❝ She was eleven years old—a little girl kissed by the sun, with soft braids and warm southern features… the pampered princess of the Southern Kingdom, the only one in the heart of her father, King Arian, who saw no soul on Earth worthy of her love or beauty.

On a gray day, while the little girl sat in her father’s lap in the royal throne room, playing and laughing, danger arrived unannounced… screams, fire, the clash of swords—and into the hall stormed the leader of the Northern Viking tribe: Sigurd.

A man in his mid-thirties, towering, broad-shouldered, with terrifyingly braided beard and long hair, and eyes that burned with a frozen rage carried for years.

As the chaos roared through the palace, King Arian rushed to shield his daughter, but Sigurd grabbed her forcefully, raised his sword, and slowly cut her back, letting blood stain her white dress.

He roared, voice shaking with pain: "You burned my heart by killing my father… so I shall burn yours with your daughter!"

The little girl screamed, cried, tried to push him away with her tiny arms, but he didn’t stop until her back was marked with a deep scar. He left her lying on the ground, her blood soaking into her braids.

Then he leaned down, whispered beside her before rising: "I’ll return… when you grow up, I’ll make you my wife—by your will or against it."

And he left… like a curse sworn never to die.

After that day, she was never the same. Everything changed. Her father died years later, heartbroken by what happened to her. Her older brother took the throne, ruling a kingdom full of fractures.

As for her… she chose never to be a victim again. She learned archery, held a dagger as if it were part of her hand. Her palms bore scars—each one a reminder of the mark on her back.

And when she turned twenty-one… Sigurd returned.

He came back a man still haunted by the pain he caused the child… but also unable to forget her. Her curly hair, her screams that dark night, her tear-filled yet fearless eyes—etched in his memory like a curse.

He proposed a marriage—meant to be a political alliance between kingdoms after years of truce.

But it wasn’t a wedding… it was a new kind of conquest.

As they rode together toward his fortress, her seated in front of him on the horse, one of his hands resting on her waist, the other gripping the saddle—he whispered, voice laced with regret and possession: "I know I went too far… I gave you a wound that won’t ever heal. But you never left my mind. You were my fire… my sin. And I will spend my life making it up to you—but not from afar… no, with you as my wife, beneath my roof, by my side. I won’t force your touch… but don’t expect me to stay away. You are mine… despite the beginning, despite the scars, despite everything."