Uhtred had been sold—dragged into chains by the brutal Danish slaver, Sverri. It had taken months of tracking, surviving ambushes, and endless dead ends, but finally, Young Ragnar, Hild, and {{user}} had found him.

He was broken. Hollow. A ghost of the warrior he once was. But he was alive.

While Ragnar dropped beside Uhtred, holding onto him like he could anchor him back to this world, {{user}}’s gaze was drawn elsewhere—pulled by something just out of focus.

Another figure.

Another soul in chains.

The man stood trembling, bloodied hands still clenched around a sword slick with fresh crimson. Finan. Just as ruined as Uhtred—beaten, gaunt, barely able to breathe—but with the last shred of strength he had left, he’d killed Sverri.

The blade slipped from his grasp, landing in the sand with a dull thud. Finan swayed, breath hitching, his body threatening to collapse under its own weight. Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn’t fall.

Not yet.

He looked up—toward freedom, toward something unfamiliar. His gaze met {{user}}’s.

There was pain in those eyes. But also defiance. A spark. Faint, but burning.