Chapter Eighteen: Inheriting a Mess

The next morning, Onnie sat quietly beside the unconscious Harold, dressed in a newly changed noblewoman’s attire. Her fingers were intertwined and resting lightly on her abdomen, giving her an air of dignity. The outfit made her glow with renewed beauty, radiating an intellectual charm.

Her fingers brushed over the smooth fur lining—the garment had once belonged to the former Lady Yarl. She favored it greatly; clothing taken from enemies truly was the warmest. Expensive clothes were not only a symbol of status but also a silent language. Like the brilliant feathers of a flamingo, the brighter the plumage, the more aggressive the bird appeared.

In social interactions, a well-chosen outfit could subtly convey messages, helping her earn others’ recognition and respect.

Inside the lord’s hall, the atmosphere was unusually heavy. Several Viking captains sat around the campfire, visibly uneasy under Onnie’s gaze, avoiding her eyes. They fidgeted, straightening their posture repeatedly, as if the bench beneath them was studded with nails.

No one spoke; it was as if they were waiting for something.

These men were the Yarl’s personal guards, wielding great power as seasoned military officers with countless battles behind them.

The High Priest, who had survived the freezing night, shed his usual aura of mystery. Wrapped in a thick bear skin blanket, he shivered by the fire. Half of a bowl of hot soup had spilled from his trembling hands, yet he held on to it with reluctance, wearing a look of savoring comfort.

The soup had been carefully prepared by Onnie’s order, simmered by Xina with honey, blackberries, mint, holy herbs, and wild chrysanthemums—ingredients known for their healing properties against colds.

Occasionally, the High Priest glanced at Xina with an inscrutable expression, like an old elephant trying to intervene in the teaching of young elephants.

“Cough, cough…” he cleared his throat hoarsely and began to speak with a peculiar preacher’s fervor. “Last night’s great fire was a warning from the god Woden. Lady Onnie, guided by divine prophecy, led everyone into Yarl’s residence... Unfortunately, our noble Robert Yarl fell victim to Loki’s treachery and died a humble death. Harold, as the bloodline of the late Yarl and his brother, rightfully inherits the position.”

At these words, all eyes turned to the slumbering Harold, seated on the Yarl’s throne, and to Onnie beside him. Their expressions were complex; mouths opened slightly but no words were spoken.

What else could they say?

Old Avar Yarl had only two children: Robert Yarl and Prince Harold.

With Robert leaving no heirs, who else but Harold could claim the Yarl’s legacy?

There was no room for substitution.

As for their own ambitions, those were out of the question—none would agree, especially not the High Priest.

With no objections, the matter seemed silently settled.

Yet, several Viking captains appeared dissatisfied with Onnie’s regency.

“While the Yarl remains unconscious, the High Priest should serve as head of the council, ruling alongside us in the territory’s assembly,” one captain proposed loudly, attempting to thrust the High Priest into the political center to fulfill his own agenda.

“I agree!”

“Me too!”

Onnie’s gaze shifted to the High Priest upon hearing these endorsements.

He remained silent, supporting only Harold’s succession and Onnie’s exoneration, but otherwise refrained from comment.

Clearly, he welcomed the formation of the council.

She sighed inwardly. Stability was paramount now. She needed to secure a favorable position first before considering centralizing power.

At present, she held no real authority, and these men eyed power greedily. If pressed too hard, they might even turn against her and the unconscious Harold.

It could all end in ruin.

Yet Onnie knew that if she let them dictate the pace, they would only grow bolder. She resolved to seize the initiative, forcing them to follow her lead.

Voluntarily offering power was different from having it snatched away. Unlike some future bosses who only promised empty rewards, she intended to satisfy her followers and often give them even more.

She would win their hearts so completely that they would kneel before her, kissing her longsword—or rather, her axe—and swear fealty.

If she was stingy with power, it would be like lifting the lid too early on undercooked rice—everyone would end up with half-raw grains.

“A council? I don’t think it’s necessary!” Onnie stood and left Harold’s side, approaching the captains staring at the makeshift door draped with linen curtains.

The days were growing colder; soon, daylight would shrink to mere hours.

The captains looked up at her as she continued: “Tomorrow, I will represent the new Yarl to officially appoint you as the newly enfeoffed Jarls, granting you your own domains!”

“Remember—domains, not mere land!” Her words were firm, as she dismissed the village chiefs’ posts as unremarkable and ready to be handed out.

There were so many territories; there was no need to stir up conflict over trivial power struggles, squandering precious opportunities for growth.

Besides, she hadn’t yet solidified her position as acting lord—stabilizing the situation came first.

Her declaration stunned everyone. They looked at the new Lady Yarl as if she were a reckless madwoman.

Not vying for power but willingly handing over the Yarl’s rights?

This was beyond their comprehension. But how could they grasp the wisdom of a Chinese strategy of retreating to advance?

Onnie smiled at them, a smile full of unspoken confidence.

All the captains avoided her gaze, seemingly cowed by her presence.

“I am never stingy toward those who choose to follow me,” her voice was resolute and commanding. “You will soon see how right your decision was. I will give you more—powers you never imagined!”

She turned back to the unconscious Harold, raising her proud head as she looked down on the stunned captains.

“Tomorrow, summon all the landowners. In their presence, swear fealty to your leader Harold and his family!”

She sensed the former Lady Yarl would surely cause trouble tomorrow—this was her final chance, and part of a trap Onnie had laid.

What cards her adversary might play remained unknown.

By “landowners,” Onnie meant the warriors who held land. The free men were those without land, usually unwelcome and disregarded in the territory.

As for the serfs, they were slaves or laborers who tilled the land for the landowners, possessing neither land nor freedom.

Collectively, these commoners were called “Karl,” meaning common people. The nobility were known as “Yarl.”

“Understood, Lady Yarl! Your generosity will be praised by the gods!” they pledged, as if struck dumb by a sudden windfall of gold, bewildered yet ecstatic. “We will always support your husband and your family!”

Onnie watched them depart and ordered her men to carry Harold inside. She glanced at him being borne like a lifeless pig, then sat down to warm her hands, her gaze troubled.

The barley fields had been burned; the granaries destroyed—all in a desperate effort to save her. She had to take responsibility.

Without food, many lives might be lost this winter. She needed to stabilize the territory quickly and conduct a large-scale hunt before the heavy snows sealed the mountains, to survive the crisis.

But many would likely freeze to death. She envisioned a disaster.

Watching others perish because of her was unbearable. She resolved to have more charcoal burned; population was a crucial measure of a lord’s strength.

Burned ships needed rebuilding; the town’s walls were too low and had to be raised; granaries, too, required reconstruction. Everything was in disarray.

She felt that while escaping a small mess, she had taken on an even greater one.

Had she known this, she might have preferred to become a bandit in the deep mountains, avoiding such troubles.

“To wear the crown, one must bear its weight!”

If a revolt broke out, she would essentially be done for, forced to start anew.

In such dire circumstances, war or starvation were the only options. But waging war in winter was too risky—one misstep could mean total annihilation.

As Onnie struggled with these worries, the High Priest turned to Xina, seemingly coaxing his pupil, making Xina’s eyes shine with enthusiasm.

“Would you learn with me how to serve the gods and become a priestess?”

Xina said nothing but looked toward the pensive Onnie, as if seeking her approval.

“Lady Yarl, I intend for Xina to become a priestess of Woden. Will you allow her to study under me?” the High Priest’s voice was smug, as if granting a favor.

“Impossible!” Onnie’s firm refusal froze the High Priest’s triumphant smile.

“Why?” he asked.