Lagertha woke up before dawn—her sleep had been restless, haunted by vivid dreams, woven half from childhood memories and half from present anxieties. She lay in the empty chamber, breathing heavily, staring at the folds of the canopy above her bed, where shifting shadows painted images of a long-forgotten past. She saw herself as a little girl, running away from her father, wandering the castle corridors until she stumbled upon a hidden garden, enclosed by tall iron fences. A place where a fair-haired fairy lived—a fairy who granted wishes…

  Lagertha gradually calmed, but she could not recall what she had wished for. In her dream, she had heard herself speak her heart’s desire clearly, yet upon waking, the memory slipped away like mist. And still, a lingering unease clung to her soul.

  Dawn finally broke outside her window, scattering the last remnants of night’s gloom, and a soft knock at the door announced the arrival of her maid. The girl brought a basin of water for the queen’s morning ritual and news of visiting guests from across the sea. Lagertha obediently rose from bed and began preparing for the day.

  Queen Lagertha was a woman cornered, a prisoner of circumstance—yet she had no right to admit it, not even to herself. Her first love, a youthful infatuation, had twice ended in disaster. First, when her beloved Alv’s family was overthrown, and again when he returned from Hel’s domain as something monstrous. Yet that had not stopped Lagertha’s father from marrying her off to him.

  She had feared the new, fearsome King Alv. She had desperately searched for traces of the boy she had once loved, but if she were honest, most of what she remembered about him had been mere illusions of romantic fantasy. The search had been doomed from the start.

  As she walked toward the altar, the young bride felt like a rag doll, strings tied to her limbs. Her father pulled them skillfully, guiding her forward, and the mere thought of breaking free never even crossed her mind.

  Looking back now, Lagertha might have said that the time after her wedding had been the happiest of her life—but only in hindsight, with the weight of years gone by. And that happiness had lasted only until the whispers began—murmurs about the lack of an heir. But even that problem had been easily solved by her father, who found another man to father the future prince.

  Everyone in the castle knew that Alv’s son, Guthfried, was not truly his. Even the king himself. Yet such truths were only ever spoken in hushed tones, in shadowed corners. But Lagertha had lived under their weight for too long, long enough to feel those whispers crawl against her skin…

  The queen placed the golden crown upon her head and gazed at her bronze reflection in the mirror—her murky silhouette stood motionless and grim. But outside the door, a servant’s voice reminded her of the time, and Lagertha obediently rose, once more surrendering to the pull of invisible strings. Her puppeteer father had long since passed, but in his place, without hesitation, had stepped her brother, Sigurd.

  In the corridor, a fair-haired young man awaited her, clearly more anxious about the delay than Lagertha herself. He bowed awkwardly before his mistress, hiding his bright blue eyes beneath his fringe—perhaps intentionally, evading the heavy, unkind gaze of the queen. A gaze that had found him more than once, for no real reason at all.

  Lagertha swept past him with a look of evident irritation—or perhaps resignation. She had long struggled with one obsessive thought, a thought she could neither voice nor act upon, yet one that granted her no peace.

  Lost in heavy musings, Lagertha reached the throne room without even realizing it. There, upon the throne, already sat her husband, Alv, surrounded by sycophants and flatterers. Among them, unmistakable, was her brother Sigurd, who in truth led the pack.

  The queen entered and took her seat beside him, unnoticed, unacknowledged. She ought to have felt slighted or stung by the disregard, but the truth was, this had long since become the norm.

  But then, the herald slipped into the hall and loudly announced the arrival of foreign merchants. Alv’s retinue hastily stepped aside, clearing the king’s view, as the guests appeared in the open doorway.

  A short, middle-aged man was the first to cross the room, his keen gaze assessing the monarchs before he bowed and spoke:

  - King Alv, Queen Mother, it is a great honor for my entourage and me to stand before you…

  He fell silent, for the hush that followed was far too unnatural—as if, for a moment, the entire hall had ceased to breathe. He lifted his eyes and met the gaze of the young ruler. Alv’s expression seemed empty, indifferent, yet far too attentive.

  Had the merchant looked instead at Lagertha, he might have realized his blunder at once. Though the queen’s impassive mask did not waver, the flicker in her gaze as it swept the hall, searching for mocking faces, betrayed a very real fury.

  - Queen!... Queen! — the silence was broken by the loud, croaking voice of Eir, drawing everyone's attention.

  The black bird perched on Alv’s shoulder had clearly decided to correct the mistake itself, but Lagertha only rewarded the raven with a hateful glare.

  - Indeed, — the king responded, stroking the bird.

  - Queen Lagertha is my wife, not my mother, - he clarified for the embarrassed guest, casting a severe look around the hall.

  But one could hardly blame the unfortunate merchant. Ever since Alv had ascended the throne, his appearance had remained unchanged. He was as young and fair as on the day of his seventeenth birthday. And so, now, he looked nearly the same age as his own heir, Gottfried.

  Lagertha, however, in the eyes of those around her, might as well have been the king’s mother…

  ***

  After several raised goblets, music filled the great hall, and a celebratory atmosphere took over. The merry voices of the roused crowd haunted Lagertha like a curse, forcing her to cling to the walls and slip away through empty corridors as she left the throne room.

  Avoiding prying eyes, the queen wandered into the deserted inner courtyard—Alv’s favored retreat, still closed to the public. Once alone, her composure finally failed her, and she sank to her knees in exhaustion.

  It was something akin to a seizure—Lagertha, for the first time in years, was on the verge of breaking into sobs from humiliation and resentment. Yet her fury burned so intensely that it seemed to dry the tears before they could fall.

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  Frustration swiftly turned to rage, and the queen began tearing at the nearest shrubs and trees with her bare hands. But she soon ran out of strength and slumped into the grass once more, breathing heavily, clutching broken branches in her scratched palms.

  - Gertha!.. Gertha! — The raven suddenly called out to the woman, landing beside her.

  It couldn’t pronounce her name properly, but it was clearly trying to comfort her. Lagertha froze for a moment, remembering how Alv used to call her that as a child, chasing her through the castle halls. And now, that cursed bird meant more to him than she ever did.

  For a brief second, hatred consumed her—hatred for the raven, for Alv, for her manipulative father and the brother who had replaced him, for the courtiers and servants whose darting glances crawled over her skin like insects… and, finally, for herself, for enduring it all.

  The queen gripped a broken branch and brought it down on the black bird with all her might, feeling, just for an instant, the invisible strings binding her puppet limbs snap.

  The raven thrashed beneath the brutal blows, crying out in pitiful desperation:

  - No!.. No,.. master…

  - Mercy!.. Forgive me!…

  Eir’s voice trembled with terror, as if she saw someone else in her tormentor. But with each strike, her cries grew weaker, until at last, she fell silent in the grass. Yet Lagertha’s ears still rang with the pounding of her own heart. And along with it, echoes of something else—something distant, a half-forgotten dream:

  - And what is it that you wish for? — a green-eyed fairy asked, perched on a golden branch, right here in this very courtyard.

  - I?.. I want,.. — a child's voice whispered in Lagertha’s mind.

  - When I grow up, I want to marry Alv…

  - I want to be his queen!…

  ***

  By the time the queen returned to the great hall, night had already fallen outside the windows. Amid the inebriated crowd, only Alv stood apart—utterly, unshakably sober. He noticed Lagertha immediately as she approached and lifted his gaze to meet hers.

  - Alv, — she addressed her husband, her face strangely vacant, — my lord, would you not share my bed tonight?

  The flicker of surprise on his face was unmistakable, but he did not object. Despite what Lagertha had always thought, Alv had never sought to humiliate or hurt her—not even when, by all accounts, he had every reason to.

  - If that is your wish, — he said with a nod, rising from his seat—a silent signal to the few guests still conscious that the banquet was over.

  Following his queen down the empty corridor, Alv remained silent. But once they stepped into her chambers, his composure faltered. On the bed lay another young man, his fair hair catching the dim candlelight.

  Alv took a deep breath, reining in his rising irritation, but it still bled into his voice.

  - Truly, Lagertha, it is commendable that this time you chose someone who resembles me, — he cast a glance at the motionless servant.

  - But to invite us both… This is beyond reason!

  - I have always known that Gotfrid is not mine, but must you flaunt it so brazenly?!

  - That’s not why he’s here, — Lagertha forced out, her back still turned to him.

  - No? — Alv’s irritation gave way to curiosity, failing to grasp what she was implying.

  - But he does look like you, doesn’t he? — she asked, ignoring Alv entirely as her gaze remained fixed on the young man.

  Following her stare, Alv stepped closer to the bed. The youth’s face was pale—just as pale as the king’s own. His eyes remained closed, as if he were merely asleep.

  The woman pressed against Alv from behind; for a fleeting moment, something glinted in her hands before vanishing from sight. It was a metal knitting needle, which Lagertha drove straight into the young man's heart.

  - Because he is dead too, — the woman whispered into her husband's ear as he sank to the floor.

  Lagertha let go of him, freezing for a moment, savoring it—but she quickly realized that the old rumors had been terrifyingly accurate. Such a wound wasn’t even enough to slow Alv down. He never fully collapsed, instead remaining on all fours, though the needle in his heart clearly caused him discomfort. He reached for it, trying to pull it out.

  But Lagertha wouldn’t allow it—frantically, she grabbed a pair of tailor’s scissors from her sewing basket and drove them into his throat. Bright blood streamed over her hands, setting her mind ablaze and urging her to finish what she had started.

  But no matter how many blows she struck, the ragged edges of the wounds kept knitting themselves back together—thin, living threads stretched from Alv’s very flesh, pulling it closed again and again.

  As she watched them, an image flashed in her mind—the silver seam crossing the young man's throat. And in an instant, she changed her plan.

  Adjusting her grip on the scissors like a seasoned seamstress, she began cutting through the very threads that Huld had once used to stitch Alv’s severed head back onto his body.

  For a while, the victim still struggled—but only until the moment his head once again separated from his neck and rolled across the floor.

  Lagertha knelt over Alv’s body, covered in his blood, panting heavily. But on her lips was a crooked, delirious smile—washed by her own tears, half-dimmed by bitterness.

  Wiping her eyes with bloodstained hands, she noticed something that sent a shiver down her spine—the mysterious threads were still stretching toward each other, desperately trying to reunite the severed pieces.

  Panic flared in her chest. Her gaze darted frantically around the room, searching for some unknown means of salvation. And then she found it—her eyes landed on a jewelry box standing by the mirror.

  She lunged for it, sweeping all her trinkets onto the floor with a single motion. Then, dropping to her knees, she grabbed Alv’s head, shoved it inside the empty box, and slammed the lid shut.

  ***

  When a quiet knock sounded at Lagertha’s chamber door, everything inside had already been put in order. The queen sat on the bed beside the strangled servant’s body, endlessly polishing the damned scissors until they gleamed.-Who is it? - she asked in a hushed voice, pausing mid-motion.

  - Sigurd, who else? - came a drunken voice from the other side.

  - You called for me yourself, - the man mumbled thickly.

  - Come in, - the queen allowed, setting the scissors aside.

  Upon entering, Sigurd hesitated, at first mistaking the servant for Alv just as Lagertha had intended. But soon, confusion gave way to fury.

  - Who the hell is that? - he growled under his breath, suddenly much soberer.

  - Alv, - Lagertha answered calmly.

  - You mean he doesn’t mind? - Sigurd misinterpreted her words.

  - No. I mean the king died in his sleep, and the servant will take his place tomorrow.

  Sigurd’s mind raced, dread creeping up his spine as he tried to grasp the full horror of whatever game his sister had set in motion.

  - But where is the real king? - he hissed through clenched teeth, his gaze on Lagertha shifting—suddenly wary, as if seeing her for the first time.

  Without a word, she raised her silver scissors and pointed toward a large wardrobe chest by the wall.

  Sigurd felt a cold shudder run through him. Slowly, cautiously, he crossed the room and, with great reluctance, lifted the lid—inside lay the king’s headless body.

  Sigurd swallowed hard and turned to face her:

  - For what, Lagertha? - he whispered.

  - My son would have never taken the throne, - the queen said, making no real effort to make her justification sound believable.

  - He truly is a monster—immortal, unaging…

  Then, suddenly snapping back to full awareness, she shifted her tone, sharp and commanding.

  - You must burn his body and scatter the ashes before dawn!

  - Are you out of your mind?! - Sigurd exploded.

  - How do you expect me to do that without witnesses?

  - And tomorrow—what, we announce his death?

  - We’d be exposed immediately!

  - He may be a monster, but our house has plenty of enemies at court too…

  With a resolute thud, Sigurd slammed the lid of the chest shut.

  - We’ll take the body to the royal crypt beneath the castle—no one has free access there.

  Then he turned back to his sister, looking at her as if she had gone completely mad.

  - Where is his head, Lagertha? - he asked.

  - You won’t have it! - she hissed, eyes gleaming.

  - If it’s found, we’re finished! - Sigurd warned, his voice now low and dangerous.

  - No! - Lagertha snapped, raising the silver scissors threateningly.

  She no longer wanted to be a puppet—more than that, most of the strings that bound her had already been severed. But she could still feel one left, a single cord now hanging like a noose around her throat. And she knew that the moment Alv was dealt with, Sigurd would try to tighten it.

  But the doll was no longer afraid, for her hands were free — and she already knew how to cut the strings.