The time for silent resentment passed. Astrid felt the cold, hard logic of necessity settle upon her. A King must have a clear line of succession, and that line could not be sullied by the blood of a captive race. The very air in Hrafnheim felt thinner to her, the sharp, metallic tang of the mountain wind a constant, bitter reminder of her diminished standing. The halls, once echoing with the secure footfalls of her authority, now seemed to press in on her, confining her to the role of a deposed queen-in-waiting.
Her icy self-control, the hallmark of her royal lineage, was the first casualty. She began to find fault in everything—the muted tapestries, the dull clang of the watchmen's armor, the very taste of the winter brew. Yet, she never raged. Her fury was a glacier, slow-moving, immense, and capable of carving mountains. It was channeled, with the calculated precision of a woman who had survived court politics since childhood, into an unshakeable resolve. Nari, the Fire-Born girl, had to be extinguished, and the price of the King's conquest paid in full—in blood.
The presence of the child, a boy named Gísl—a name of Northern hardness grafted onto a Southern vibrancy—was the catalyst that drove Astrid from thought to action. The boy was an undeniable, breathing argument against her own two pale, timid sons. Where they were reserved, Gísl was bold; where they were fair, he possessed the deep, resonant color of the earth. He was a perfect, vibrant hybrid, a living embodiment of King Herald's momentary, unbending desire and a direct, breathing threat to her dynasty. The baby's cry in the great hall was no mere sound; it was a shriek of usurpation to the Queen's ears.
Astrid's chamber was a fortress of polished granite and ancestral weapons. One evening, deep into the season of the long dark, she dismissed her handmaidens and summoned the only man whose loyalty she deemed absolute: Jarl Theron, her cousin and the King's chief advisor on matters of internal security and law. Theron was a brute of a man, his face a roadmap of old battle scars, but his mind was a sharp, hidden thing, devoted entirely to the preservation of the Queen's line.
He entered the room, his armor clanking softly—a sound of cold, hard certainty. He did not bow low, recognizing the intimacy and urgency of the summons.
"My Queen," he rumbled, his voice low enough not to carry beyond the heavy, oak door.
Astrid was seated at her table, tracing the edge of a ceremonial dagger. She did not look up immediately. Her voice, when it came, was a whisper of frost.
"Cousin, do you see the stain upon the wall of Hrafnheim?"
Theron's eyes, the color of slate, flickered toward the corner alcove where a young, dark-skinned nursemaid, under the pretense of being a royal servant, was always assigned to attend to Nari and the child. The King's obsession had become the Kingdom's spectacle.
"I see the King's folly, my Queen," Theron replied, his hand resting on the hilt of his greatsword. "A brief madness that will pass. Folly is a king's privilege."
"No," Astrid said, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyes were chips of blue ice. "Folly is a momentary lapse. This is a corrosion. The King names the boy Gísl He permits him to eat at his table, not in the shadows of the scullery. He sees not a slave-spawn, but a successor with the fire of the South and the iron of the North. This is not folly, Theron. This is the undoing of our line. This is the death of your nephews."
The mention of her sons, her legitimate heirs, straightened Theron's spine. His personal fear for the royal bloodline transcended his fear of the King.
"What is your will, Astrid? The girl is constantly guarded, and the King's favor shields her like a wall of ice."
Astrid smiled, a thin, chilling expression that did not touch her eyes. She put the dagger down with a precise click.
"The King's favor is a shield of ice, yes. But ice cracks when the pressure is applied in the correct place and at the correct time. The King is planning a journey to the Eastern March. A fortnight's ride. He will take his guard, the elite Ironhand. Nari is pregnant with his second child, but she will remain here. He means to keep her safe, to keep his little project secured within our walls."
Theron listened intently, nodding slowly. "A fortnight. Time enough, perhaps, to arrange an 'unfortunate accident.'"
"No accidents, Cousin," Astrid commanded, her voice hardening. "Accidents are clumsy and leave questions. We will pay a price for this conquest, but we will ensure it is Nari who is seen to be paying it. The King must be shown that the Sun-Dweller's gods have demanded a sacrifice for the burning of their homes. It must be a ritual of revenge, a thing of dark magic, not a simple murder. This keeps the King's conscience clear and his anger directed at a defeated enemy, not at his loyal Queen."
She leaned closer, the scent of lavender and frost filling the small space between them.