CHAPTER I, THE WITHERING ROSE OF LJÓN 07:30 | EARLY MORNING HOURS | PALACE OF VÆLFING, LOÐRUNN, ÁSLO
The city of Áslo lay hushed beneath the clamour of winter’s breath, where the wuthering winds wound their mournful course through frost-bound boughs flanking the palace’s western front. Dawn, though ascended, brought no warmth; the chill clung stubbornly, a spectral veil upon stone and soil. Guðfrøð trod solemnly across the hoarfrost-laced flagstones towards the humble chapel that stood at the heart of the royal demesne, wherein his lady wife, Queen Freyja, awaited in still repose. The seventh bell of Saint Eirík tolled its sonorous lament, and winter’s grasp held the sanctuary in a hush profound. The candles, vexed by unseen currents, sputtered their wan light in defiance of shadow.
Beneath arch and eave, under the sacred hush of vaulted stone, the King and Queen did kneel side by side—yet the space betwixt them might well have been a chasm. This was the hour consecrated to piety, yet beneath its solemn veil played the silent masque of estrangement. Guðfrøð knelt with hands clasped and brow unyielding, his mien austere, unmoved. His cloak, heavy with sable lining, hung upon his shoulders like a funeral pall, and the creases ‘round his eyes, deepened by the harshness of the season, bespoke weariness unspoken. Not once did he cast his gaze toward his consort, but remained steadfast in his mute supplication before Father Gautstaf.
As for Freyja, her gaze drifted like mist over distant hills—unfocussed, unanchored. Though her lips did echo the priest’s litany, the words were naught but phantoms, barely shaped, barely breathed. Her golden hair lay loosely bound, a curious slight to courtly decorum, as though ceremony had lost its grip upon her. A tremour passed through her pale hand, unnoticed but by the observant eye. Around them, silence thickened, oppressive, until at length the chaplain’s voice broke upon it like a bell upon fog, drawing the rite to a close. The retreating steps of the attendants whispered against the stone, vanishing into the deep hush that followed.
“You had not an ounce of sleep.” Guðfrøð’s deep voice rumbled between prayers, his eyes of ice blue did not meet Freyja’s.
“The walls whisper, even in the darkness of the night.” Freyja answered in a low, soft voice that was almost unheard. “They ridicule me in such knavish manner.”
“You have had the apothecary summoned?” asked the weary Guðfrøð, after a brief pause of speech.
“I am weary of their tonics. They quiet the mind but unseat the soul.” she answered, her answer laced with resentment. Freyja had been in a haunting state of constant unease, a profound fear of the unknown, the ominous presence of images that appeared from nowhere.
“Mayhap you are, Frejya. And yet the court may ill afford another display, not another scene to place shame on our shoulders sapped by your conduct.”
Freyja flinched, as though struck by the force of his censure, her gaze falling to the floor, heavy with shame. At last, Guðfrøð turned his eyes upon her—a gaze not softened by pity, but sharpened by judgement. His stare was chill as northern steel, unrelenting, his silence the weightier for it. He cleared his throat, not out of hesitation, but to underscore the iron of his rebuke, that there be no mistaking the firmness of his resolve.
“The Dowager has received word from Vesterholt. A delegation is expected by the week’s end,” Guðfrøð intoned, his voice devoid of warmth. “You will present yourself with composure.”
“As ever,” Freyja replied, her voice a measured whisper, “I shall don the masque and play my part in the pageant. It is, after all, the charge appointed to me.”
She dipped her head in faint assent, the motion more weary than submissive. Long had she grown accustomed to her husband’s cold, ceremonious cadence—a tongue stripped of tenderness, his speech ever cloaked in formality, as though feeling itself were an indiscretion.
When Father Gautstaf’s sermon drew at last to its solemn end, and the sacred hush returned, Freyja turned towards Guðfrøð with hesitance. Her posture was meek, her bearing subdued, as if weighed by unseen chains.
“Do you ever ponder,” Freyja murmured, voice scarcely more than breath, “whether we be the sinners or the sacrificed?”
Guðfrøð regarded her then, his gaze as barren as winter fields, empty of affection or remorse. “We are sovereigns,” he said, his tone as flat as carved stone. “That is a burden and penance enough.”
Without further word, he rose, movements stripped of grace or ceremony. His sable-lined cloak whispered against the cold flagstones, trailing behind him like the shadow of judgement. Each echoing footfall through the nave was a tolling bell of retreat. Freyja did not stir. She remained kneeling, spine straight, eyes lifted not to him, but to the altar—her last refuge, the only presence that had not turned its back.
She watched him depart, her expression unreadable, carved in stillness. It was not hatred that coloured her gaze, nor the last embers of love—but something colder still. Something irrevocable. The frost had settled not merely upon the world without, but beneath the skin of the crown itself.
CHAPTER I, THE WITHERING ROSE OF LJÓN 14:00 | AFTERNOON HOURS | PALACE OF VÆLFING, LOÐRUNN, ÁSLO
The golden rays of late afternoon filtered through the tall windows of Queen Freyja’s garret, casting long shadows across the room. Within the quiet, only the soft crackle of the hearth offered sound. A tray of tea sat on a nearby table, steam faintly rising from a cooling cup. Alfhild, the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, moved with the delicate grace of someone well-accustomed to managing silence.
Freyja sat at her desk, facing the tall window. She had not moved in some time, her posture rigid, her silhouette still against the light.
Alfhild approached, her hands carefully balancing the tray. “Your Majesty,” she said softly, “your tea is prepared. Chamomile. Just as the physician recommended.”
There was no response at first. Freyja’s eyes remained on the window, unblinking. Then, in a voice that was barely audible, she said, “Why do the flames whisper, Alfhild?”
Alfhild hesitated, puzzled. “Pardon, madame?”
“The fire,” Freyja continued, her voice distant, as though she were speaking not to Alfhild, but to something far beyond the room. “It’s not just fire. It speaks. In hushes. In tones just beneath understanding. You must hear it.”
Alfhild’s brow creased with concern. “Would you like me to fetch the court physician?”
“No,” Freyja answered sharply. Her voice, though quiet, carried sudden authority. “No more of their medicine. No more of their draughts. They don’t help. They only drown what remains clear.”
At last, she turned to look at Alfhild. Her expression was pale, her eyes wide and dry. “They want me to forget the whispers. They think I don’t notice.”
She rose from her chair abruptly, the movement startling in the quiet space. Her frame had grown thinner, her face hollowed, almost spectral. She moved to the window and gestured down towards the garden.
“There were birds once. In the cloister. White doves. I gave them names. I used to watch them for hours, they used to do tricks. Now it’s just bare stone.”
Alfhild approached cautiously. “Ma’am, perhaps you ought to lie down. I can draw the curtains, prepare your chamber—”
“No,” Freyja snapped, turning on her with alarming suddenness. “No curtains. No dark. That’s when they whisper the loudest. That’s when they crawl beneath the walls.”
Her voice had taken on a note of agitation, though it was not raised. It trembled at the edges, strained under the weight of something unseen.
“They think I’m foolish,” she said. “They think I don’t hear it. But I do. They use Mother’s voice now… but it isn’t her. It’s Ingebjørg. It’s always her.”
Alfhild stood frozen, helpless in the moment, unsure whether to speak, to flee, or to kneel.
“I shall fetch His Majesty,” she said at last, desperate for a course of action. “He… always knows how to bring calm.”
At the mention of her husband, Freyja stilled. Her expression softened, if only slightly. “No,” she said quietly. “Not Frøð... He mustn’t see me like this. Let him keep the memory of warmth… not of ruin.”
She returned to the chair, her movements small, defeated. Her hands pressed to her ears as she began to murmur, again and again. “Not ruin… warmth… not ruin…”
The door opened. A cold wind seemed to follow it. Alfhild turned, startled. The Queen Dowager stood framed in the doorway, dressed in her understated gown, her expression carved from stone.
“That will be all, girl” she said with flat finality.
Alfhild bowed quickly, set the untouched tray on the nearest surface, and withdrew with all the speed her dignity would permit.
Ingebjørg entered the room with a measured pace, her eyes scanning the Queen and the disordered state of the chamber. Freyja did not look at her.
“You’ve unsettled the staff again,” the Dowager Queen remarked, her voice level, untouched by feeling. “Word travels fast through quiet corridors. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Let them speak,” Freyja muttered. “At least they speak the truth. Unlike your counsel.”
Ingebjørg’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but she did not rise to the bait. “You are unravelling, Freyja. And the King continues to indulge it. I warned him this would happen.”
Freyja lifted her gaze at last. “You care more for scandal than for sin. You always have.”
“What I care for,” Ingebjørg said icily, “is the preservation of the Crown. You are its consort. That role does not grant the privilege of collapse. You will take your medicine. You will attend the banquet. And you will conduct yourself as befits your station. If I must stand behind you to ensure that, so be it.”
Freyja’s voice lowered, full of quiet dread. “You sent them, didn’t you? Those physicians. Your voices. You sent them to make me doubt myself.”
“They are there to help,” the Dowager replied with restrained condescension. “You reject them because you are spiralling.”
“I will not be managed,” Freyja said, her voice trembling now, though still subdued. “I may not be the queen you wanted… but I am not your puppet.”
Ingebjørg turned away, her face hard and unreadable. “The banquet is in three days. I suggest you find a way to make yourself presentable.”
She left the room in silence. Freyja sat alone once more, staring into the hearth. The flames danced, and her lips moved—but no sound followed.
