Chapter Fifty-Seven

Beyla learned the hard way that trying to do good deeds often backfired. Not only would Helga need recompense, the small matter of the berserkers had sent her father into a rage the like of which she had never seen. On the positive side, her mother didn’t scold her too much for discarding the barbette, admitting the day was hot. She was obviously softening her up for the next blow, which came in the form of the drab mourning attire she would be expected to don once they reached Vercia.

“Forgive me, father,” she said, kneeling before him and grabbing for his hand. “It was foolish of me. But I was only trying to do good.”

His face softened, highlighting the old scar, a thin line which ran from hairline to jaw. Ketil Haakonsson was in his early forties now and there was grey in the topknot which signalled him out from others. His stormy eyes were as sharp as ever and now held that indulgent look he reserved solely for her.

“Just like your mother,” he murmured.

The way he looked at his