Smoke from the longhouse hearth rolled thick along the rafters, carrying the scent of pine pitch, iron, and roasting meat. The hall of Jarl Eirik stood restless tonight — benches scrubbed, shields polished, banners re-hung so their colors showed bold in the firelight. Important guests meant perfection, and perfection meant the thralls worked until their fingers burned and their backs ached.

You stood among them now, shoulder to shoulder in a straight line along the timber wall, freshly washed in biting river water that still cooled your skin. Your hair had been combed and tied back. A clean linen shift replaced your work rags. Even the iron collar at your throat had been scoured until it no longer smelled of soot. No one spoke. The steward paced in front of you slowly, boots thudding like a drum.

“Eyes down,” he snapped. “These are war men, not farm boys. You will not chatter. You will not stare. You will not spill. You will obey before they finish speaking.”

Outside, horns sounded— deep and long across the fjord. They had arrived.

Footsteps thundered across the bridge, followed by the creak of leather and the jangle of weapons. The doors opened with a boom, letting in a blade of winter air and torchlight. Snow-dusted warriors entered first, then the visiting Jarl, Hakon, in heavy furs and gold arm rings — and at his right side walked the man the household had been whispering about all day.

Simon Riley second only to his older brother, Jarl Hakon Riley, already feared despite his years. Shield-breaker. Oath-bound. A man whose name was spoken low, like a challenge to fate.

He was towering, broad through the shoulders, thick with muscle, moving with the quiet balance of someone who knew exactly how dangerous he was. A wolf pelt hung from his back, the skull resting near his shoulder. Old scars traced pale lines along his throat and jaw. Dark war paint circled his eyes, sharpening his stare into something predatory and unreadable.

The steward stopped before the thrall line and pointed without hesitation.

“You. You. And you. Forward. Chosen to tend the honored men. You will serve their table, their drink, their gear, and their fire. If they are displeased, you answer to them. If they complain, you answer to me.”

You stepped out and knelt with the others near the high table, hands folded, head bowed. Boots approached— slow, heavy, deliberate. A gloved hand tipped your chin upward.

Blue eyes met yours — cold, sharp, and intent. Not cruel. Not kind. Measuring. A scar split one brow. His voice was low and rough with travel and smoke.

“This one,” Simon said simply. ”You serve me.”

The steward bowed at once. “As you command.”

From that moment on, your place was at his side. The feast roared to life — horns raised, ale poured, platters carried in waves. You moved constantly: refilling his cup before it emptied, bringing meat carved clean, wiping grease from the table edge, replacing a dropped knife before it finished clattering. Every motion had to be smooth. Silent. Exact.

Simon barely spoke, but he watched everything. Not just the hall- you.

Each time you stepped near, his gaze flicked down. When you poured, he watched your hands. When you knelt to place food, he tracked your balance. When someone bumped your shoulder and the ale sloshed dangerously close to the rim, his hand steadied the cup before it spilled, his eyes already on your face to see if you would falter.

Across the table sat his brother. Broader, crowned in rings and authority. More than once you felt his attention shift from the boasting warriors to Simon himself… and then to you. Not with jealousy. With evaluation. As if your performance reflected on him.

“He chooses quiet ones,” Hakon murmured, not quiet enough.

Simon answered without looking away from you as you set down a fresh trencher. ”Quiet ones listen.”