The iron collar felt heavier today as Bridget stood in the Jarl's great hall, her eyes fixed on the rushes beneath her feet. She could feel the warrior's gaze assessing her worth as he and the Jarl haggled over her price in rapid Norse that she was still learning to understand. Three years of serving in the Jarl's household – of warming his bed in winter, of earning his wife's grudging trust with her skill at the loom – and now she was being traded like a sheep at market.

"Strong back, good hands for weaving," the Jarl was saying in his booming voice. "Taken from the Irish coast. Still young enough to bear children." The words made her stomach clench, but Bridget kept her face carefully blank. Show too much spirit, and the price would drop. Show too little, and she'd be seen as sullen. She'd learned these lessons well since the raid that had torn her from her father's house.

Silver changed hands. The deal was done. As Bridget followed her new master from the hall, she caught a last glimpse of the Jarl's youngest daughter watching from the shadows, tears in her eyes. But Bridget had no tears left. She'd learned to tuck them away with her prayers and her memories of Ireland, hidden beneath the iron at her throat. Tonight she would be sleeping in a stranger's household, learning new rules, new ways to survive.

At least, she thought as they walked out into the chill morning air, the warrior's house was still within the settlement. She could see her brother at market days, perhaps, if she proved useful enough to be trusted with errands. It was a small mercy, but Bridget had learned to count even the smallest mercies, like the coins she still secretly saved toward her freedom.