a loss for words. Did fate really defy the odds and let me live today? I tried to stand, almost completely forgetting about my wounded leg. He raised a brow as I swayed—blood loss catching up—but I stayed upright, nonetheless.

“Stubborn,” he muttered. Without asking, he gripped my arm, steadying me—his touch firm but not cruel. His voice dropped near my ear. “Tell me why I shouldn’t throw you back to the wolves and be done with this.”

I was grateful I could hold onto him because I could feel my control slipping. “Because you haven’t yet,” I replied. “You’re being awfully generous, considering you didn’t take much convincing.”

“You’re far too trusting,” he chided, his voice a gruff rumble. “For all you know, I could be luring you into an even worse fate.”

I just sighed. “That wouldn’t be the worst thing in my life, I’m afraid.” Even I heard the melodrama dripping from my words.

“You have a habit of talking too much,” he remarked, though his grip on me tightened almost imperceptibly. “How bad are those injuries?”

“I’ll manage.” An obvious lie—I was bleeding everywhere, my once perfect, unblemished skin now bruised and wounded.

Erik let out a low, disbelieving grunt. He crouched slightly, not asking permission. In one swift motion, he scooped me up into his arms—his fur rough against my skin, his strength undeniable.

“Hold still,” he ordered, “or I’ll drop you just to prove a point.”

I was embarrassed to be carried like an infant, but I held my tongue. I was in no position to complain.

The Viking navigated the snowy landscape with ease, his long strides eating up the terrain. I was pressed against the warmth of his body, the solid strength of his build, the rhythm of his steady breaths. After what felt like an eternity, a looming silhouette appeared in the distance, which was a stone stronghold perched atop a mountain. We didn’t exchange a single word while climbing those long stairs that seemed to stretch for miles, and he didn’t even break a sweat. As we neared the entrance—a towering, rough-hewn archway framed by massive wooden doors—voices rang out, the majority sounding deep and loud. A few Vikings stood watch, clad in snow-dusted cloaks and gripping axes. They regarded me warily, eyes narrowing at the sight of me in his arms.

“What’s this?” one asked, stepping forward.

For a moment, the man’s grip on me tightened. I tried to draw as little attention as possible, but it was of no use.

His voice was low and calculated. “Found her on the edge of our land. Bled out, half-dead.”

The Viking’s eyes flicked to me, then back to him. Suspicion spread across his face. I began to wonder if this man had brought me to a worse fate. “Why bring her here?”

“She’s wounded, not useless,” he said, a subtle challenge in his tone. “And she talks less than you. Almost.” I tried to keep a straight face, looking away as soon as his eyes flicked down to glance at me.

A few chuckles rose from the group as the other Viking’s face flushed slightly.

“You’re going soft, Erik.”

Erik’s face darkened, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Careful, Bjorn.”

The two men locked gazes. The tension stretched like a taut bowstring until Bjorn broke the stare, clearing his throat. His name was Erik, and the man who’d just spoken to him was Bjorn. I tried not to stare too long at his hair—an interesting choice of style indeed, nothing like what I'd seen back at home.

“Alright, alright,” the other man grunted. “But the Jarl won’t be pleased.”

Erik merely nodded. With that, he pushed through the massive doors, continuing deeper into the stronghold. The interior was a world of rough-hewn stone and warm, flickering torchlight. The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke, and echoes of laughter and conversation reverberated off the walls. As we passed through the corridor, curious stares followed us, accompanied by murmurs in their tongue. I was clearly the topic of interest.

Finally, Erik shouldered open a door leading into a larger room—an infirmary. Practically empty. There were six beds total, then I noticed someone’s feet poking out from the second bed down to the left. Not as empty as I thought. Carefully, he set me down on a bed of furs. The room was well-stocked with bandages, salves, and various medical supplies neatly organized on shelves.

“Stay still,” he ordered, pulling off his gloves. “I need to see the damage.”

He knelt beside the bed, moving with surprising delicacy as he assessed my injuries, his fingers prodding at my wound—a deep gash trailing down the side of my right thigh. The silence in the room grew awkward, so I cleared my throat. “So, what is your name, if I get the pleasure of knowing?” Although I had found out earlier, it was only proper that I do the pleasantries directly to him.

He paused midway through cleaning minor scratches and cuts, fixing me with a look as if I’d just asked something absurd. “You’re bleeding out in my infirmary, and you want my name?” He retorted, his tone a blend of annoyance and amusement. I stayed silent. After a moment, his expression softened slightly. “Erik. Erik Styransson.” He continued his task, wrapping my thigh to hold the bleeding for the time being and securing it with a firm tug. “And yours?”

I cleared my throat and, with practiced ease, spoke. “Princess Marielle Estelle Ndarli XII of Nyreas.” I couldn’t help but feel that tinge of pride that always lingered when I said it on a normal basis.

Erik froze; his hands stilled on the bandage. His ice-blue eyes lifted to meet mine. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the distant hearth and the wind’s howl beyond the stone walls.

“Princess?” he repeated, voice dangerously low. “Of Nyrean blood?” He leaned in, studying my face, my clothes, and the gold royal crest ring on my right ring finger. Then he grabbed my wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I flinched.

“If anyone finds out who you are,” his voice dropped, “they’ll carve your heart out before dawn. And I won’t be able to stop them.”

He released my wrist. “...So, forget your title while you’re here.”

My eyes widened, and then I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. The words spilled out before I could stop them—how I wasn’t exactly a princess anymore, how I’d run from my kingdom to save my own life, how my stepbrother nearly ended my bloodline. “...He didn’t spare anyone,” I said nonchalantly, as if the realization didn’t hurt. I had no clue as to why I was sharing my life story with this stranger; the weight of life had all been pressing down on me since I had run to this place. “I’m the only one remaining in the actual royal bloodline now.” Erik just stared at me, as if trying to peel back the layers of my words. The laugh probably unsettled him. I should’ve been weeping, begging, or lying through clenched teeth. But I laughed. Who could blame me? There was no hope of survival from the start. I was shocked I’d made it out of the woods at all.

He stood abruptly, pacing one short turn. “So, your stepbrother slaughters your family...” He glanced back at me. “...and you run straight into my lands? The most forbidden stretch from sea to mountain?” Suddenly, he stopped and practically laughed to himself, a low, breathy sound.

“Fate doesn’t hand me princesses,” he said. “It throws fools into my path and dares me not to kill them.” He paused for a second too long and turned to face me. “Just get rid of the ring.”

We fell into another awkward silence. The flickering torchlight danced across his features, casting shadows on his sharp jaw and brow. This habit of utter silence between us had to stop—it was too uncomfortable for my liking.

I opened my mouth to break the silence.

“Rest. Try not to bleed out before morning.” He interrupted, pushing off his knees and turning toward the door. He glanced back. “Don’t be too charming tomorrow. I might start believing you’re worth protecting.”

“You—” I was about to speak, then the door closed softly. “—think I’m charming?” I mumbled under my breath, then sighed.