Excerpt from Child of Ash Heir of Fire, available on September 14
Sigurn wasn’t sure why she had even come.
Leif played his game. Folke played his. And she? She was decoration. A distraction to keep the captain entertained until his judgment blurred enough to fall into the Chancellor’s hands. She wasn’t blind. She knew the court had always used women this way. But she had never been the one used before.
She looked across to the other side of the tent where her aunt’s cot lay undisturbed. Gunhild had settled her in the tent before disappearing into the night—a stolen moment with Thorstein.
Sigurn envied her, in a way. Gunhild and Thorstein had been committed to one another for twenty years now. The king had kept his sister from marriage, but at least she had carved something of her own in the spaces between his orders. Sigurn had no such spaces. She was being led down a path she hadn’t chosen, step by step, with each conversation held over ale and firelight.
Staring at the peak of the tent, Sigurn listened as the water lapped at the shore behind them, and the sounds of men drinking, talking, and living continued around her. If her mother had been here, she’d have been clutching anxiously, looking over her shoulder at every turn. Waiting for one of these men to step out of line and brutishly storm into the tent with ill intent.
Sigurn rolled her eyes at the thought. The more she saw of the world, the more she realized her mother was worried about all the wrong things.
There was a soft sound of boots crunching on the stones on the shore—a sound where there had been only peaceful waves before. Sigurn sat up and pulled at one of the ties holding the back flap of the tent secure against the poles. Once it was loose, she lifted the edge and peered out. Folke was standing with his back to the tents, staring out at the Fjord.
A mischievous grin spread across her features as she pulled yet another string loose and opened the back flap, slipping through the opening, careful not to alert Gunhild and Thorstein.
The night air hit her like a slap. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, more out of habit than need. Her pulse had quickened. She didn’t think it was from the cold, but from something else entirely.
The waves lapped against the rocky shore, their rhythm steady, unbothered by the drinking and laughter that still rolled through the camp behind her. The firelight from the longhouse flickered faintly against the night, but here, beyond the tents, beneath the open sky, it was just the cold, the sea, and him.
Folke stood with his back to her, broad, unmoving, staring out over the fjord. He hadn’t heard her approach, not yet.
Sigurn smiled. A man like him, so powerful and commanding, shouldn’t be caught unaware. But he had been. And she liked that. Her steps were light as she closed the distance, the damp earth cool against her bare feet where her shoes had been forgotten in her rush. The linen shift she wore was no defense against the cold, but she ignored the bite of the wind.
She wasn’t here to be comfortable. She was here to prove her own power over a man like him.
Sigurn let her voice carry just enough to break the silence between them. “You look troubled, Captain.”
Folke turned, slow and measured, as if he had known she was there all along and had simply been waiting for her to speak. His expression did not shift in surprise. She had expected some amusement, perhaps even mild confusion. Instead, there was something else in his gaze, a flicker of curiosity, a slow assessment.
“Princess.” His voice was deep, roughened by the night air. “Should I be flattered, or are you just lost?”
Sigurn tilted her head, stepping closer, the blanket still draped around her shoulders. She let the shift of fabric expose one shoulder just slightly, feigning nonchalance.
“Would it wound your pride if I said I was only walking?”
Folke chuckled, shaking his head. “Not at all. You have the look of a woman who goes where she pleases.”
“I do.” She purred.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever met a woman so brave.” He countered.
“You sound surprised.” Sigurn cut her eyes at him, lips pursed.
“Not surprised,” he murmured. “Just amused.”
Sigurn held his gaze, resisting the urge to shift under his scrutiny. She had played this game before, at court, at feasts, in corridors where men thought a pretty laugh and a lingering glance could mean something. She knew how to control a conversation. How to keep them leaning in just enough.
“It seems,” she said, voice lighter now, playful, “that we have a habit of amusing each other.”
Folke exhaled through his nose, half a laugh. “You assume we find amusement in the same things, princess.”
“Perhaps I’m simply trying to understand what you find entertaining.” Her tone shifted, bearing the edge of longing she’d heard women use when they wanted something from men.
Folke hummed, tilting his head as if considering her words. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached out, slowly, deliberately, and caught the loose edge of the blanket draped over her shoulders.
Sigurn froze. The touch itself was chaste enough, but never before had a man been so bold as to reach out and touch her.
He didn’t tug. Didn’t pull her forward. Just held the edge, his fingers pressing into the fabric before slipping beneath it, palm flattening against the linen of her shift. A subtle reminder that, no matter how easily she believed she could step forward or back, he had allowed this conversation to happen.
“I think you already know,” he murmured.
The air between them changed.
The game had been light before, an idle flirtation she had thought she could control. But now—now she could feel the edge of something sharper beneath it.
A shift in power.
Sigurn swallowed but didn’t step away; her pride wouldn’t let her. Instead, she smiled a practiced and lazy smirk, as if she were not at all fazed. “I imagine Lord Leif had more interesting things to say to you tonight than I do,” she said, deliberately steering the conversation toward something she had control over.
Folke’s grip on her arm did not change. But his gaze sharpened. “Ah.” His smirk deepened. “So that’s what this is about.”
“What is this about?” she asked innocently.
“You think I’ll tell you what your Chancellor is scheming just because you bat your lashes and come to me wrapped in silk?”
Sigurn laughed. “Oh, Captain,” she said, voice light, teasing, “if I thought men were that simple, I would have gotten everything I wanted years ago.”
Folke let out a real laugh then, shaking his head. “I like you, princess,” he admitted. “But you play at things you don’t yet understand.”
“You assume I don’t know the game?” She breathed gently, shivering slightly, unaware whether it was the cold or the pressure of his hand unmoving on her arm.
The warmth of his palm was like fire on her icy skin. She imagined it might have been by design, a reminder that the world was cold, but he was warm and inviting.
“I don’t assume. I know,” his voice was lower, rougher now. The look in his eyes had changed; the hazel gaze that had been measuring before now seemed to press into her as if he knew what she looked like behind the blanket and shift. His fingers tightened around the blanket’s edge, pulling down slightly, pulling the fabric of her shift with it, exposing more of the flesh of her shoulder.
His eyes raked over her body now.
“I can see just by looking at you,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against her cheek. “No man has ever taken you beyond your games.” His thumb traced her bottom lip, his voice turning lower.
“You think you understand desire, but you’ve only ever been the one dangling the bait. You’ve never been the one caught.” He leaned in, just slightly. “Shall I show you what it’s like?”
Sigurn’s breath hitched. This was new. No playful exchange at a feast, no stolen glances over a goblet of wine, this was something real, something dangerous.
For the first time, she was the one being led. And she didn’t know where it ended. In the back of her mind, she wanted to know. She wanted to see how far this path led.
“What is it I desire?” she asked, her voice shaking, making her wish she’d not spoken at all.
“Passion. To feel yourself alive and on fire.” His thumb traced further across her bottom lip, and he leaned in ever so slightly. “You think you know desire, but you’ve only ever played at it. Do you know what it’s like to truly crave something?”
Her lips tingled under his featherlight touch. For the first time, the game didn’t feel like a game at all. “You take liberties, Captain,” she breathed, trying her hardest to still the shake in her voice.
“Do I?” He smirked. “Your Lord Leif seems to think I might make a fine royal match.”
His words felt like a splash of cold water. Folke saw it. Saw the momentary lapse in the last of her control, she was rapidly unraveling. If Leif was offering her as a royal prize, was that permission to give in? Was it an order to withhold her affection? Whatever the answer was, Sigurn realized that she didn’t know. Folke, however, smiled like he had just won something.
“He didn’t tell you, did he?” His voice was low now, almost smug.
Sigurn forced her shoulders back, shaking her head away from his hand, as if the news had meant nothing. “It’s not surprising.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Leif makes deals. That’s what he does.” She replied, trying to regain whatever ground she’d lost.
“And you?” He stepped closer again, his presence suddenly too warm against the cold night. “What do you make of his deal, Sigurn?”
This had been a game, hadn’t it? A playful push and pull, something she had done a hundred times before. But now she could feel herself being drawn in. The weight of his gaze, the roughness of his voice, the heat of his touch, it was too much, too real.
She should leave. She should stop this. And yet… she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. Surely if her father intended to use her to entice Folke, that was all the permission she needed. But still, the gnawing feeling that she shouldn’t allow this man any closer clung to the edges of her resolve.
Folke watched her closely, like a man who had seen this realization dawn before. “You’re bold,” he said, voice soft now. “I like that. But boldness isn’t enough, Sigurn.”
“And what is?” she asked, hating the slight unsteadiness in her voice.
Folke leaned in, just enough for her to feel the warmth of him in the cold. “Action.”
He tilted his head downward, his lips brushing hers, when—”Sigurn.”
Leif stood just beyond the firelight, his voice calm. Too calm.
“Sigurn. Come, now.” The name cut through the night, not a shout, not a demand. Just a quiet summons.
Sigurn stiffened. The cold crashed into her all at once. She had crossed a line, and worse, she had let someone see her do it.
Folke’s fingers slipped from the blanket. He did not try to hold her. He did not protest. He only watched, his smirk slow, knowing.
That stung more than Leif’s voice.
Sigurn swallowed hard, forcing herself to straighten. She would not argue. She would not defend herself; that would only make her look even more childish. She turned, stepping toward Leif without a word.
“Good night, princess,” he said, turning back toward the fjord. “Enjoy the rest of your walk.”
Sigurn hesitated, just for a breath, before gathering what dignity she had left and slipping back into the shadows of the camp.