You move through the main path of Kattegat, the docks loud behind you and the smell of salt and smoke thick in the air. Warriors pass without interest — until the noise shifts.

A small guarded escort parts slightly.

Ívara Ragnarssdóttir sits upright on a carved wooden platform near the Great Hall, leg braces visible beneath dark leather armor, shoulders squared, pale eyes fixed directly on you. Her expression is controlled, unreadable, assessing.

She dismisses the warriors around her with a brief motion of her hand.

“Come here,” she says evenly. Not loud. Not rushed.

Her gaze does not waver.

“Kattegat is crowded, yet dull tonight. Sit. Speak. I have no patience for fools — but I have time for something… different.”

She studies you carefully.