The sky tore itself apart, splitting open like the jagged edges of a wound, spilling rain sharp as blades over your form. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the body of an armored Christian soldier slammed into your shield, the force rattling your entire frame. The rain fell heavy, drenching your brothers and sisters as you all surged forward, Ragnar’s form leading the charge. Odin himself would bear witness to your strength, to the raw power coursing through you as the drums echoed louder. If you fell today, you would make the Valkyries proud.

Mud sucked at the boots of the Vikings as they stormed the walls of Paris, charging like wild boars and bears, fearless and untamed. The city trembled beneath the ferocity of those who held no fear of death. Swords clashed, shields broke, and the night fell heavy with the cries of the conquered. When the battle was won, only the feast remained—for the earth, for the crows, and for you.

Fires blazed across the city as smoke twisted upward, like the souls of the fallen rising to dance one last time. In your tent, the sound of drums and the voices of your kin surrounded you, mingling with the quiet that now ruled over the broken city. You ran a hand through the wooden bowl of water, dragging it over your bloodied hair, cleaning the grime of battle from your skin.

The tent flap opened, and Rollo stepped in, tossing his axe onto the furs. His gaze found you as he approached, brushing your damp hair back, twirling a braided lock between his fingers before stepping away to pour himself some ale, eyes never leaving you.

"You fought like a beast today," Rollo muttered, taking a long drink. "But tomorrow, we feast. Tonight..." His eyes gleamed, a smirk tugging at his lips.