It was market day, which meant waking up before the sun, dragging a cart full of vivid winter vegetables and dried herbs down the rutted road to the village square. even after multiple harvests through the seasons of the year, our new method for growing our crops stood strong and had proven successful.
Einar offered to go alone, but I'd insisted. Partially because I wanted to stretch my legs, and partially because I wanted to be out of the house for a while. Ingrid had been up late with Leofric, and she deserved the peace. Besides, I hadn't been to market in over a month. And it felt good—normal—to walk beside Einar, pulling the old squeaky cart and pretending to be just another curious girl with frost-pinked cheeks and cold-reddened hands.
The air was biting, the kind that clawed under your collar and turned your breath to mist with every step, winter had arrived and it was looking to be a rough one if it was this cold so early. But despite the cold, the walk had a rhythm to it. The crunch of boots on packed snow. The creak of the cart wheels over icy ruts. Einar's quiet presence beside me. It was peaceful.
People still looked, of course.
The rumors of magic Influencing the success of our crops had well and truly taken root, and my unnatural appearance only helped give validity to their suspicions. Even under a hood if I managed to hide my hair, my crimson eyes betrayed me—glinting like embers in the dark, impossible to conceal. Even in shadow, smoldering like coals that refused to die out even without the aid of light.
Even still the stares were fewer now. Shorter. Less afraid, more uncertain. A few kids pointed, but their mothers hushed them quickly. Most people just muttered a greeting and minded their own business. Some nodded at Einar with that wary respect reserved for men who did their share and kept their heads down.
Progress, I guessed.
Einar didn't comment on the glances. He never did. He just walked beside me like I belonged there—like I was his. That said more than words ever could.
The market was noisy, chaotic in its own humble way—fishmongers shouting prices, the blacksmith arguing over tools, the weaver bragging about her newest dyed wool. The air smelled like smoke, salt, and onions, and the snow-packed earth crunched as we made our way between stalls. I let myself drift through the sounds and colors, letting it all wash over me.
It was while Einar was haggling over smoked trout that I heard the whisper.
Two fishermen stood by a barrel of salted cod, speaking low and fast between glances. Their voices carried just enough to be heard if you weren't trying too hard not to listen.
"—I swear it. Longships, plain as daylight. Black sails. Carved heads on the prows."
"Could be merchants," the other said, skeptical.
"Merchants with axes and no trade tongue?" The first scoffed. "They didn't speak Latin. Not even Irish. Sounded like they were coughing up gravel. And their eyes—dead. Like wolves."
My breath caught.
I turned, pretending to admire a rack of worn leather boots as I listened, heart pounding. My fingers went stiff around the laces of one boot as I leaned closer.
"You talked to one?" the second man asked.
"Aye," the first grunted. "Sort of. He just grinned. Said something—couldn't make out a word. But he pointed north, like he was tracking something. Then turned and left."
"Didn't hurt you?"
"No. But I've heard worse. Someone found a boat burned up near Gyrham. No survivors. Just ashes and blood."
The other man paled, lowering his voice even further. "You think it's true?"
"I don't know. But I've seen raiders before—Irish, even the Franks. These weren't like them. These were..."
He trailed off, and the silence that followed felt heavier than any words could.
That sent a shiver down my spine.
I stood frozen in front of the stall, clutching a string of dried garlic bulbs, heart thudding. I hadn't meant to eavesdrop. But I couldn't not hear it. Every word sounded like confirmation of something I'd been quietly preparing for—but now it was real. Too real.
And then someone bumped me and I lost my balance.
Our basket of groceries slipped from my fingers.
A sharp crack of wood against wood.
A startled shout.
I turned just in time to see it—a cart, overloaded with salted fish, had slipped its harness and rolled, bumping hard into the old wooden cross that stood in the center of the square. The pillar had likely been there longer than the village itself, weathered and leaning slightly, a relic of old faith and older fears. I'd seen children play around it, traders tie their ponies to it. I never thought much about it—until now, as it groaned under the sudden impact, the worn wood splintering with a noise like a tree struck by lightning.
And then it tipped.
It was falling—falling fast—directly toward a little boy standing frozen at the base. He couldn't have been more than five or six. He didn't even scream. Just stared, too small to understand how fast death was rushing down on him.
And I ran.
I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I ran.
I reached him, skidding on the frozen ground, throwing myself between him and the crashing weight. I flung my hands up—not to catch it, not to stop it. That would have been impossible. I reached for it with my whole heart, my whole soul—and the world answered.
The cross shuddered in midair, frozen a foot above my head. It hung there, massive and creaking, as if some unseen hand had seized it. The boy gasped, shrinking against my side.
All around me, the market had fallen deathly silent. The fishmonger's shout died on his lips. The blacksmith stood, hammer slack in his hand. The weaver dropped her basket of dyed wools. Every eye was on me.
For a moment, I could hear nothing but the low groan of the suspended wood, straining against invisible chains. And then, carefully—slowly—I lowered my hands. The cross sank, gentle as snowfall, until it rested on the ground beside us, splintered but no longer deadly.
I stayed crouched there for a heartbeat longer, arms around the boy. He looked up at me with wide, terrified eyes. I smiled shakily.
"It's alright," I whispered. "You're safe."
But even as I spoke, I knew: nothing would ever be alright again.
I straightened slowly, heart pounding so hard it hurt, and faced the crowd. They stared back—openly, nakedly now. No more pretending not to see.
Old Rolf, who always tipped his cap to Einar no matter the rumors, stood with his mouth slightly open, a string of onions forgotten in his hand. Marta, the weaver who once slipped me a pair of warm mittens for winter, clutched her apron so tightly her knuckles were white. Even kind Torvald, who let me pet his horse whenever I visited the village, looked at me now like he didn't know whether to run or fall to his knees. And the boy's mother—who had screamed and started forward too late—scooped her child into her arms and fled without a word, without even a backward glance at the girl who had saved him.
Some people murmured prayers under their breath. Some simply stood, pale and silent. And some—the worst—began to edge away, slowly, like they thought getting too close might be dangerous. Like I might still bring the sky down on them if they dared meet my eyes.
I felt the weight of it settle over me like snow, heavy and cold and final. They weren't wondering anymore. They knew. And it terrified them.
I heard footsteps behind me and turned to find Einar there, steady as a mountain. He said nothing. He just looked at me—at the cross, at the people—and placed a hand firmly on my shoulder. It was a small gesture. But in that moment, it was everything.
It said: She is mine. You will not touch her.
"We're going home," he said, voice low and iron-hard.
I nodded, throat too tight to speak. We gathered our things with the whole market watching, every motion magnified by the brittle silence. No one stopped us. No one dared. But I could feel the questions burning holes in my back as we walked away—the fear, the suspicion, the helpless awe.
And somewhere deep inside me, a new certainty settled alongside the fear:
I couldn't hide anymore.
That night, after the market, after the stares, after the too-quiet walk home with our basket only half full and the weight of a hundred unsaid things pressing against my chest—I knew I had to tell him.
Einar had barely spoken on the way back. Not out of anger. That wasn't his way. But his silence had been different this time. Focused. Listening. Like a man waiting for something to be confirmed.
When we reached the cottage, Ingrid met us at the door, worry etched in the corners of her face. Her eyes flicked to me, then back to him. He gave her a small shake of the head—nothing urgent, not yet—and she nodded silently, returning to Leofric's side.
I lingered near the fire as he unpacked what little we'd managed to bring home. The warmth of the hearth should have been comforting. It wasn't. Not after what I'd felt in the village. Not after the way they had looked at me.
And maybe that's why I finally spoke.
"I did it," I said quietly. "At the market. With the cross"
Einar didn't turn. He just paused, hands resting on the side of the crate.
"I wasn't thinking," I went on. "It was going to fall on that kid, i just… i just had to stop it"
He straightened slowly, let out a long breath through his nose, and turned toward me.
"I know," he said simply.
I blinked. "You... do?"
He nodded once. "I've seen it. Here and there. Pebbles in the air. A bowl that stopped mid-fall. An entire field plowed and irrigated by a child while my back was turned? Always when you thought I wasn't looking."
Heat rushed to my face. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Einar looked at me for a long moment, then sat down at the table, nodding for me to join him.
"I didn't say anything because you weren't ready," he said. "And maybe... maybe I wasn't either. I don't pretend to understand it. But I've seen enough of the world to know when something is dangerous—and when something is different."
I sat slowly, unsure of what to do with my hands. "You're not afraid?"
He shook his head. "No."
"Even after today?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the fire, thoughtful, distant.
"I'm afraid of hunger," he said finally. "Of sickness. Of winters too long for our stores. Of raiders..." he paused, clearly considering what had been said at the market before the incident.
Then he looked at me again, and something in his expression softened.
"But not of you, Alice. Never of you. You saved that boy, and even if his mother wouldn't speak it she knows."
My chest tightened, and I looked down, fighting the burn in my eyes.
"I didn't mean for them to see."
"I know."
"They looked at me like I was..." I swallowed hard. "Wrong."
Einar leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice low but certain. "You're not wrong. You're ours. Whatever you are, whatever you become, you are my daughter. That's all that matters."
I nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the table.
"And you'll be careful?" he added, not as an accusation—just a quiet plea.
"I will," I said.
"I don't know what those people will do, Alice. I don't know what comes next. But your mother and I—we trust you. That won't change."
He stood, placing a hand on my shoulder as he passed.
"You want to protect us. I see that. Just remember—we want to protect you, too."
Later, I sat near the cradle and watched Leofric sleep. His tiny fist clutched at nothing, his breath slow and steady. I reached out, brushing a wisp of blonde hair from his forehead, and wondered what kind of world he'd grow into.
Outside, snow fell softly. Quiet. Almost peaceful.
Inside, I knew better.
But for the first time since the accident, the fear didn't feel so heavy. I was still afraid.
But not alone.