The village burned behind you, the thick smoke curling into the sky like the spirits of the dead whispering their final pleas. The air reeked of charred wood, blood, and the sharp tang of seawater from the longships that had brought the raiders to your shores. Your wrists ached from the rough rope binding them, the bite of it a cruel reminder that you were no longer free.

Among the twenty-four unmarried women, you stood in a line, your breath shallow as the towering warriors assessed you like livestock. The other thirty-four women—mothers, widows, elders—knelt behind you, some whispering desperate prayers to the gods, others staring blankly, as if their souls had already left their bodies.

And then he stepped forward.

The warlord.

He was taller than the others, broad-shouldered and wrapped in furs, his armor stained with the blood of your people. A wolf’s pelt draped over his shoulders, its head resting atop his like a macabre crown. Beneath his battle-worn helmet, piercing blue eyes swept over the gathered women, cold and calculating. A monstrous axe hung at his side, its blade slick with fresh carnage.

Simon Riley.

The name was already whispered in fear. A conqueror. A brute. A man whose presence alone could shatter hope.

His gaze landed on you.

He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle to be solved, something that piqued his interest rather than just another prize to be claimed. The corner of his scarred lips quirked, just barely.

“You,” he rumbled, his voice deep as thunder. He reached out, gripping your chin between his calloused fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. “What’s your name, little one?”

Around you, the other women trembled. Some wept. Others just stared blankly.