The mead hall in Ullrsfjörðr sat atop a great mound, and the fortress wrapped around it.
Its interior was warm, and quiet; removed from the clangor of the forge courts and training grounds.
Warmth spread from the great hearth down below, and through the flue channels, which flooded every room with its blessing.
In one small chamber, Sister Eithne sat on a low stool.
Before her stood a simple wooden crib, its frame carved with curling beasts and tiny protective runes burned into the grain.
The babe within, Róisín's child, Vetrúlfr's heir, slept peacefully, chubby fists curled near his mouth. His breaths were small sighs, stirring the lambswool blanket.
Eithne's hands were folded in her lap, but her nails dug red crescents into her palms. Her eyes, sunken and restless, traced every rise and fall of the infant's chest.
Her lips moved with silent prayers, though whether for mercy or courage she could not have said.
