He reached for her hand, and she let him. Her fingers closed around his, and they stood there for a moment, neither of them moving. It was as if the world outside the corridor had fallen away, leaving just the two of them in the quiet space they shared.
Finally, Ivar tilted his head toward the stairs, and she gave him a small nod. They walked back up together, their hands still clasped, neither of them letting go until they had to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The King's men left after the noon meal, their horses' hooves clattering sharply against the stone courtyard as the heavy wooden gates creaked closed behind them.
Ivar stood in the yard, watching them go, his mind still caught on the letters, the threats, the lies. Henry’s satchel was full of everything he’d written since the fire. Every observation, every half-truth, every rumor fed to the Crown. He could feel the cold weight of it all, like a stone in his gut.
The threat wasn’t at his walls anymore. It was riding south toward the Crown, like a storm gathering speed. He turned away from the gate, already feeling the shift inside him.
“Form up,” he said, his voice low but carrying across the yard.
His men moved into place without hesitation, but the air felt heavy, as if they too could sense the change. They had heardhis command before, and each one knew the difference. This wasn’t a training session. This wasn’t a drill. His tone was sharp, stripped of any pretense, like a blade being drawn across stone.
He was looking for every flaw.
Not the small, normal mistakes men made when they were tired or distracted. The real ones. The ones that had crept in slowly, unnoticed until now.
The guard position Leif had been holding too low for months, the footwork that had seemed good enough in practice but crumbled under pressure. The clustered second line, too close, too careless, that anyone with half a mind would have cut down in a real fight.
Ivar didn’t let up.
He moved between them, his gaze hard, his voice a steady grind. He wasn’t shouting, for anger was weakness.
His voice was calm, too calm, as he corrected them, dismantling their faults one by one. He pushed them harder, until the sweat mixed with the cold and the light began to fade.
He was relentless.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her.
Matilda.
She came down the outer steps with a wooden bucket in one hand, a stack of cups balanced on top. She moved with a careful grace, completely at ease despite the harshness of the training. She set the bucket down at the edge of the yard, filled a cup, and walked toward the nearest man, her steps silent on the stone.
He took the cup, his face unreadable. He drank, surprised but grateful. She moved on, giving water to one man, then the next, passing through the line without hesitation. Her presence, calm and unbothered, cut through the tension like a knife.
Ivar’s men, sweaty and tired, stepped aside without a word. They didn’t look at her as anything more than another part of the routine, but Ivar noticed the subtle shift. The way they straightened, the way they softened, as if her quiet care was somehow more grounding than anything else they’d faced that day.
One of the younger lads had a cut on his forearm, blood still oozing from a sparring mistake. Matilda stopped in front of him, said something Ivar couldn’t hear, and pulled a folded piece of linen from her sleeve. She pressed it to the wound with gentle authority, the boy obeying her instantly. He didn’t think twice about it.
Ivar didn’t move.
He stood still in the middle of the yard, watching her with a strange mixture of admiration and something deeper. She didn’tglance at him. She didn’t seek his approval. She just moved through his men like she had been doing it all her life. Tending to wounds, offering water, treating them like human beings instead of soldiers.
Torvald appeared at his side but said nothing. Einar did the same on his other side. They stood there, silent, the three of them watching her, the air between them thick with understanding.
Matilda finished her rounds and headed back up the steps, disappearing into the building without a word.
Ivar glanced at his men. They were watching him now, waiting. They had just seen something change in the yard. And they were waiting to see if he would acknowledge it.
He didn’t.
"Again," he said, his voice flat.
They went again.
The light faded. The shadows grew longer. Ivar’s body ached, but he pushed through, ignoring the pain in his side. It was familiar, comforting even. The pain that told him he was still here, still standing.