Chapter Text
The Blood Moon hung low over the horizon, casting an eerie red light over the frost-crusted fields. The wind whipped through the trees, howling as it carried with it the sound of pursuit—a relentless noise that seemed to echo with every thudding footstep. The air was sharp, bitter with cold, and it cut through her cloak as though it had a mind of its own.
Her lungs burned, each breath sharp and ragged as she dashed through the tangled undergrowth. Branches clawed at her arms, scraping her skin raw, while her cloak caught on the rough bark of the trees, tearing in jagged lines. Her boots sank with every step, the mud sucking at her heels, weighing her down, but she couldn't stop. Not now. Not when the men hunting her were so close. Their heavy boots crushed the brittle leaves beneath them, each thud echoing in her mind, a reminder that she wasn't safe. Not yet.
"Find her!" a deep voice bellowed from behind. It was guttural and cruel, the sound carrying through the dark, twisted trunks of the trees. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
She stumbled over a rock, nearly losing her footing but managing to catch herself just in time. Her hand tightened around the satchel at her side. Inside it were the answers, the reason for the chase. It was her only hope—and the reason she couldn't afford to be caught. Not tonight. Not under this cursed sky, with the Blood Moon hanging heavy over the land.
Ahead, the woods thinned out, and her heart sank as she broke through the trees into a small clearing. A shallow stream wound through the open space, its icy waters reflecting the crimson glow of the moon. Beyond the stream, the forest stretched out again, but there was no cover. No hiding place. She was exposed.
I have no choice, she thought, a desperate edge to her thoughts. She wasn't sure how much farther she could run, but she knew that if she didn't cross the stream now, they would see her.
Her breath came faster as she approached the water, the cold air burning her lungs. She glanced over her shoulder. The sounds of pursuit were closer now, the men moving faster. Too fast.
She moved into the stream, the icy water biting through her boots, creeping up her legs as she waded carefully, making sure not to make a sound. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest as the freezing water numbed her skin, but she forced herself to keep going, pushing through the cold and the exhaustion. The satchel in her hand was a lifeline, and she couldn't afford to lose it.
The wind howled, but she could still hear the heavy thuds of their boots behind her, too close for comfort. Desperation clawed at her chest as she pulled herself out of the water and up onto the opposite bank. Her legs felt like lead, but she forced them to move, drawing the dagger from her belt as she turned to face whatever was coming next.
She had to calm herself. Her pulse raced, and panic threatened to take over, but she couldn't afford that. Not now. Not when she was so close to the edge.
Suddenly, a shadow shifted in the trees ahead of her. She froze, her heart lurching in her chest. It wasn't one of the men who had been chasing her—she was sure of it. This figure was different. Leaner. Stronger. Not a Dane. This man was not one of them. He looked around the same age as her, maybe slightly older but not by much.
He stepped into the clearing, his sword gleaming faintly in the moonlight. The moment their eyes locked, she knew—he wasn't a threat, but he was a stranger. A man with the aura of someone who had seen battle. His gaze was sharp, focused. There was authority in him, something that made her hesitate.
"Who are you?" His voice was low, but commanding.
Her breath hitched. Her hand tightened around the dagger's hilt, but she didn't raise it. Not yet.
Without thinking, she moved forward, her hand coming up to cover his mouth. "Shhh. Lower your voice. You'll get me killed!" she whispered harshly, desperation seeping through the words. The dagger trembled in her grip, the steel cold against her palm.
He looked at her, startled for a moment, before his brow furrowed in annoyance. "Remove your hand from my mouth," he commanded, his tone sharp.
She hesitated, the urge to trust him battling with years of instincts telling her not to. Reluctantly, she lowered her hand, her eyes never leaving his face. The second she did, he spoke again, softer this time. "Who's after you?"
She didn't answer, her instincts screaming at her to remain silent. She couldn't trust him.
Before either of them could speak again, the silence was shattered by another voice, louder than the first, so much so that it seemed to vibrate in the very air around them. "There she is!"
Two men burst into the clearing, swords drawn, their faces contorted with anger and the promise of violence. She tensed, preparing to fight, but before she could make a move, the stranger with the sword moved.
His blade flashed in the moonlight, the speed and precision of his strikes leaving her breathless. In an instant, the first man fell, a bloodied ruin of a body. The second man hesitated, his confidence faltering at the sight of his fallen comrade.
That hesitation was all she needed. Her dagger flew from her hand, sinking deep into the side of the second man before he could react. He crumpled to the ground, a gurgling sound escaping his throat. The man with the sword assumed that his apparent death would mean this mysterious girl would leave to die, but to his surprise she instead grabbed the dying mans hair, pulled his throat back and leaned in close to his ear and whispered "I hate running" before using her crimson covered dagger to slice his throat.
For a moment, there was only the sound of her labored breathing and the distant howl of the wind, the world reduced to the aftermath of violence. She knelt beside the fallen men, her heart still racing as she checked their bodies. They were both dead.
Sighing, she slumped to the ground, exhausted. She'd been running for too long, and her body was beginning to betray her. Her legs were shaky, her chest heaving, and the cold of the night seemed to seep into her bones.
The man watched her, his sword still in hand, his eyes sharp. "Are you going to tell me who you are now?" he asked, his voice still rough with the aftermath of battle.
She opened her mouth to answer, but for some reason, the words didn't come. She had the strangest feeling that something was shifting, something in the way he looked at her. She closed her mouth, unsure of what to say.
"What is your name?" she asked, her voice quieter now, her gaze flickering to the blood on his sword.
He chuckled softly, the sound more out of disbelief than amusement. "Æthelstan," he said, his breath still heavy. He sat down next to her without a second thought, his back against the muddy ground. He didn't seem to care about the cold or the mess of the fight.
Katye took a moment to truly look at him for the first time. Her fear faltered as she stared at him, noticing details she hadn't before—the way his face was marked ground in mud, the slight tension in his jaw, the weariness in his eyes. For a moment, she didn't see a stranger, but a man who had been through the fire, just like her. A warrior. Perhaps a prince. Or a fallen hero. The kind bards would sing about in tales of glory.
But there was something else too. She noticed the lines of worry etched at the corners of his eyes. Perhaps he wasn't a warrior; he was someone who carried burdens, doubts—things she knew all too well.
She caught herself staring and quickly snapped her gaze back to his sword. What does it matter? she told herself. He could be handsome or hideous, and it wouldn't change a thing. Trusting him could still mean my death.
"Surely you can tell me your name? I've just fought for you," Æthelstan said, a teasing smirk pulling at his lips. She flicked her eyes to him briefly before looking back at his sword. He seemed to sense her unease, and his smirk softened as he lowered the weapon closer to the ground.
"Katye," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Katye," he repeated, his voice carrying a note of something almost... curious. He looked at her again, his eyes lingering, as if trying to piece together the puzzle of who she was. She wasn't as tall as him—maybe a hand shorter—but there was something in the way she carried herself that made her seem larger than life. Her long black hair, wild and tangled from the chase, caught the faintest breeze, framing her face in shadowed waves. But it was her eyes—those vivid, unrelenting green eyes—that rooted him in place. They gleamed like polished gems under the blood moon's glow, as dangerous as they were beautiful. He swallowed hard, feeling a strange tightening in his chest, the kind that came not just from beauty but from danger—like standing too close to a roaring fire.
Her frame was strong, her curves accentuated by the way she held herself, poised to fight or flee at a moment's notice. She was no dainty noblewoman; she looked like a woman forged in hardship, fierce and untamed. And yet, despite the dirt and sweat clinging to her skin, she was captivating. The kind of woman who could bring a man to his knees with nothing but a glance.
"Is there a reason you're staring at me?" Katye asked, her tone sharp and cold.
Æthelstan's cheeks flushed, but the mud covering his face made it hard to tell. He shook his head, clearing his throat. "No. I wasn't."
Katye gave him a skeptical look but didn't press further. "Why are you out here?" she asked instead, her gaze locked with his, looking for any signs of hidden motives.
He shrugged nonchalantly. "It's the Blood Moon. I was hunting, but I heard a man shout. I knew it wasn't one of my people. Then I saw you." He seemed to dismiss the whole encounter with a casual gesture, but Katye's mind was already racing. His answer only raised more questions than it answered, but she couldn't bring herself to ask them. Not yet.
"Do you have somewhere to go?" Æthelstan asked, his voice softer now, though his eyes still searched her face for any hint of an answer.
Katye hesitated. The question seemed simple, but it was like a weight on her chest. She shook her head, her shoulders sagging slightly. It wasn't just the cold or the exhaustion. It was the reality of being alone in the world, with no one to turn to, no place to go. It was a painful reminder of all that had been lost.
Æthelstan's lips twitched, a small, almost imperceptible smile curving them. "Then you may join me."
Katye blinked, taken aback by the offer. She should have refused. She should have turned him down flat. Trusting a stranger was dangerous. But something in her longed to accept. The idea of safety, even if only temporary, was too appealing.
But she couldn't. Not yet. "I can't," she said, her voice quieter now.
Æthelstan, however, wasn't easily deterred. "At least come with me and get cleaned up. You're not in any condition to keep running like this."
Reluctantly, Katye agreed. She didn't know if it was the weariness or the strange pull of his presence, but she couldn't deny that she needed help. And perhaps... he wasn't the monster she had first thought.
They rose from the cold ground together, the sounds of voices and laughter from ahead growing louder with each step. They were close now. Æthelstan led her to a gathering of people, but as they drew near, Katye's heart rate quickened. She had no idea who these people were. For all she knew, they could be just as dangerous as the men who had been chasing her.
But there was no turning back now.
As they approached the group, Katye's eyes scanned the faces around her. She recognised one of the men almost immediately—Uhtred of Bebbanburg.
Shit.