IRON AND ICE

CHAPTER 4

The Hall of Wolves

The great doors of Drakkarvik’s throne hall groaned open, heavy as ship hulls, their iron hinges protesting against the weight of centuries. Ingrid’s breath hitched despite her best efforts to steady it. The hall beyond was vast—larger than any structure she had seen in Ravnhold—supported by pillars carved into snarling wolves, their fangs bared, their shadows stretching long across the stone floor.

The air inside was colder than outside, as if every wall held the memory of countless winters and unspoken threats.

Skaldheim stepped in behind her, quiet as a shadow, but Ingrid felt her presence like a tether to something familiar. She kept her chin raised, refusing to let the watchful eyes of the Drakkarvik court see uncertainty in her.

At the end of the hall stood a raised platform.

And on it—Ulf, King of Drakkarvik.

And beside him…

Ragnar.

Ingrid’s steps slowed, not from fear, but from the sheer impact of seeing him fully under torchlight.

He was impossible to ignore.

Tall—so tall he seemed carved from an entirely different world—broad-shouldered and still as a statue. His long brown hair flowed over a thick fur cloak, braids woven at the sides in the style of Drakkarvik’s elite warriors. His skin was sun-darkened, his jaw sharp and shadowed. And his eyes—those cold, bright emerald eyes—were locked on her from the moment she entered.

He did not blink.

He did not look away.

And he did not speak.

Yet Ingrid felt the weight of his silence pressing against her skin like frost.

Ulf cleared his throat, a deep rumble echoing off the stone. “Princess Ingrid of Ravnhold.” His voice carried authority, but also curiosity—perhaps even surprise. “You arrive sooner than expected.”

“I travel swiftly,” Ingrid answered, projecting her voice across the hall. “Your messengers stated the alliance was urgent.”

A few courtiers shifted at her tone—Ravnhold’s princess was not meek. Good.

Ulf’s gaze flicked briefly to Ragnar, who remained as still as a wolf sighting prey in thick snow. “Indeed it is urgent. As you know, our lands suffer. Your people have what we lack. And ours possess what Ravnhold cannot defend.”

Ingrid nodded once, aware that every movement was being watched. “I am fully aware of the terms.”

“And you accept them?”

Her jaw clenched. “I am here.”

The hall murmured. A ripple of whispers moved through the courtiers, almost like a wind stirring dead leaves.

Ragnar still had not spoken.

Ingrid’s eyes drifted toward him, and for a heartbeat, their gazes met—truly met.

Not through duty.

Not through the vague idea of an alliance.

But as two people studying an opponent.

His stare did not soften.

It sharpened.

He tilted his head just slightly, as if he were dissecting her spirit, measuring her strength, testing whether she might break under the weight of Drakkarvik.

Skaldheim subtly tugged the back of Ingrid’s sleeve, a silent reminder not to react. Ingrid kept her expression carefully composed, but inside, Ragnar’s silence scraped against her nerves.

Ulf gestured toward her, speaking again. “Your father sends word that the marriage will seal peace for twenty years. It is a union built on necessity—yet we hope it becomes something stronger.”

Ingrid exhaled slowly through her nose. “Hope is a generous thing, King Ulf.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You speak boldly.”

“I was raised to.”

Ragnar shifted then—not stepping forward, not speaking—but a subtle, dangerous shift of weight, the kind a warrior makes before either drawing a blade or turning to leave. The entire hall stilled, waiting for his first word.

But none came.

Instead, Ragnar’s gaze swept over Ingrid once more. Not in insult, not in admiration—but in assessment. There was something unnervingly calculating about him, as if he was deciding whether she was a liability, a challenge, or something he would simply tolerate out of duty.

She didn’t look away.

Not even for a blink.

If he wanted to test her, she would stand.

King Ulf continued, “Tomorrow, the first council meeting will be held to discuss the logistics of merging our trade routes and defense strategies.” He glanced at Ragnar. “My son will escort you.”

An unspoken question filled the hall:

Would Ragnar finally speak?

He didn’t.

He simply turned slightly toward Ulf, eyes narrowing a fraction. It wasn’t defiance; it was more like silent acknowledgment. The kind only soldiers understood.

The tension in the hall thickened. Ingrid sensed the spectators leaning forward, yearning for the first words exchanged between the soon-to-be-betrothed. But Ragnar held his silence like a blade.

A figure stepped from the side—Ulfgard.

Ingrid didn’t need an introduction to know exactly who she was. Her posture was stiff with pride, her chin high, and her gaze sharp enough to wound. Her hair, woven with bronze beads, fell over a warrior’s cloak, and the way she positioned herself was bold—as though she believed she belonged beside Ragnar.

When Ulfgard’s eyes met Ingrid’s, there was no welcome. Only territorial hostility.

Interesting.

Ulf raised a hand. “We will conclude for today. Princess Ingrid, you will be shown to your quarters.”

Ingrid bowed her head politely. “Thank you, King Ulf.”

As she turned to leave, she felt Ragnar’s gaze again—steady, unyielding, unreadable.

A silent question.

A silent warning.

A silent beginning.

And as Ingrid walked out of the hall, her heartbeat thrummed in her chest at the same rhythm as the wolves carved into the pillars—ancient, fierce, and waiting.

The war between them had already begun.