Hinges rattle as I swing the front door open with a great big smile on my face. Stepping into the warm embrace of my home''s hearth room, my voice reaches far and wide as I shout my greetings, "Hello the house, for the hero returns!"


    "Don''t shout in the house," Mother chastises from where she stands in the middle of the room, not even bothering to look up from her work. She''s leaning over the cooking pot—a great big mass of brass Dad made from a bell he looted from the Christians—alongside Randi and Asva as the younger learns from her elders, "Garlic can be prepared in two main ways," she explains to Asva while picking up a clove.


    I swiftly tune Mother out, for the womanly crafts have never held my interest. I am to be a warrior, a man! I have no need for the skills of the house-keeper, for I will cleave head from shoulders and turn plains to fertile fields.


    Bouncing over to where Dad sits in his chair—as he is the master of the house, he rests in the best, warmest place in the house; the high seat right beside the hearth—I find him in the midst of a craft much more suiting my tastes.


    Dad slouches in his chair, the tip of his tongue sticking from his mouth as his furrowed brows sit on their haunches. At his side is one of his shoes while the other lies across his lap. He has needle and thread in hand and he''s carefully prodding the worn-down sole, a frown on his face.


    "Hey, Dad!" He lifts his head at my words, a brow arching over a gray eye, "Whatcha doing?"


    I know what he''s doing, he''s determining if his shoes are fixable or if he''ll have to make new ones. Still... It''s nice to have him explain things to me.


    Besides, it''s poor manners to only speak of your own glories. Though I''m eager to tell all of the battle with the Outlaw, there is a proper method to doing so, one that must be followed. I can''t just go blabbing about and running my mouth to all who''d listen, as much as I might like.


    "Hello, Halla," he smiles at me as he nods to his work, "Shoes''re falling apart quicker than I figured they would, so I''m wondering if my technique has slackened or if I used sub-par leather."


    "Didn''t you make those just last month?" I seem to recall him grumbling about a hole in his shoes around that time. Shoes tend to last a handful of months to half a year at most, which makes the swiftness of this pair''s death quite odd.


    "I did," Dad grumbles, frown deepening. "Though," he adds as an idea comes to mind, "I have been on my feet a great deal more with Eric''s injury, so that would certainly have a hand if my technique isn''t up to snuff anymore."


    I cast a quick glance around the room, noting a certain absence. Usually, when he''s not working or watching the ships, Eric can be found with birch-bark and charcoal in hand as he draws the shape of ships at sea. With all the extra time he''s had on his hands, I reckon he''s gotten pretty good at it. More than a few of his drawings have wound their way up onto the pantry door.


    While that by itself tells little of Eric''s presence, the lack of his spear certainly does. The Havamal, the wise words of the High One, says to never be more than a single footstep away from one''s weapons. Attacks can come at any time, at any place, for any reason, so one must always be ready.


    If Eric''s spear isn''t here, then neither is he. That applies to all men, too. Well, as long as he has a weapon, I guess. Though, does that mean that a weaponless man is nowhere to be seen? You certainly can''t rely on him in combat, so you won''t see him at your side—unless he does show up even with his lacking arms, which would make him quite the man indeed.


    Regardless, Eric.


    "Where is Eric, anyways?" I ask before adding, "And Salgrun, now that I think about it."


    "They''re both out together, setting hare snares," Dad says as he scowls and tosses the shoes aside. His sock-clad feet wiggle as he holds them close to the fire, a content sigh leaving his lips, "Eric''s healed swiftly, but he''s still not back to full strength so I''ve had Salgrun accompany him."


    "Didn''t Salgrun''s spear get stolen?" I take the seat at Dad''s side, which earns me a quick glare from Asva, which I return alongside poking tongue. "How will he help if trouble comes?"


    "He took a wood axe," Dad says while nodding to the empty spot on the wall behind him, where the tools of the house usually rest. I nod, a slight scowl on my face. How could I have missed the missing axe? Dammit, I need to be more perceptive! "How did your time with your friends go?" He grins, ruffling my hair, "Go on any adventures? Take any victories?"


    There we go, the moment I''ve been waiting for! I draw myself up to my full height, ignoring the spasms of pain stabbing forth from my gut, and answer Dad with a smile on my face, "It went great, Dad!"


    "Oh?" He leans back in his chair, a chuckle slipping his lips, "Do tell!"


    "Sticks a–" I barely make it a single word before Dad cuts me off with a raised finger.


    "Do it right, use their real names," a warm flush rises on my cheeks at the gentle admonishment. After all the trouble I went through already...


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Sighing, I gather my strength and resume, "Stigandr Kersson, Abjorn Vidsson, and I went into the Hading in search of a thing Stigandr found," Dad arches a brow, but a nod keeps me going, "Our journey took us deep, past the lumber-trees and into the wilds." Dad''s other brow joins its brother, his lips twitching downwards and hinting at a frown. Did I forget a step? Oh, wait! I did! "We met at the Straggler Ash, proceeded through the Deadfall Outskirts by the Oxtrod Path, and turned north at the Storm-Stone before continuing with Mt Barrowwatch to our right."


    There we go, problem solved! It''s important to list the landmarks by name so that anyone hearing the story could go and see the site for themselves, if they so desired. That way, it''ll be easier for listeners to believe and spread your tale, thus enhancing your ordstirr gains.


    Still, even with my solving of the problem, Dad''s lips only continue their downward curl. I''m pretty sure that I haven''t made any other errors, so it must be related to something else. It''s probably best for me to just carry on my tale, "After traveling for," how long did we spend walking? "an hour," that sounds about right, "we encountered an old, dried-up stream-bed which contained our destination. Hidden by root and leafy disguise," my smile returns as my words grow in volume, "was an outlaw''s hideout, freshly used!"


    Asva gasps, dropping a half-ready garlic clove into the pot. Her eyes are wider than a dinner bowl only until Mother delivers a sharp smack to the back of her hand for the mistake. The stare disappears soon after as she focuses on her work with renewed vigor.


    Dad motions for me to continue and so continue I do with ever-growing vigor. "There, we were soon met by the hideout''s master; a wicked Outlaw! He attacked with axe and earth, but we fought back with bold courage and deadly skill. Stigandr threw his spear into the Outlaw''s leg and Abjorn buried his shield in the Outlaw''s stomach, only for the Outlaw to use an earth kunna to make Abjorn fall! I charged in after, not letting the Outlaw have a moment''s rest, and used my shield to keep him at bay while lopping off his fingers with my sax! He tried to bite my throat out with his teeth, but I used my Knee-Groin Trick to put him in his place! Then, I kicked Abjorn''s shield deeper through the Outlaw''s spine, splitting him in half before burying my sax in his head!"


    As my story ends, the only sounds in the house are the crackling hearthfire and bubbling pot. All eyes fall on me as my smile slowly fades, the attention hardly praising.


    "Halla," Dad begins slowly as fear wriggles its way into my heart, "while killing the outlaw was a good deed and should be celebrated, can you tell me why it won''t be?"


    I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. What did I do wrong? A man should slay outlaws wherever he finds them and isn''t that exactly what I did?


    No, wait...


    ...I''m not a man; I''m a woman. Not even that, I''m a girl.


    Just a stupid fucking girl.


    "I-it''s not fair!" I shout, throat tight as I stumble from the seat, nearly knocking it over in my flight. Tears well in my eyes and I breathe heavy, shaky shoulders rising and falling in unsteady, uneven motion, "I-I''m just as strong as a-any boy, s-stronger even!"


    Dad steadies the chair as he too rises to his feet. "Halla, lis–" I don''t give him a chance to speak.


    "No! I-I killed the Outlaw, I killed the wolf! I deserve the credit, I deserve the ordstirr! It''s not fair that Eric gets to be the wolf-slayer when he didn''t even do anything except die!" Dad''s gentle gaze turns to stone, but I''m too far gone, "Eric getting himself injured has put nothing but strain on this family, it would have been better for him to have met his–"


    Dad holds my tongue between thumb and forefinger, stopping me from speaking words I could never take back. It is a gentle grip, one causing me no pain whatsoever, yet I know that could change in an instant.


    "I named you for your grandfather, my father, Hallr Blackhand," Dad begins slowly as dread pools in my pain-ridden stomach, a shiver spreading through my body as black smoke leaks from his mouth, "do not shame his memory by speaking such words."


    The crackling vanishes, the hearth-lit blaze suddenly throwing up a cloud of smoke as its flames suddenly snuff. The boiling pot freezes, its bubbles too scared to pop let alone splash. The creaking of the house stops as the packed-dirt floors shiver and shake with fear. Even the wind beyond the walls quiets alongside the gentle mooing of the cattle.


    "When I release your tongue, you are not going to make any noise until I say you can. I am going to speak and you are going to listen," Dad continues, his stare like iron around my neck, "am I understood?"


    I nod, an awkward, jerking motion.


    "Good," Dad''s face does not change as his fingers twitch and my tongue is free. "I want you to understand that I am not angry with you, I am disappointed. You have put me in a very difficult position, one I will need to work fast to resolve. We are very, very lucky that you did this with my battle-brothers'' sons and that is our only saving grace. I am going to have to travel, without shoes, to both Vidar and Kerr''s homes to get our story straight. I will have to call in favors to ensure that this version of the tale you told me does not spread beyond our allies'' ears."


    "If I am not able to prevent the spread of this story," Dad continues as my legs shake, dawning horror hitting me like a ship''s prow, "my standing in the Hading will diminish significantly and those of opportunistic inclination will smell blood in the water. We will see low-status men of unfamiliar face and name approaching our door with weapons in hand and ambition in their eyes. I will kill many, but luck always runs out. When I fall, you, your mother, your sister will be made thralls and Eric, if he is not killed, will join you in chains."


    Dad’s smoke-spewing words fall upon me like iron-tipped arrows, each syllable stabbing deeper into my soul. The Law is what keeps society from falling apart; without it, we’d soon be up to our ears in blood feuds. By following the Law and staying wary against threats against its power, we Law-Tongue Speakers protect ourselves from the predations of both those in and out of the Law—a protection I may well have lessened for me and my family.


    While there is no law against a woman killing, as far as I am aware, there are laws against women wielding weapons. By taking up arms, in the manner I did, I''ve given Dad''s enemies fuel to use to spread gossip about his ability to handle things. If he can''t even handle his own daughter, how could he handle a court case or the command of a fighting column? That would open his position up to further slander, further lessening his standing in the eyes of the community.


    And yet, even as my shoulders buckle with the weight of my actions, even as Dad leaves through swinging doors, even as I stand in a silent house, my fiery heart beats ever on.