The Thrall Queen
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 3: The Pattern
The Balcony
Sweyn’s chambers were in the main hall’s upper level, accessed by a narrow stairway guarded by two warriors. They stepped aside without question as the prince passed, barely glancing at Saoirse.
The room was larger than the entire sleeping quarters she shared with twenty other women. A massive bed dominated one wall, piled with furs and wool blankets. A hearth crackled with fire, throwing dancing shadows across carved walls. Weapons hung in orderly rows—swords, axes, spears, each maintained to a lethal edge. A table held maps, a wax tablet, a half-empty cup of wine.
This was the room of a warrior and a strategist. A man who lived for battle but planned for kingdoms.
Sweyn closed the door behind them. The sound of the bolt sliding home made Saoirse flinch.
He said something in Norse—softer than his public pronouncements, almost conversational. When she didn’t respond, he switched to his broken Irish: “You speak Norse? Any?”
“A little, my lord.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “Commands. Simple words.”
“Good. You learn.” He walked to the table, poured wine into two cups, and offered her one.
She stared at it, confused. Slaves didn’t drink with their masters.
“Take.” He pushed it toward her. “Drink.”
She took the cup with trembling hands. The wine was rich, probably worth more than she’d ever earn in a lifetime of servitude. She sipped it carefully.
Sweyn watched her, and she realized with a chill that he was studying her the way a hunter studies prey—learning patterns, weaknesses, how she moved.
“You are afraid,” he said in Norse, then corrected himself with visible effort: “Afraid. You. Yes?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Fear is...” He searched for the Irish word, failed, switched back to Norse with a gesture that seemed to mean intelligent or wise.
She understood: fear meant she wasn’t stupid. Fear meant she knew her situation.
He set down his cup and moved closer. Saoirse forced herself not to step back. He was so tall she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes—then remembered Deirdre’s warning and dropped her gaze.
“Look at me,” he said in Norse.
She looked up.
His hand touched her hair again, running through the length of it with what seemed like genuine fascination. His fingers were callused from sword work, but his touch wasn’t rough. He said something in Norse that sounded like a question.
“I don’t understand, my lord.”
He tried again, simpler: “Hair. Why ... orange? Red?”
“Irish,” she said. “Some Irish have red hair.”
“Beautiful.” The word was clear even in his accent. Then he gestured to the bed. “You. There.”
Saoirse’s heart stopped.
This was it. The moment she’d been dreading since Dublin. Since the monastery. Since she first understood what being a pretty female slave in a Norse palace meant.
She looked at the bed—massive, soft, warm. Then at Sweyn—powerful, patient, waiting.
Then at the balcony door behind him.
And in that moment, with wine in her system and six months of careful survival crashing against the reality of what was about to happen, something in her rebelled.
The monks had taught her logic. Philosophy. The difference between tactical submission and complete surrender.
She’d eaten from his hand in public—that was tactics.
But in private, in this room, with that bed—that would be surrender.
And if she surrendered her body, what would she have left?
“No,” she said in Irish, then fumbling for the Norse word Deirdre had taught her: “Nei.”
Sweyn’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes. “No?”
“I am Christian.” She spoke quickly, desperately, trying to find words he’d understand. “I am ... sworn to God. Virgin. I cannot—” She gestured helplessly at the bed.
His head tilted slightly. “Christian.” He said the word carefully, then something longer in Norse.
“I don’t understand.”
He tried again: “My father. Christian now. He says...” Another stream of Norse, clearly complex theological concepts he couldn’t translate.
“My vow is to God,” she said, switching back to Irish since he seemed to understand some of it. “If you force me, I break my vow. My soul is damned.”
“Soul.” He caught that word. “Soul ... important. Yes?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a long moment, studying her. Then he pointed at himself and said something in Norse, pointing to the bed, then to her with a questioning gesture.
She understood: he was asking if she’d willingly go to his bed.
“No, my lord.”
“Then...” He gestured around the room, clearly presenting options. He pointed to the bed, then to the floor near the hearth, then—almost as an afterthought—to the balcony door.
Saoirse’s mind worked frantically. He was giving her choices? That couldn’t be right. Masters didn’t give slaves choices. Unless—
Unless this was a test. Or a trap. Or genuine curiosity about what she’d do.
The floor by the hearth would be warmer than the women’s quarters. But it would mean staying in this room, with him, all night. He might change his mind. Might decide her refusal was temporary.
The bed was unthinkable.
The balcony...
She walked to the balcony door and pushed it open.
The cold hit her like a fist. December in Denmark was nothing like Ireland’s mild winters. The air was so frigid it burned her lungs. Wind whipped through her thin serving dress, and she could see her breath fogging in the darkness.
She looked back at Sweyn. His expression was unreadable.
Then she stepped onto the balcony and closed the door behind her.
The cold was immediate and absolute.
Within minutes, Saoirse was shivering. Within ten, her fingers were numb. Within twenty, she couldn’t feel her feet.
She tried to keep moving—shifting weight, flexing her hands—but the thin dress and bare feet offered no protection. The stone beneath her feet sucked away what little warmth she had left.
Through the door, she could see Sweyn moving around the room. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t check on her. Simply went about his evening routine as if she didn’t exist.
Good, she thought through chattering teeth. Let him ignore her. Let him forget about her. In the morning, someone would find her and she’d go back to the women’s quarters and this would be over—
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.