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... cross the sodden rooftops of Ullrsfjörðr. Inside the mead hall, the hearth blazed, flames snapping in rhythm with the woman’s breathing.

Róisín clutched the edge of the woven bedding, slick with sweat, her hair clinging to her brow. Her teeth were grit, her gaze burning. She did not scream. She refused. The wives of her line were not known for weakness.

But gods, it hurt.

Brynhildr knelt at her side; not as war-leader, not as matron of the house, but as seiðkona. Her hair ...

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