The Thrall Queen
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 4: The Pattern
The summons came again the next night.
Saoirse was cleaning tables after the evening meal when the same warrior from the feast appeared at her elbow. He didn’t need to speak—just jerked his head toward the stairs.
Her stomach dropped. Around her, the other servants went very still. Deirdre caught her eye from across the hall, her expression grim but unsurprised.
This time, Saoirse climbed the stairs under her own power, the warrior trailing behind. The guards at Sweyn’s door stepped aside without acknowledgment.
She knocked—softly, uncertainly.
“Come.” The Norse word was clear enough.
She entered to find Sweyn seated at his table, studying what looked like a map. He glanced up, gestured for her to close the door, then returned to his work.
Saoirse stood uncertainly near the entrance. Was she supposed to approach? Kneel? Wait?
After a long moment, Sweyn set down whatever he’d been marking on the map and stood. He poured two cups of wine—the same ritual as the night before—and held one out to her.
She took it, sipped carefully. The wine was different tonight, darker and sweeter.
“You are warm?” he asked in his broken Irish.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good.” He drank from his own cup, watching her over the rim. “Tonight. Same question. Bed?” He pointed. “Or balcony?”
Saoirse’s mind raced. This was another test. It had to be. If she chose the balcony again, he might let her freeze this time. But if she chose the bed—
“I cannot share your bed, my lord,” she said carefully. “My vow—”
“Yes, yes. God.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I hear this. But you sleep somewhere. Bed is warm. You not die.”
“I would break my vow.”
“I not touch you.” He said it slowly, clearly, as if this should be obvious. “You sleep. I sleep. No ... touching.” He gestured between them, demonstrating separation.
Saoirse stared at him. “You want me to sleep in your bed, but you won’t...”
“Touch. Yes. I not touch.” He seemed almost offended by her assumption. “You refuse, yes? I hear your refuse. I respect.”
“Then why am I here?”
He struggled with the Irish, switched to Norse for a long explanation she couldn’t follow, then tried again: “You are mine now. Mine to...” He searched for words. “To keep safe. You sleep here. With me. But no touching. You say no, I respect no.”
It was the most words she’d heard him string together in Irish, and half of them were probably wrong, but she thought she understood: he’d claimed her publicly. That made her his responsibility. And his property. But he was willing to honor her refusal—to a point.
The catch was that “honoring her refusal” still meant she slept in his chambers.
“I don’t understand,” she admitted.
“You learn.” He pointed at the bed again. “You sleep there. Or...” He gestured at the balcony with a raised eyebrow that was almost amused. “Again cold?”
Put like that, it wasn’t really a choice. She could freeze again on principle, or she could accept that he was offering her something no other slave in Denmark probably had: the right to refuse her master and live.
“If I sleep in your bed,” she said slowly, “and you touch me against my will, I will kill you.”
The words were out before she could stop them. Stupid, suicidal words. But she needed to know—would he punish her for the threat, or respect it?
Sweyn’s eyebrows rose. Then, to her shock, he laughed—a genuine, delighted laugh that transformed his entire face.
“Yes!” He pointed at her, grinning. “Yes. You kill me. I believe this.” He was still chuckling as he walked to a weapons rack and selected a small knife—barely longer than her hand, but sharp. He held it out to her. “You take. Sleep with knife. You feel safe, yes?”
Saoirse took the knife with trembling hands. It was a real weapon, not some dull eating utensil. With this, she could actually hurt him. Kill him, even, if she struck right.
“You trust me with this?”
“You kill me, you die.” He shrugged. “All guards know you here. You not escape. So—you not kill me unless I...” He mimed grabbing her roughly. “Break promise. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So you safe. I safe. We sleep.” He gestured at the bed again. “Come.”
She approached slowly, the knife clutched in her hand. The bed was enormous up close, piled with furs and blankets that looked softer than anything she’d slept on since leaving the monastery.
Sweyn pulled back the covers on one side, gestured for her to get in, then walked around to the other side. He sat on the edge, pulled off his boots, removed his tunic—
Saoirse looked away quickly, heat flooding her face.
She heard him chuckle. “I sleep no clothes usually. But tonight...” The sound of fabric. “I keep pants. For you. So you not afraid.”
She risked a glance. He’d kept his trousers on but removed his shirt, revealing a warrior’s body—scarred, muscled, intimidating. He lay down on his side of the bed, pulled the furs up, and closed his eyes.
Just like that. As if this were normal. As if having a fully-clothed, knife-wielding slave in his bed were an everyday occurrence.
Saoirse stood frozen for another moment, then carefully—so carefully—climbed into the other side of the bed. The mattress was stuffed with something far softer than straw. The furs were warm and thick. After six months of a hard bench and a rough blanket, it felt like heaven.
She kept the knife in her hand, blade pointed toward Sweyn, and lay rigid on her side, as far from him as possible while still being on the bed.
“You can sleep,” Sweyn said without opening his eyes. “I not move. I sleep now.”
His breathing evened out within minutes. Actually asleep. Or pretending to be.
Saoirse lay awake for what felt like hours, every muscle tense, waiting for him to move, to reach for her, to prove this was all a cruel game.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t reach. Just slept, steady and still, an arm’s length away from her on the massive bed.
Eventually, exhaustion overcame fear. The warmth of the furs, the softness of the bed, the sheer physical and emotional toll of the past two days—all of it pulled her under.
She woke once in the deep night to find she’d unconsciously moved closer to the center of the bed, drawn by the warmth. Sweyn was still on his side, back to her, breathing deeply in sleep.
The knife was still in her hand.
She tightened her grip on it and let herself sleep again.
Morning came with gray light through the windows and Sweyn moving around the room. Saoirse woke with a start, disoriented, then remembered where she was.
She sat up quickly, knife still in hand. Sweyn was already dressed, strapping on weapons. He glanced at her, said something in Norse that might have been “good morning,” and continued his routine.
A knock at the door. Helga entered without waiting for permission, took in the scene—Saoirse in the bed, Sweyn armed and ready—and showed no reaction at all.
She spoke in Norse to Sweyn. He responded, gestured at Saoirse. Helga nodded.
“You come,” Helga said in Irish. “Work today.”
Saoirse climbed out of the bed, still holding the knife. She looked at Sweyn uncertainly.
He held out his hand for it. “You give back. Tonight, you take again. Yes?”
“Tonight?”
“Every night.” He said it simply, as if it were decided. “You sleep here now. My chambers. But you keep knife. You keep safe.” He paused, searching for words. “You are mine, but also ... you are you. Yes?”
She didn’t understand completely, but she handed him the knife and followed Helga out.
In the women’s quarters, the questions came immediately.
“Did he force you?”
“Are you hurt?”
“What happened?”
Saoirse sat on her bench, trying to process. “He gave me a knife. Told me to sleep in his bed but that he wouldn’t touch me. Then he ... didn’t touch me.”
Deirdre looked incredulous. “A knife? He gave you a weapon?”
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