It spun through the air in a silver arc and then firmly buried itself into the straw with a solidthunk, eight inches from the center.
Silence stretched taught as a bowstring. Then, Freyr let out a low whistle. “Helvíti.”
“Well, well…” Ivar drawled, sounding genuinely impressed. “That was unexpected.”
Ragnar said nothing. He simply walked to the target, examined the embedded blade, then pulled it free and returned to where Isolda stood trying very hard not to look smug.
“Where did ye learn that?”
“Me braither, Callum.” Bitterness crept in before she could stop it. “Before faither decided I should be a proper lady. Apparently kennin’ which fork tae use at dinner is more important than kennin’ how tae defend yerself.”
Something shifted in Ragnar’s expression. “Yer braither taught ye well.”
The words were simple, but they hit Isolda with unexpected force. Because no one had ever praised her for anything before, not her skill, not her intelligence, not her courage or herbeauty. She’d been criticized, ignored, dismissed and traded like livestock, but praised? Never.
“I…” she managed, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “Thank ye.”
“Yer form is good,” he said, “but ye’re droppin’ yer shoulder too much.” He stepped behind her, and she could feel him there, solid and warm and overwhelming her senses. His hand found her right shoulder, adjusting its position carefully.
“Keep it level,” his voice rumbled near her ear, “and when ye throw, follow through,” His hand guided her arm through the motion and Isolda forgot how to breathe, “like this.”
The smell of leather and pine and something indefinablyhimmade her head spin and when his other hand settled on her waist to adjust her stance, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Easy,” he murmured. “I’m just?—”
“Ikenwhat ye’re daein’!” the words came out breathless.
“Then pay attention, little wolf.”
He walked her through it twice, his hands guiding hers patently. The training yard faded entirely, and all that existed was that moment and Ragnar’s steady presence at her back.
This is… he is…
“Again. Show me.”
He stepped away and the blade left her hand in a clean arc, hitting the target three inches to the center this time.
“Better,” he said simply.
And somehow, that single word felt like the greatest compliment she’d ever received.
“So.” Ivar appeared beside them with his usual terrible timing. “About that wish…. what’ll ye be askin’ fer? Ragnar’s head on a pike? His favorite horse? His?—”
“Ivar,” Ragnar’s tone carried warning.
“What? I’m curious?—”
“Leave,” Erik suggested mildly, but there was steel beneath the suggestion. “Before ye get yerself intae trouble ye cannae talk yer way out of.”
Ivar grinned, unrepentant, “Ye ken perfectly well that I can talk me way out of anythin’!” but he drifted away toward Magnus with a final wink at Isolda that made her want to throw the dagger at him instead.
Ragnar watched him go, then turned back to her. “Ye dinnae have tae decide now.”
“Nay?”
He hesitated, then added quietly, “Though I’m curious.”
Send me home. Let me go.