Jarl Theron, a man whose movements were usually measured and deliberate, moved with startling swiftness. He didn't question the sudden shift in urgency; the Queen's voice carried the unmistakable ring of absolute decree, and he sensed the danger now wasn't merely political, but profoundly personal. He bowed low, his massive frame folding into a posture of obedience.
"It will be done, My Queen. The King is two days' ride to the east. By the time any message reaches him, the matter will be settled, and the body cold."
Theron's method was simple and brutally effective. He began by targeting the servants who had witnessed the fiery downfall of the Sun-Dwellers' village. He started not with threats, but with subtle validation of their own fears.
He gathered a select few of the stable-hands and kitchen staff in the armory under the pretense of checking inventory. The air was thick with the scent of oil and old blood.
"Have you felt the cold?" Theron asked, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. "I do not mean the mountain wind. I mean the cold that bites the bone, the cold that withers the crops in the storehouse and sours the milk."
A young cook named Jordi shivered, despite the heavy wool he wore. "Aye, Jarl. The frost came early this year. The healer says my sister's fever is a sickness the North hasn't seen before."
Theron nodded gravely. "It is not sickness, Jordi. It is The Sun-Dwellers' Curse. When the King burned their homes, their gods cursed the soil of Hrafnheim. They stole the warmth, and now they demand a price." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I heard the captive's mother, a priestess she was, cry a prophecy as she died. She said that as long as the Fire-Born maiden and her tainted whelp lived, the cold would grow, until the fortress walls crumble from the bitter freeze and we all die starved and frozen."
He let the silence stretch, watching the raw fear in their eyes. He gave no direct order, only a warning.
"The King has left us unprotected from this sorcery. The Queen... she sees the truth. She is of the old blood, and she knows the proper sacrifices. But she is bound by the King's love for his prize. The law says we cannot touch the King's chattel. But what says the law of survival? If the kingdom freezes, what good is the law of men?"
By the time the servants left the armory, they were not merely afraid; they were agents of dread. They carried the tale of the curse into the kitchens, the barracks, and the laundry houses. The Queen's secret had now become the populace's urgent, terrified truth.
The whispers reached Nari the next morning, chilling her more effectively than the mountain air. She was now under a new guard detail, men who looked at her with a mixture of fear and hostile resentment. They no longer saw the King's treasured captive; they saw the source of their suffering.
Astrid made her move after the midday meal. The Queen appeared at Nari's chamber, not with guards, but with her own two young sons, Elrik and Torvin, pale, serious boys aged seven and five. They stood silently behind their mother, their eyes wide and fixed on Roric, who was playing cheerfully with a wooden wolf in Nari's lap.
"The air is foul here, captive," Astrid announced, her voice pitched to carry into the halls. "The boy's fever has worsened. The healer advised a change of scenery. You will be moved to the Old Tower."
The Old Tower was a dilapidated, isolated structure at the farthest edge of the fortress, notorious for its damp, chilling drafts and its former use as a holding cell for political prisoners. It was a place where things went to be forgotten.
Nari stood up, cradling Roric tightly. "The child is perfectly well, Queen Astrid. This is simply the next step in your attempt to isolate and kill us."
Astrid smiled, a triumphant, heartless expression. "Do you see, my sons? The sorceress denies the sickness! She wishes for the cold to consume us all. She is an instrument of the enemy's gods." She turned her gaze back to Nari, her eyes glittering with cold malice. "This is no longer my choice, Nari. It is the will of the fortress. Your presence is deemed a plague. You go to the tower now, or the guards will take your son first."
She gestured, and two armored men stepped forward.
Nari did not fight. To resist now would only give Astrid the clear justification for violence. She knew the move to the Tower was intended to cut her off from any possible rescuer and ensure her murder would be discrete. She walked with quiet, unbowed dignity, clutching Gisíl, with the guards flanking her.
As she passed through the courtyard, she saw the faces—the kitchen staff, the squires, the common soldiers—all gazing at her with a chilling mixture of hatred and terror. The King's favor was gone; she was now the witch-queen, the harbinger of winter and death.