Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Fingers Ensnared by Hela's Gaze

Margaret slowly slipped into a long-sleeved woolen Norse gown. Its profound black hue sparkled like the night sky, contrasting strikingly with her pale skin, which, in the dim light, appeared almost devoid of pigment, drawing all eyes to her.

The gown was exquisitely comfortable, maintaining dryness and ease against the skin far beyond what later polyester fabrics could achieve.

Black, a color forever associated with maturity, steadiness, and nobility, evoked a sense of mystery and depth. It stirred the inner emotions of the wearer while conveying a refined elegance to the eye.

“Your beauty is truly enviable. If I could possess even half of your loveliness, it would be the greatest blessing from the gods!” the maid sincerely praised.

Her hands gently rested on Margaret’s shoulders, yet the weight pressed down uncomfortably, making Margaret feel as though she were being pinned by a bear.

The difference in weight borne from age made her feel overwhelmed.

“Listen, I don’t need flattery. If you have any advice, I’d much rather hear that!” Margaret shook off the maid’s hands, her tone tinged with clear displeasure.

She was long since weary of such compliments on her appearance. Moreover, the maid’s tone suggested disdain, as if she considered Margaret a child to be judged by someone supposedly more qualified based on their own life experience. This seemingly kind behavior was, in truth, a subtle insult to Margaret as a lord, implying subordination.

Besides, she was not close to this maid.

“I truly mean it. You are the greatest treasure bestowed upon us by the gods!” the maid continued, seemingly oblivious to Margaret’s shifting mood.

“If you cherish outward beauty so much, then you can start by dressing yourself here!” Margaret’s face darkened, her words layered with double meaning — both distancing and dismissing the maid outright.

The maid was left standing there, her face paling, eyes flickering with confusion and grievance.

At that moment, bursts of laughter and lively sounds of the lyre echoed through the hall, piquing Margaret’s curiosity to see what was happening.

Composed and ready, she opened her door, passed through the lounge, and accompanied by the maid, entered the lordly hall.

The hall was unusually noisy and packed. Everyone laughed while watching a short, clownish jester performing in the center. In this era, continuing into the Middle Ages, such figures entertained others through comical acts and antics.

Laughter seemed contagious; despite herself, Margaret smiled, even though she did not wish to.

Suddenly, the laughter ceased abruptly. All eyes turned toward her seated on the Yar throne, leaving only her still smiling.

High Lord Higlrun Yar raised his cup and approached his eldest son, "Little Higlrun," patting him as he stared blankly at Margaret.

“Your chance has come. Remember, I will petition for your admission into the Huskarls. You must defeat the sons of other families, strive to become Queen Margaret’s husband, and secure greater benefits for our house, leading it to its zenith!”

“Yes, Father!” young Higlrun nodded, casting a hostile glance around at potential rivals among the noble youths.

Other lords, such as Sven and Magnus, also instructed their children, some as young as five, under their fathers’ commands.

In an instant, Margaret became the focal point of a fierce contest, drawing scheming lords into both overt and covert rivalry. When a pack of hunters fixates on what they deem an unthreatening prey, an intense struggle is inevitable.

“Silence!” Lord Harold’s voice thundered through the hall. Rising, he swept a sharp gaze over the whispering crowd. “Bring forth the sacrifices for the gods. Now, High Priestess Xina shall preside over the coronation!”

Over a dozen sacrifices were brought to the center. They appeared dazed, heads bowed, kneeling before Margaret on her throne.

The executioner stepped forward, axe in hand. The sacrifices lowered their heads, exposing their necks.

At this tense moment, Margaret’s voice rang out: “Wait! I do not want my crown stained with blood. I propose releasing these prisoners!”

Her suggestion stunned everyone present. No one expected Margaret to disrupt her own coronation ceremony.

Yet, she saw things differently. To slaughter ten able-bodied men from her domain at a gathering was simply wasteful.

Indeed, wasteful rather than cruel.

She scanned the assembly, her gaze firm. “Who agrees? Who opposes? Vassals of the Gothland family, raise your right hands!”

Margaret also sought to gauge the current political landscape. To seize power, she knew she would clash with the existing three-person regency council. She only hoped to take control of Gothland Island’s supreme authority smoothly, without bloodshed, from the uncertain trio.

“Uhh…” The lords exchanged glances, looking toward the frowning Lord Harold and High Priestess Xina. Divided factions emerged subtly. Margaret’s eyes flickered thoughtfully.

“I repeat: those who pledge fealty to the Gothland family and obedience to my vassals, raise your right hands!”

Still no hands rose. Everyone waited for their faction leaders to decide. For a moment, her position felt precarious.

Unwilling to yield, Margaret stood and faced Harold. “Do you oppose Aunt Onnea’s will?”

“Of course not, Lady Duti!” Harold raised his hand reluctantly, then signaled other lords. Half the assembly lifted their hands accordingly.

“Lady Polly, as chief minister and steward of the Gothland family, do you oppose your lord?” Margaret challenged next.

“No, I have always supported the Gothland leadership!” Polly raised her hand, prompting another small group of lords to follow, except for Xina and the original four Yars.

Margaret was surprised to find a faction still uncommitted. Sven, Joachim, Magnus, and Higlrun exchanged looks before raising their hands, seeming to occupy a neutral middle ground.

As High Priestess Xina prepared to speak, Margaret decisively interrupted, “High Priestess, as Aunt Onnea’s maid and former apprentice to the previous high priestess, do you now oppose me?”

Xina sighed deeply and silently raised her hand. The priests nearby followed suit.

“Release these sacrifices immediately! Substitute cattle, sheep, and pigs for the rites!” Margaret pointed to the kneeling men. “They are the strength of our domain; none shall harm our people.”

“But they volunteered!” a priest objected. “And this breaks tradition!”

“Then I require a priest to behead someone to convey my request to the gods!” Margaret pointed at the speaking priest. “Who will offer themselves to be beheaded to transmit my proposal for changing the sacrificial offerings?”

Pacing thoughtfully, Margaret declared, “I am a progressive leader who welcomes dissent. I cannot be sure my will aligns with the gods’, as divine guidance has been unclear. Thus, someone must journey to Valhalla to seek their counsel!”

“Will you go?” she asked the priest who had spoken, unwilling to be swayed by divine authority herself.

To her, royal power should supersede divine rule.

The priest lowered his head, nervous, stepping back and shaking it silently.

She pointed to another priest, “Or do you wish to go?”

For a moment, her gaze, as piercing as Hela’s, caused those she indicated to avert their eyes. Yet, she merely inquired with tact.