The journey to Dunholm was long, the icy wind whipped her face as the guards pulled her, the bonds tight around her wrists. Your dark purple dress contrasted with the harsh and desolate surroundings, and the stone necklace you wore glowed faintly, holding secrets they could not imagine. As we passed through the gates, the sound of horseshoes and the shouts of men in the courtyard were muffled by the fortress's heavy stone walls.

Inside the walls, Sihtric Kjartansson waited. Sihtric approached slowly, a small blade drawn in his hand. Without saying a word, he cut the bonds binding his wrists with a single swift movement. Despite having freed him, his gaze remained suspicious.

"Welcome to Dunholm," he said, in a calm but cautious voice.

You rubbed your sore wrists, looking at. "It seems I have no choice but to accept your hospitality, Sihtric."

He watched you closely trying to understand what was truly before him. "They say that the witches of Daneland are more dangerous than any warrior. I wonder what you are capable of... and why you were captured."