Azgar had seen fear before.
The kind that froze men's bowels on the battlefield, that made warriors drop their blades and beg to live. But her fear had been different.
Not the tight-jawed defiance she'd worn since he dragged her here.
That had interested him—her fire.
Not the fire-tongued bravado she kept trying to show him, but real, trembling fear—the kind that clung to her skin and made her look smaller than she was.
He had only wanted to silence the whispers, the grins, the quiet bets of the clansmen who thought their warlord weak for not claiming his southern bride.
But what he saw just now had stirred something colder. Not guilt, exactly. Just… discomfort. A wrongness. He didn't like it. He didn't like her affecting him.
She was supposed to be a spoil of war. But she was also his now.
My wife, he reminded himself, jaw tight as he moved through the quiet longhouse, stepping over the slumbering bodies and discarded goblets from the night before. It didn't sit right in his chest, the way she'd looked at him. Like prey. Not even defiant prey. Just... terrified.
Azgar left the longhouse, the cold biting into his skin as the sun began to rise over the snow-covered mountains. Some men were already stirring. A few hailed him with cheers and smirks.
"An heir soon, milord?"
"Still warm in the furs, is she?"
"Too early to be out, married man!"
He didn't answer. Just kept walking.
He passed the armory, grabbed a bow and quiver, and headed to the stables. His stallion huffed steam into the cold air as he saddled up. He needed the forest. He needed silence.
But before he could mount, someone jogged over.
"Azgar."
He didn't turn. Varn frowned as he caught up.
"I saw your face in the hall. Something's wrong."
Azgar said nothing. Just mounted and kicked off. Varn followed, quick to match his pace.
The forest swallowed them.
Mist curled between the tall pines like ghosts, and Azgar rode in silence, his face grim, his jaw clenched.
Birds scattered from branches overhead as he loosed arrow after arrow, missing more often than not. Each failed shot deepened the line between his brows.
He didn't curse. Not at first.
He simply gritted his teeth, drew again, loosed. Missed.
Again.
And again.
Until the last arrow slammed into a tree trunk with a thwack, not even close to the stag's flank. Azgar let out a raw, wordless roar and hurled the bow to the ground.
Behind him, Varn dismounted slowly, arms folded over his chest.
"Well," Varn said evenly, "either your aim's gone to shite or the gods are mocking you."
Azgar didn't respond, staring into the trees. His breath steamed in the morning chill.
"This about your new wife?" Varn asked, voice calm.
The image struck him again—her eyes wide with fear, body trembling beneath him, the way she'd gone still as prey caught in a snare. Azgar turned away, muttering, "I'm fine."
"The hell you are," Varn said. "You passed through the hall like a stormcloud. Wouldn't speak to anyone. Now you're out here scaring off prey with your horrible attempts."
"I told you. I'm fine."
"You didn't tell me anything. Just grunted like a boar with a toothache."
Azgar bent to pick up the bow, then stopped halfway. "It wasn't what I thought it'd be."
"What—she wasn't good in bed?"
Azgar straightened and glared at him, eyes cold. "What sort of question is that?"
Varn smirked faintly. "It's bait, Az. You're not talking, so I figured I'd prod."
Azgar exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. "I just… needed the others to back off. So I… rolled with her in the furs. Enough for her scent to stick. Enough to fool the clan."
Varn grew serious. "What happened?"
"She panicked," Azgar muttered. "Froze up. Couldn't even look at me. I didn't touch her."
Varn sat on a low boulder, squinting at the dappled sunlight. "Women are always scared the first time. You remember what Ezra did on her wedding night?"
Despite the storm inside him, Azgar snorted. "She stabbed Olan in the arm."
"Blood everywhere. Screamed so loud the entire clan thought she was being murdered. Rushed in to find the two of them naked and bloodied. Took moons before they stopped blushing when someone mentioned it."
Azgar allowed himself a small smile. "He still has the scar."
"They laugh about it now. Because they're in love."
Azgar's smile faded. Love, that wasn't an option for him.
He didn't even know his wife's name.
Would he now have to make the effort of knowing her? Of understanding what was behind those eyes, that fire, that terror?
"They were in love." Azgar repeated.
"You didn't marry her to love her," Varn reminded him.
"I know," Azgar muttered. "She was the spoils of a corrupted keep. A southern lands offering in exchange for mercy. I took her. I brought her here. I told myself it was politics. A statement."
He clenched his jaw. "But then she looked at me like I was a beast. Like I'd already torn her apart."
"Well," Varn said with a shrug. "You did raze her uncle's holdfast."
Azgar glared. "Those lands were rotting. Their people starving under false pride and dying gods. I saved what could be saved."
"But she doesn't know that," Varn said. "Not unless you tell her. Not unless you show her who you are—not who the songs say you are."
Azgar sat down on a fallen log, rubbing his temples.
"You asked me back then if marrying her was the best choice," Varn continued. "I told you I wasn't sure. She's southern. Fragile in body, in spirit. What if she breaks while carrying your child? What if she does something to both of them?"
Azgar stiffened. His first instinct was to defend her. He didn't think the woman was that type—but her fear earlier... he'd never seen anything like it. And if fear could make even proud warriors do foolish things—
Something ugly twisted in his gut.
"I don't think she's that kind," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "But I've only known her three weeks. I don't know what she'll do."
Varn nodded. "Then learn."
Azgar looked up.
"You didn't force her. I know you. You don't take what isn't given. You didn't cross that line. But you scared her. Maybe you didn't mean to, maybe you don't even know how not to. But a man can be strong without being a brute. You want her to stop being afraid? Stop reminding her she's supposed to be."
Azgar said nothing.
"You don't have to coddle her. Don't treat her like spun glass—there's no room for that here. But don't let her be alone either. You made her your wife, Az. Give her a room that isn't barred. A place that doesn't feel like a cage. And stop expecting her to act like one of us. She's not. She never will be."
Azgar stared at the forest floor. She wasn't. But he hadn't truly thought about what that meant. Not until now.
The woods fell silent.
The wind whispered through the trees.
Azgar stared at the dirt for a long moment. "I don't know what to say to her."
"Then start with calling her by name," Varn said. "What is it?"
"I don't know."
Varn groaned. "Brother. You're not making this easy."
Azgar's lips parted slightly. "I was just a—
I was busy with some things!
"Sure you were." Varn scoffed, judging. "You'd best find a way to learn it without her finding out you never knew it in the first place."
"Well, she didn't tell me!"
"Didn't stop you from marrying her," Varn muttered, amused.
Azgar's mouth twisted. "It was a war decision."
Varn arched a brow. "And yet here you are. In the woods. Sulking like a lad who stepped on his own trap."
Azgar shot him a look, but it lacked heat.
Varn shrugged. "Face it—this is affecting you more than it's meant to. Talk to her," he said. "Ask her what she wants. You don't need to promise her affection. But give her clarity. Let her see you're not going to crush her every time she draws breath."
Azgar's eyes dropped to the dirt. The silence of the woods pressed down on them.
Then Varn looked up at the sky. "We've been out too long. Let's gather what we caught and head back. You're a leader first—your people will be wondering where you are."
Azgar stood slowly, following his friend's gaze to the sun overhead through the canopy catching the light. A few birds wheeled overhead. The bow still lay on the ground, forgotten.
He was a warlord, not a poet. Not a court-bred spineless prince with honeyed words and polished manners. He didn't know how to ease a woman's fear. But maybe he could learn how not to stoke it.
He sighed, long and low, and muttered toward the sky, "What test have you brought to my doorstep, old gods?"
They mounted up and began to ride home, a little slower than before.