Author's note : Please read slowly. There are many important things I'm not explicitly stating, because you are experiencing them through a limited third-person perspective, essentially, through the POV character's feelings.
-x-X-x-
Gorki found his usual spot he'd claimed less than half a year ago, just close enough to the central hearth of the great hall to feel its warmth without being trampled by the constant movement of servants. It was a balance he'd learned : close enough to see everything, far enough to remain invisible.
Tonight, sleep wouldn't come.
He lay on his straw-filled mattress, feeling each poke and scratch of the dried stalks through the thin wool blanket. His heart hammered against his ribs, faster and faster, until he could hear the pulse in his ears. Tomorrow. Tomorrow was finally the day.
'The gods help me,' he thought, then immediately regretted the prayer. Would they help a man about to commit such treachery?
He wasn't here to serve food, not really. That was just the mask he wore. His true purpose in Hordaland was far more dangerous: to blend in perfectly, to watch, to listen, to gather every scrap of information that might matter to someone far away. Someone whose face he barely remembered but whose reach seemed to extend everywhere.
Every detail mattered now. Every sideways glance from the King's huskarls. Every whispered conversation between the jarls. Every change in routine. Failure didn't just mean humiliation or dismissal, it meant death. His death, certainly. But probably worse things first.
The thought made his stomach clench.
It was almost laughable, really, that what kept him awake wasn't just fear of tomorrow's task, but also the miserable lump of straw beneath him. No one in Hordaland complained about their sleeping arrangements. Why would they? This was how people had always slept; on straw, on furs, on packed earth if they were unlucky. You didn't miss what you'd never known.
But then the rumors had arrived from Kattegat like honey on the tongue of every traveler.
The young King there had created something never seen before... Again. A mattress so soft, so impossibly comfortable, that sleeping on it felt like being cradled in the arms of the gods themselves. Like Frigg herself was rocking you to sleep, they said. Like all your troubles melted away the moment you lay down.
Groki didn't know if he believed it. But god, how he wanted to.
'Just finish this,' he told himself, staring up at the smoke-darkened beams of the ceiling. 'Finish the mission. Go back to Agder. Take the silver—there will be so much silver—and buy one of those mattresses. Just one night of real rest. Just one.'
He didn't even know who he was working for. The man who'd approached him had never given a name, never revealed whether he was a merchant, a jarl, or something else entirely. But the silver he'd shown Groki—god, the silver—had been real enough. Heavy coins that caught the light like trapped stars.
For that kind of payment, Groki could afford not to ask questions.
Though curiosity gnawed at him anyway. The man had spoken with such certainty, such quiet authority, as if he were part of something vast and very old. Something that stretched across all the Norse lands and beyond.
"We bring order to disorder," the man had said. "Oaths unseen, deeds unspoken."
At the time, Gorki had thought he was mad.
Now he wasn't so sure.
He rolled onto his side, trying to find a position that didn't make his shoulder ache. Around him, other servants shifted and snored, their breathing creating a rhythm like waves against a shore. None of them knew what was running through his mind. None of them suspected that the quiet cook who made the King's special dish was anything other than what he appeared to be.
'Do not trust what you see,' the man had warned him during their second meeting, his voice barely above a whisper. 'Trust only what you can observe. Watch. Listen. Remember. The smallest detail can tip the balance between success and discovery. You'll only get one chance.'
Gorki's black eyes finally began to close as exhaustion pulled him down. Sleep took him at last, though it was nothing like the embrace of the gods. It was restless, full of half-formed dreams that scattered like smoke whenever he tried to grasp them.
Dawn came too soon.
Gorki's eyes opened in the grey pre-light, that strange hour when the world exists in shadows and everything feels unreal. The winter season still clung to Hordaland like a stubborn guest who didn't know when to leave, but you could feel it weakening. The ice at the edges of the water barrels was thinner each morning. The wind had lost its cruelest bite.
Spring was coming, slowly, like waking from a long sleep.
Around him, the other servants were already stirring. The hall filled with the familiar sounds of morning: the scrape of brooms on stone, the splash of water, the low murmur of conversation. They moved through their routines with the ease of long practice, sweeping away the remnants of last night's meal and preparing for the day ahead.
Gorki sat up slowly, running his hands through his dark hair. Outwardly, he was calm. Inside, his chest felt like it contained a trapped animal, something wild and desperate that wanted to claw its way out.
He closed his eyes and prayed.
'Odin All-Father, grant me wisdom to see what others miss. Tyr One-Hand, grant me courage to do what must be done, even though it shames me. And Loki...' He hesitated. Did he dare invoke the trickster? 'Loki Lie-Smith, grant me the silver tongue I need to deceive those who trust me.'
The prayers felt hollow. The gods, he suspected, did not look kindly on poisoners.
He stood and joined the morning routine, moving through the familiar motions. Stoking the embers in the hearth until they glowed red-orange. Coaxing reluctant flames to life beneath the great iron pot. Fetching water from the barrel. His hands knew what to do even while his mind raced ahead to what came next.
"Make the dish."
The steward's voice cut through the morning bustle. He was a hard-faced man with grey in his beard, the kind who'd seen everything and was impressed by nothing. "The King wants the dish again this morning."
Gorki nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "Of course."
Inside, something twisted. Today. It had to be today.
The dish. Or rather his curse.
Creamed Honey-Barley Porridge with Dried Fruits—that's what the man who approached him called it, though the name felt too simple for what it actually was. Too plain for something that had changed his entire life.
The ingredients were simple enough, but the combination was something new.
Soft barley, cooked slowly until it broke down into something almost creamy, nothing like the usual lumpy gruel.
A small amount of cow's milk or goat milk—rare, expensive, usually reserved for children or the sick.
A generous spoonful of honey that transformed the dish from sustenance into something luxurious.
A handful of dried apples or berries, chopped fine, adding bursts of sweetness.
A pinch of ground hazelnuts sprinkled on top for texture and richness.
And sometimes, if the King was in good spirits, a small drop of melted butter that made the whole thing shine.
It was extravagant. Wasteful, some might say. But that was exactly the point.
Normal food for normal people was plain barley or oat mush, maybe with some fish or turnips if you were lucky. No milk. No sweetness. No garnish. You ate to survive, not to enjoy.
But this? This was different.
The dish was soft where other food was rough. Rich where others were plain. Warm and sweet and fragrant. It smelled like comfort itself. It felt noble, like something that belonged on a high table rather than in a servant's bowl.
And only Groki knew how to make it.
Well. Only Groki and the man who'd taught him. The man from Agder who'd whispered secrets in his ear one afternoon in the market, speaking of a better world.
Groki had thought they were fools. Dreamers and tricksters. He'd nodded along, taken the recipe, and planned to ignore everything else. He would sell the dish in the Agder market, let people taste it, build a reputation. Maybe make enough silver to open his own eating house someday.
Except they'd known. Somehow, they'd known about his plans.
His family had disappeared the next day.
Mother. Father. His younger sister Inga, who'd just turned twelve and still laughed at everything. Gone. Vanished as if the earth had swallowed them whole.
He'd gone to the jarl's men, frantic. They'd listened with bored expressions and done something, but couldn't find anything. He'd asked neighbors, friends, anyone who might have seen something. Nothing. No one knew anything. No one cared.
And he couldn't push too hard, couldn't draw attention, couldn't risk making anyone ask why a cook's family might have been taken.
The man had found him again two days later.
He wasn't old; maybe not even thirty winters, with sharp eyes. This time, he didn't make suggestions or speak of ideals. He spoke plainly, the way you'd explain directions to a child.
"Do as we ask, and they live. Refuse, and you'll never see them again. Those are your choices. Make one."
What choice was there, really?
So Gorki had taken the next ship to Hordaland and begun his mission, every step choreographed by people he'd never met for reasons he didn't fully understand.
He'd started exactly as instructed: set up in the market, offer free samples, let the word spread naturally. And god, had it spread.
People came running. At first just a few curious souls, then crowds. The whispers turned into open amazement. "Have you tried it? Where did he learn to make this? Is he a sorcerer?"
The King's men noticed within days. They bought bowls for themselves, then brought some back to the hall. Within a week, King Eirik himself had summoned Gorki to appear before him.
Gorki remembered that moment with crystal clarity, standing before the high seat, King Eirik studying him with sharp, calculating eyes.
"You made this?" the King had asked, gesturing to the bowl.
"Yes, my lord."
"Where did you learn?"
The lie came smoothly. He'd practiced it a hundred times. "Part of it from my grandfather, my lord. He had seen many things by traveling to many lands. He taught me many things before he died."
The King had tasted it slowly, thoughtfully. Then he'd smiled; a rare expression that transformed his usually stern face.
"You will serve in my hall," he'd declared. "You will make this for me, and for my family, and for my honored guests. You will teach no one else. Is that understood?"
"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."
And just like that, Gorki had exactly what the man from Agder wanted: access to the King's table, proximity to power, and a reason to be near the royal family every single day.
The world had changed so fast in recent years. Every king and jarl seemed seized by a fever; a desperate need to prove themselves greater than their fathers, richer than their neighbors, more daring than their rivals. No ambition was too reckless. No risk too great.
In such a world, a new dish—something unique, something no other hall could claim—was more than just food. It was status.
And King Eirik guarded his new treasure jealously.
Jarls from neighboring territories had asked about the recipe. The King refused to share. His own huskarls had hinted that they'd pay well for the secret. The King had made it clear that the knowledge belonged to him alone, and anyone who tried to steal it would answer to his sword.
The other servants noticed, of course. How could they not?
Whispers followed Groki through the hall:
"He's the young one who made the new dish."
"The King ate it three nights in a row when he first arrived."
"I heard jarls from Rogaland offered silver for the recipe, but the King refused."
"He barely does any real work. Just makes that one dish and acts like he's important."
Now, in the pre-dawn grey, Groki made his way to the storeroom—a small chamber off the main hall where food was kept. Barrels of barley and dried fish. Hanging herbs and smoked meats. Precious jars of honey that were counted and guarded.
His role had become clear through repetition: he made the King's special dish. The household's meals—the plain porridge and stews for dozens of people—were handled by other cooks. That division created resentment that grew sharper each day.
"Well, if it isn't the King's pet."
Gorki didn't need to turn around to know who spoke. Hilde. A woman perhaps ten years older than him, with a permanently bitter expression and a tongue like a blade.
"Good morning, Hilde," he said quietly, gathering what he needed.
"Is it?" She laughed, the sound harsh and mocking. "I wonder how good your mornings will be when the King gets bored of your little trick. When he realizes that fancy porridge is still just porridge."
She'd been saying this for days now, ever since the King had reduced his consumption from twice daily to just once each morning. In Hilde's mind, this was proof that Gorki's time was running out.
"The King seems satisfied," Gorki replied, keeping his voice level.
"For now." She stepped closer, her smile cruel. "But kings are fickle. One day you're favored, the next you're forgotten. And when he dismisses you, don't think you can come crawling back to work with the rest of us. We remember who thought they were too good for regular work."
Inside, Gorki felt anger flash hot and sharp. He wanted to tell her that he'd never wanted this position, never asked to be singled out. He wanted to scream that she had no idea what he'd sacrificed, what he'd lost, what he was being forced to do.
Instead, he smiled blandly. "I'll keep that in mind."
'Fool,' he thought as he turned away. 'I won't be here much longer. And once I'm gone, once this is finished, you won't be alive to gloat.'
The thought surprised him with its viciousness. But he let himself savor it anyway, imagining Hilde's disappearance. A servant vanishing wouldn't cause much investigation. People would assume she'd run off with a lover, or stolen something and fled, or simply decided to try her luck elsewhere. She'd be forgotten within weeks.
The thought made him feel powerful, which he knew was pathetic. He was projecting his helplessness—his rage at the man who'd stolen his family—onto this bitter woman who'd done nothing worse than hurt his feelings.
But still. It felt good to imagine.
The hall descended into its usual morning chaos. Fires sputtered and needed constant attention. Servants argued over who was supposed to tend which pot. Someone slipped on spilled ale and cursed loudly. A dog got underfoot and was kicked away yelping.
Gorki moved through it all, using the disorder as cover. No one paid attention to him as he prepared the dish exactly as the King preferred—the barley cooked until it was almost liquid, the honey stirred in at just the right moment, the dried apples cut into perfect small pieces.
The other servants watched him sometimes. Some with curiosity, wanting to learn his secret. Others with pure envy, wishing they had his position.
None of them saw what his hands really did.
Finally, it was ready. Two bowls, perfect and identical. Or nearly identical—there was one crucial difference that no eye could detect, no tongue could taste.
Gorki carried them carefully from the hearth to the high table, where the King sat with his family. The Queen, her face worn by years and childbearing but still handsome. The Princess Elisif, young and lovely, no older than twenty, who would be married in a few months to someone from the land of the Danes. The two young princes, boys of maybe eight and ten, already practicing the hard expressions they thought made them look like warriors.
And the huskarls, of course. Always the huskarls, armed and watchful, eyes tracking every movement in the hall.
Every person in the hall turned to watch as Gorki approached the high table. This had become something of a ritual—the moment when the King received his special dish.
King Eirik looked up from his conversation. His expression, usually stern to the point of severity, softened slightly. "Ah. Bring it here."
Gorki bowed low, then placed the bowls before the King and Queen. "My lord. My lady."
But the King raised a hand, stopping him from retreating. "Wait."
This too had become ritual. The King was no fool, he knew that poison was always a possibility, that anyone with access to his food was a potential threat.
"You know the routine by now. Do it, taste it," the King commanded, his eyes sharp and measuring.
Groki had expected this. He'd been doing it for months. Still, his heart hammered as he lifted the spoon.
The poison was already inside him. He'd taken the antidote that morning, mixed into his own bland porridge. The man from Agder had assured him it would protect him for the day. The poison in the King's bowl wouldn't harm Gorki at all.
At least, that's what he'd been told. He had to trust it was true.
He took a spoonful from the King's bowl, making sure to get a good amount. Let it sit on his tongue for a moment, then swallowed. The King and his family watched him like hawks watching a mouse, searching for any twitch, any sign of distress.
Groki kept his expression placid, waiting.
Five heartbeats. Ten. Fifteen.
Nothing happened because nothing could happen. The poison was subtle, designed to work slowly over days. It would mimic weakness. And the man had promised—promised—that it wouldn't kill. Just weaken. Just make the King vulnerable enough for whatever came next.
Groki didn't let himself think about what came next.
"Well?" the King asked.
"Delicious as always, my lord," Groki said, bowing again.
Satisfied, the King began to eat. The Queen followed his lead, and then the children. Conversation resumed around the table; talk of raids planned for summer, news from the west, rumors about the King in Kattegat and his strange doings.
Gorki stood at the edge of the table, hands clasped behind his back, the picture of a dutiful servant. Outwardly calm. Inside, screaming.
'It's done. It's done. I've poisoned the King. Gods forgive me, I've poisoned the King and his family.'
No. Not his family. Just the King. That's what the man had said. "Put it only in his bowl. If mistakes happen..."
The man, damn him, didn't finish the sentence.
But what if he'd mixed up the bowls? What if the Queen was eating from the poisoned one? What if—
No. He'd been careful. He'd marked the King's bowl with a tiny scratch on the rim, invisible unless you knew to look for it. He'd placed it in front of the King personally. It was done correctly.
It was done.
The poison would take days to work, the man had said. Subtle and gradual. The King would begin to feel tired, then feverish. His stomach would trouble him. He'd grow weak but not alarmingly so—not at first. People would think it was bad food, or a mild illness, or simply the strain of kingship.
Only after a week or more would they realize something was seriously wrong. By then, Groki would be long gone, back in Kattegat, collecting his silver and trying to forget the taste of betrayal.
'They'll say it's the wrath of the gods,' the man had told him. 'A curse. Do you know why? Because it is.'
Gorki watched the King eat, each spoonful another step toward doom.
And he hated himself for it.
But his family. His mother. His father. Little Inga, who wanted to be a shield-maiden when she grew up and practiced with sticks in the yard.
'I'm sorry,' he thought, directing the words at the King, at the gods, at himself. 'I'm so, so sorry. But I have no choice. I have no choice.'
The King finished his bowl and pushed it away, satisfied. "Good as always," he said, almost smiling. "You've earned your place here."
"Thank you, my lord," Gorki whispered, and he meant it.
He meant it, and he hated himself for meaning it, and he would carry this moment with him for the rest of his life, however long or short that might be.
The day continued. And Gorki stood at the edge of everything, watching, waiting, wondering if the gods would ever forgive him.
Or if he'd ever forgive himself.
-x-X-x-
"Brother, can we talk?"
Gyda's voice broke through the silence of the hall. She stood in the doorway for a moment, backlit by the afternoon sun streaming through the entrance, before walking over to the long table where Bjorn spent most of his days now; hunched over papers, sketches, calculations, plans.
"Can it wait?" Bjorn didn't look up. His finger traced a line on the schematic before him; something about the printing press mechanism, the angle of the screw, the pressure needed. There was always another problem to solve, another detail to perfect.
"I don't think so." Gyda moved closer, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. "It's a matter of great importance. It involves the security and prosperity of our people."
That got his attention.
Bjorn's head snapped up, eyebrows rising. Those words—security and prosperity—weren't ones Gyda used lightly. He set down his charcoal pencil carefully and gestured to the seat across from him at the end of the table.
"Sit."
Gyda did, folding her hands on the worn wood. For a moment, she just looked at him.
"Well," she began, a slight smile tugging at her lips, "your concern for the wellbeing of the people is always astonishing, brother."
The teasing landed exactly as intended. Bjorn's expression softened slightly, and he leaned back in his chair. She knew how to reach him; how to remind him that he was still her brother, not just a King.
"But I won't waste much of your time," Gyda continued, her tone shifting to something more serious. She straightened in her seat, gathering her courage. "You know how long I've been learning to write and read and do calculations? How long I've been teaching others to do the same?"
Bjorn considered for a moment, mentally counting back through the years that had blurred together in a whirlwind of change. "Hmm. It's been six years now. Since you were ten, when we saved Athelstan from his boring life in Northumbria."
"Kidnapped me, you mean."
The voice came from a table set against the far wall, where Athelstan sat surrounded by stacks of books; precious volumes they'd brought back from Abbey Prum. He didn't look up from the manuscript he was translating, but his tone carried dry amusement rather than real bitterness. Close to him other scribes sat helping Athelstan with the task. Scribes who were monks, now slaves.
"The noble results are more justified than the method," Bjorn replied without missing a beat.
Athelstan made a noncommittal sound, shook his head, and returned to his work.
Gyda seized the moment. "Indeed. And six years, you know, it's a very, very long time." She began fidgeting with her fingers, a tell Bjorn recognized from childhood. She did it when she wanted something but wasn't sure how to ask. "Long enough for a learner to become a master, don't you think?"
Bjorn studied his sister. She was sixteen now, no longer the little girl who used to follow him around asking endless questions about ships and raids and what lay beyond the horizon.
She'd grown tall, capable, confident in ways that sometimes surprised him. The people liked her. Children lit up when she appeared sometimes in the market to teach them the alphabet.
"Say what you want to say, sister." He kept his voice gentle but firm. He could guess where this was heading, but she needed to voice it herself.
Gyda took a breath, lifting her chin with that stubborn determination that reminded him so much of their mother. "I think I'm ready to be promoted. To be something else, something better, with more responsibilities."
There it was.
Bjorn nodded slowly. "Okay. Sure." He paused, considering options. "Do you want to teach more people?"
"No." The answer came quickly, almost cutting him off. "I mean, yes, I think teaching is interesting and important. But I want to do more. I want to help you."
Help him.
"Hmm." He leaned back further, the chair creaking under his weight. "Do you remember when you were young? You used to say, 'When I grow up, I want to marry and—'"
"I was a kid!" Gyda's face flushed, embarrassment mixing with indignation.
"You still are."
"We are two years apart!" She leaned forward, her voice rising slightly. "And is that—is that what you want me to do? To just marry someone so I can strengthen alliances? Bring political advantage?"
Bjorn held up his hands, suddenly defensive. "I never said that."
Why did this keep happening? First Mother, now Gyda; everyone seemed determined to put words in his mouth that he'd never spoken.
"I want you to be happy. If marrying someone makes you happy, then marry whoever you want. Why do you and Mother always keep putting words I never said in my mouth?"
The frustration in his voice was genuine, and Gyda seemed to recognize it. Her shoulders dropped slightly, the fight going out of her.
"I just..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I want you to see me as capable of more than just being married off or teaching children their letters. I can help with the real work. The important work. Whatever that means."
Bjorn rubbed his face, suddenly feeling tired. She wasn't wrong; Gyda was smart, capable, trustworthy. But the world was changing so fast, and with the printing press now soon to be operational, everything was about to change even faster. Where did she fit in all of that?
"Let me think on it," he said finally. "With the printing press, many things will change...again. I need to consider what would be best, for you."
It wasn't a no. It wasn't a yes. But it was honest.
Gyda seemed to accept that, nodding slowly. "Okay." She stood, smoothing down her dress. "Besides, do you know where Mother went?"
The change of subject was abrupt but welcome.
"She went to visit the seer," he answered, turning back to his papers but not really seeing them anymore. "To ask him about our new brother. Or sister. The baby in her belly."
'Snake eyed Sigurd', he thought to himself. 'He'll be born this year. Another sibling. Somehow, Lagertha always ends up pregnant in winter.'
There was something almost predictable about it now, like the changing seasons or the rhythm of planting and harvest. His mother's fertility seemed tied to the cold months, as if winter itself whispered life into being.
Gyda nodded, filing the information away. She moved toward the door, then paused, glancing back. "Thank you for listening, brother. I know you're busy."
"Always have time for you," Bjorn said, and meant it.
She smiled and left, her footsteps fading as she went to attend her usual duties.
Bjorn sat in the sudden quiet, Athelstan's soft page-turning the only sound. He stared at his schematics without really seeing them, his mind elsewhere.
The printing press. That had been these past days; an obsession, really. Ever since they'd brought back those three hundred books from the monastery raid, he'd known they needed a way to reproduce them. To translate them into the Norse tongue and spread the knowledge they contained.
One copy of a book was precious. But one copy could always
The design had taken time to work out. It wasn't easy, nothing ever was, but piece by piece, it had come together in his mind and in his paper.
The screw press formed the heart of it all. The craftsmen would cut wood into a tall frame, sturdy as a ship's mast, then carve a massive screw from a thick beam. They will add iron rings around the screw for durability.
A flat wooden plate, the "platen," attached to the screw's end. When you turned the screw, it descended with even pressure, squishing paper against inked letters. They will add handles and a wheel to make turning easier, like steering a boat through heavy seas.
And the small blocks with letters carved on them. Each one could be arranged and rearranged like puzzle pieces, spelling out whatever words you needed.
He thought about the materials; Clay from the riverbed was easy to shape and bake, though it could be fragile. Wood like yew worked well; hard enough not to bend, but carve-able.
But it wasn't just the printing press. He'd been busy with other innovations too.
The mattresses, for instance.
Comfort wasn't frivolous. It was practical. People who slept well worked better, thought more clearly, got sick less often. Comfort was an investment in productivity.
So he'd designed new beds for his new business. It would employ more people, keep silver—his Drottir coins—circulating faster through Kattegat's economy. Workers paid in coin would spend that coin, which would flow to other places.
The design was simple but effective: a lattice of tightly stretched ropes forming a base, springy and supportive. Over that, thick felted wool for cushioning. Then a soft quilt stuffed with goose feathers; not too expensive if you raised geese anyway. Finally, a linen cover, clean and crisp.
When they'd set up the first beds in the hall for testing, the reaction had been immediate.
The beds gave under weight, then rose again with gentle support, cradling each body. Even the elders, who'd spent sixty years sleeping on straw and furs, couldn't hide their shock. They'd lie down tentatively, then sink into the softness with expressions of pure wonder.
"Is this what it's like in Valhalla?" Hrafn had whispered.
The people will sleep better than they ever had in their lives. Craftsmen felt the constant ache in their backs and shoulders ease. The nobles, who thought they'd already experienced every luxury; discovered something entirely new.
The village now had beds that offered rest, comfort, and something closer to a dream than anyone had known before.
Production was ramping up. He'd hired old and young seamstresses, rope-makers, feather-gatherers. The Drottir was flowing, creating jobs, creating prosperity. It was all connected—the money, the work, the comfort, the learning.
Each piece reinforced the others.