Chapter Six: A Massive Crisis

On a crisp morning, Onnie lightly grasped a slender, exceptionally flexible white wax rod. A cool sensation radiated through her palm, and the rod’s pliability bolstered her confidence. She drew in a deep breath; the mingled scent of charcoal and rust sharpened her senses.

This white wax rod was the essential tool in the steel refining method she was about to undertake. It would gradually carbonize during the stirring process, effectively preventing the molten iron from excessive decarburization caused by oxidation when exposed to oxygen.

Clutching the rod close to her chest, her blue eyes fixed intently on the towering piles of charcoal and scrap iron. Turning her gaze toward the furnace at the base, already aflame, adrenaline surged through her veins. She shivered involuntarily, her heart pounding so loudly it seemed to echo throughout her body. A sudden urgency stirred within her, and even after washing her hands, she could not calm herself.

“Smooth sailing and instant success!” she murmured repeatedly, bowing to the right and then the left, invoking every relevant deity for their blessing.

Just as she and the assembled youths prepared to begin the iron smelting, the lord’s steward and two Viking warriors abruptly stormed into the courtyard.

The newcomers paced back and forth, their eyes scanning the group before finally settling on Onnie. Wrapped in a headscarf and bearing the distinctive, defiant posture of a disciplined scholar from a distant land, she stood out amidst the crowd.

The steward fixed his gaze on her for a moment, then spoke, “Onnie Feld, correct? Lord Jar wishes to see you. Follow me.”

Onnie shifted on her feet, momentarily taken aback, her brow furrowing in confusion. The steward paid no heed to her hesitation; having delivered the message, he turned away. When she failed to follow immediately, he halted.

“What are you waiting for?” he demanded, his tone brooking no argument, as if disobedience were a grave sin.

Within the territory, aside from the lord and his lady, he was the highest-ranking official—the third most powerful figure—and his arrogance was thus justified.

Onnie offered a brief explanation to the worried onlookers and then trailed after the steward. A gentle breeze whispered past, but with her head wrapped tightly, she felt none of its soothing coolness against her anxious heart.

Silent and reserved, her fingers intertwined nervously as she followed the trio, eyes shadowed by worry, racking her mind for any misstep she might have made.

She knew well that the summons portended no good.

Crossing through the town, breathless, Onnie was led to the resting chamber behind the lord’s hall. There, her eyes widened with surprise at the sight of a familiar face.

Harold?

Compared to that day, Harold was now clad in rich garments, seated in a corner, evidently having just concluded a conversation.

She and Harold exchanged a glance, both filled with profound puzzlement—as if silently asking, “What are you doing here?”

Lord Avalsson Jar, draped in a magnificent white bear fur, grasped a dagger in one hand and, with a commanding presence, tore into the meat on his plate. One glance from him sent a chill through Onnie’s limbs.

Roughly, the steward pressed Onnie’s head down, demanding she kneel. She twisted sharply and sat firmly on the ground instead.

“Kneel!” came the sharp command.

Her heart hammered like a drum, but she quelled the rising panic and forced herself to meet the lord’s gaze, refusing to yield—even under such pressure.

“My lord, she has arrived!” The steward whispered near Lord Avalsson Jar, cautious not to disturb the imposing figure, as if the lord were blind and had not noticed Onnie’s presence.

Lord Avalsson Jar rose, casually wiping his greasy hand on the steward’s clothes without a hint of respect, then strode directly to Onnie. Sniffing deliberately at her head, he made no effort to conceal his disdain.

Damn it, don’t touch me! Onnie screamed silently. She was fastidious; those unclean oily hands must not touch her—or her clothes!

“Onnie Feld?” he began, circling her before asking, “Why the headscarf?”

“Because I’m too ugly and might scare people!” she replied boldly, tilting her head to meet Jar’s eyes without fear.

Her gaze flicked to Harold, who remained seated, and curiosity deepened. She had searched high and low for him when gathering orphans, but to no avail.

So he was here all along!

Yet what was his relation to Avalsson? Why was he seated here? Their faces bore an uncanny resemblance, even sharing the same hairline.

Their connection seemed unusual, filling Onnie’s mind with questions no one could answer.

“I’ve heard otherwise,” the lord said, “Some call you the beauty from Finsaril. Clever, but unruly.”

With a knowing nod from the steward, they tore off Onnie’s headscarf, tossing it to the ground, the steward playing the sycophant to perfection.

Avalsson stared at her face, his breath heavy.

Harold and the steward also fixed their eyes on her. The two Viking warriors, puzzled, approached her sides and paused, equally stunned.

“Raise your head!” The lord’s voice snapped them all back to composure, as if nothing had happened.

Onnie lifted her shoulders slightly, inhaling deeply before exhaling slowly. Expressionless, she tilted her head and locked her blue eyes on Avalsson.

“I know your father—‘Forked Beard’ Feld. Your appearance is unexpected, but that is no excuse for me to let you go,” Avalsson shifted tone. “Someone reported you intended to oppose me. I’ll give you a chance to explain yourself. What do you say?”

“Oppose what?” Onnie countered, her questioning gaze sweeping the group. She had no idea what she might have done.

The air thickened. At the brink of life and death, her mind raced with uncanny calmness.

“That’s for you to answer. What are you opposing me about? Gathering a band of orphans to challenge my rule?” Avalsson turned back to his seat, plopping down on the table with arms folded. “Am I right?”

“I’m just a woman; I can’t do anything!” Onnie shook her head, half defending herself, half conceding.

At this moment, she felt any defense was futile. Better to speak in irony—any sane person would know she wouldn’t dare. That would be suicide.

Avalsson pondered for a moment, offering no rebuttal.

He relaxed his crossed arms and strode purposefully toward Onnie. Her eyes widened in fear and confusion as he grabbed her chin firmly.

“I’ll give you a chance to live. Will you be my second wife?”

His voice was like ice, each word oppressive.

Clenching her teeth, Onnie forced calm into her voice: “I will never be your wife.”

“Robert, my brother!” Harold suddenly sprang up and approached them urgently. “She—”

“Silence! You have no place to speak here. Go back to your seat!” Avalsson glared at Harold, pointing to his original place.

Harold hesitated, stuck between standing and sitting, rooted to the spot.

In frustration, he slammed his longsword onto the ground. The clang of steel against stone echoed sharply in Onnie’s ears. Fuming, he prepared to leave.

“Stop! Are you throwing a tantrum at me? Pick up your sword!” Lord Robert Avalsson Jar stood tall, casting a sideways glance at Harold, who intended to walk away.

Harold halted, resigned, and retrieved his sword. “You know I’ve loved her all my life. Father favored you, gave you Jar’s position, everything. Now you want to take the one I love too?”