Seventeen years ago

City of Sunnavík, Kingdom of Íseldur

It was a good thing queasiness had been trained from Ivar Ironheart as a child, because victory smelled an awful lot like blood and shit. The scent drifted on the wind as Ivar paced a path into the black sand beach. Behind him, Askaborg, his new castle, loomed over a fresh boatload of Norvalander thralls laboring to clear the corpses from Sunnavík’s streets. Before him, a woman was secured to the ruined pier as the tide flowed into the bay.

Frustration gathered in Ivar’s gut. He’d vanquished King Kjartan and had taken Íseldur’s throne for himself. He should be able to relax at last. But instead, this.

Ivar let himself remember the look in the Volsik king’s eyes as he’d told him he’d be blood-eagled while his people looked on. But even the memory of peeling the king’s flesh from his back, of cracking his ribs open and pulling the lungs from his body, did little to temper Ivar’s current irritation.

“Tell me!” he bellowed at the infernal, stubborn woman. “What is in this weaving, Galdra?”

But she only pressed her lips together. Strands of brown hair were plastered to her face, the tide swirling around her shoulders. How much longer did the woman have? Fifteen minutes? Ivar paced another lap into the sand.

Now that Íseldur was claimed, Ursir demanded Ivar set his focus on his next campaign—to raise strong sons. One to follow his Sea King ancestors and claim the next isle in Ursir’s name. The other to inherit Íseldur’s throne. But before he could consider any of that, Ivar had to ensure his Norvalander wife could bear him sons. Little Yrsa was a few years old, and while his iron heart warmed a few degrees in her presence, she was still only a daughter.