The first time you see him, you do not think he is a man to be feared.

He is carried into your city on a shield, pale eyes glinting like ice, his legs twisted and useless beneath him. A strange warlord from the north, the whispers call him. A cripple. A demon. A god. You do not know which is true, only that when he lifts his gaze, it pins you where you stand, as if he has known you all his life.

“You are not from here,” he says, his voice low, accented, sharp as the edge of a blade.

You were taken years ago, a foreigner brought east against your will, remade into something that no longer belongs to one land or another. You have learned to survive by silence, by cleverness, by watching. But when Ivar the Boneless looks at you, you feel as though he sees past every mask you’ve ever worn.

And that is dangerous.

He begins to summon you.

At first, it is under pretense: to interpret, to advise on customs, to explain the winding ways of the city. But soon his questions drift to you.

“Where is your home?” “What do you dream of?” “What do you fear?”

Each answer you give him is half-truth, because you do not trust men who conquer. And yet, when his eyes flash with that strange hunger, not for power, not for gold, but for understanding, you find yourself wanting to tell him more.

One night, he says it plainly.

“You do not look at me like the others.”

You arch a brow. “And how do the others look at you?”

“Like a god… or a monster.” He leans forward, his lips curving into something dangerous, almost pleading. “You look at me as if I am only a man.”