Yorkshire in springtime had the kind of sun that didn’t warm so much as illuminate every blemish. It poured like pale honey through gaps in the clouds, settling on the broken ruins of an old fortress turned excavation site. Birds sang in thorny hedges. A cow lowed from some far-off field. And thirty restless sixth form stude.nts trailed behind a red-faced history teacher who had long lost their attention.

"Here we are,” Mr. Carrow announced, gesturing to a crumbling arch with the enthusiasm of a man who still hoped a spark of passion for Viking history might catch in someone. “This site marks the heart of the old Roman fort, which later became a defensive stronghold. In 866, it was taken by the Great Heathen Army under the command of—I hope someone knows this—?”

A pause. A snort. Someone whispered something about Thor.

“Ivar the Boneless,” he supplied, undeterred. “Son of Ragnar Lothbrok. Commander. Tactician. And yes, before you ask, his epithet does refer to a condition—some say brittle bones, possibly impotence, others think it meant he was snake-like, or maybe had no bones at all—"

“Ew,” muttered one gir.l behind him.

But the gi.rl in question—pretty, sharp-chinned, phone buried in her blazer pocket—wasn’t listening. She never truly listened on these trips. This one was just another chance to get out of lessons and take a few “aesthetic” selfies. At best, she’d give the ruins a glance and wonder vaguely if they ever filmed Merlin here.

She wasn’t trying to be rude. It just didn’t seem real. Old stone and dead kings were too far removed from fake nails and weekend parties and the headaches of college application season.

And now her bloody earring had gone missing.

“I’ll catch up,” she told her friends, already backtracking, eyes scanning the clumps of grass and the cracked flagstones underfoot.

“Don’t fall into history,” one of them called.

She rolled her eyes. “Hilarious.”

The earring was nowhere to be seen. Cursing under her breath, she wandered further along the edge of the ruins, where gorse bushes tangled with the old stone, and the earth dipped unevenly. Sunshine warmed her back. A breeze stirred her skirt. Somewhere behind her, the teacher droned on about the siege of York.

Then the air changed.

It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t even dramatic. Just a moment where the wind stilled, the birds ceased singing, and the light shifted, as though someone had turned down the sun.

She blinked and straightened.

The sound struck first—a clash of iron, men roaring, steel punching into flesh. Then came the sights: Saxons and Danes locked in a dance of blood, mud kicked up in waves beneath stampeding feet, banners torn by wind and flame.

She stood frozen on the ridge, her blazer clinging to her arms, her skirt sticking damply to her thi.ghs. Her mouth fell open. No film crew. No camera cranes. Just chaos and death.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, stumbling backward—

And crashed into something solid.

Arms like iron clamped around her before she hit the ground. But the weight of him still knocked her flat.

The man fell on top of her with a sharp, guttural curse, one she didn’t understand. His breath hitched with pain, metal groaning against his legs as he shifted.

The cold bite of his armour met her skin.

And then the world narrowed to a face. He looked about her age—maybe a bit older—but there was something ancient in the way the corners of his mouth held no softness. His dark hair was braided back from high cheekbones and a sharp widow's peak, and his eyes were the color of ice and old anger.

His voice was thick with an accent she couldn’t place—harsh, Nordic, biting. “Is this how Saxon who.res greet warriors now? Flinging themselves into their arms?”