PROLOGUE
Fagrahvél was eight years old upon first meeting Sigrdrífa.
It had been the first time Fagrahvél visited Valaskjálf Palace, and the memory of how overwhelming its majesty and grandeur had been back then was still just as fresh today.
Sigrdrífa had been a newborn at the time, only about two weeks old or so.
“Mother, who is that?” asked the young Fagrahvél, peering at the baby cradled in her arms. “It’s not Ríg, is it?”
It was immediately obvious that this wasn’t Ríg, Fagrahvél’s biological younger brother, who had been born two weeks ago—and had died three days ago.
Indeed, while all babies looked much the same to Fagrahvél, this one was very clearly different.
Its hair and skin were both pure white, with a strange translucence that seemed almost magical.
Maybe she’s an angel sent from the gods.
That was the thought that ran through Fagrahvél’s young mind—that first impression was something else that remained a vivid memory even as an adult.
“You’re right, it’s not Ríg. This is the most holy child of the þjóðann.”
“The þjóðann?!” Taken aback, Fagrahvél could only repeat those words.
Eight years old was old enough to have gotten a basic grasp of certain things about the world their family lived in.
Fagrahvél was the child of a low-level official, and understood very well that their family was of a different social status than the people in glittering attire who lived in this gorgeous palace.
Fagrahvél also understood that the þjóðann was the most noble and powerful of all the people in the imperial court, someone so far above Fagrahvél’s own position that meeting them would normally be impossible.
Fagrahvél’s mother quickly cleared this up. “I was given the order to be this child’s wet nurse, starting today.”
“What’s a wetnurse?” For an eight-year-old not born into an upper-class family, it was an unfamiliar word.
“It means someone who gives a baby milk in place of its mother.”
“Oh, okay. Why can’t this baby’s mother give it milk herself, though? Did she die?”
“No, she is alive.” Fagrahvél’s mother said, with an awkward smile.
There was a custom passed down through many generations in which mothers in noble families would hand their newborn children over to a wetnurse to be raised through their infancies, rather than raising the child themselves. An eight-year-old might find this particular explanation hard to understand, though...
“There were some issues, so now I’m going to be raising her instead. You make sure that you care for her like she’s your own sister, all right? Like you would have done... for Ríg...” Her voice started to choke up.
She had lost her beloved newborn son only three days ago, so her reaction was only natural.
“For Ríg?” The young Fagrahvél repeated quizzically, and looked at the baby once again.
As stated previously, this baby didn’t resemble Fagrahvél’s late younger brother in the slightest.
And yet...
The baby smiled brightly, and in that instant, Fagrahvél’s whole body shuddered.
“...!”
It seemed so adorable, so precious.
“Okay!” Fagrahvél said with a nod. There was not a trace of hesitation or uncertainty in that response.
Fagrahvél had been helpless in regard to preventing Ríg’s death, but this child was going to be kept safe no matter what.
That new oath resounded strongly in the young Fagrahvél’s heart—and even years later, in the present day, it still continued to live on.
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