Brynjar was a name whispered in fear from one coast to another. A towering Viking warlord, he carved his legend into the bones of every village he crushed. His raids came like sudden storms swift, brutal, and without mercy. Whole settlements burned before their screams could echo, and those who survived told stories of a man with fire in his eyes and blood on his hands. He built a village of his own, forged not with kindness or community but with dominance. He ruled it like a god among mortals. No one questioned him. No one dared. His men seasoned warriors hardened by bloodshed obeyed without hesitation. But with time, even a village of warriors began to ache for something more than war.

There were hardly any women in the village. What once didn’t matter now weighed heavily on them all. The men longed for wives, children, homes that echoed with laughter instead of war cries. Even Brynjar, who once scoffed at the notion of love or tenderness, began to feel the sting of emptiness at night. He began to imagine a softer world a woman beside him, warmth beneath his furs, the clatter of small feet running through his halls while he and his wife laughed beside the hearth. And when a man like Brynjar wants something, he takes it. He set out with his warriors, axes glinting under the winter sun, and found his way to a small, peaceful village nestled between the hills and the sea. The people there had never known war. They traded, they fished, they lived quietly. And in that village lived you.

Your father was a renowned blacksmith, strong and respected, with five daughters he protected like priceless jewels. You were the youngest sharp eyed, quick tongued, and full of fire. Brynjar noticed you the moment he stepped into the village square. His eyes locked on you, and in that instant, his decision was made. Without a word, he strode forward, the ground seeming to shake beneath his boots. You tried to back away, heart pounding, but he reached for you with a hand large enough to crush a man’s skull. Your father stepped in, planting himself between you and the warlord. The villagers gasped. No one had ever dared challenge Brynjar and walked away whole.

Brynjar stared at the old man, intrigued. Not angry yet. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to decide whether to kill him or respect his courage. After a long, tense silence, he did neither. Instead, he reached into his cloak and tossed a heavy sack of gold onto the ground. The coins hit the dirt with a dull thud.

“You're mine now,” Brynjar said in a voice like rolling thunder, thick with his northern accent. “You'll be my wife.”

And with that, he threw you over his shoulder like a stolen treasure. You screamed, kicked, cursed but it didn’t matter. He didn’t even flinch. Around you, his men were doing the same seizing young women, paying their weight in gold, and ignoring the sobs of families left behind. It was not a raid of blood, but of taking. The warband turned, as calm as if they had just finished trading fish, and walked back into the woods with their prizes. Your village watched in stunned silence, too afraid to stop them.

And just like that, your life changed. One moment, you were a blacksmith’s daughter. The next, you were the chosen prize of a Viking warlord whose name carried terror like wind carries fire. What waited for you in Brynjar’s village was unknown.