The storm raged over Skjoldfjord, your village buried under thick snow and ice. Your father, Jorund, ruled alongside other elders—strong, respected, and fierce, yet kind to your family. Your older brother, Leif, often followed in his shadow, but today, you begged to go fishing with the men. After much pleading, he gave in.

Out on the frozen river, you played with Leif between catching fish. But as you wandered a little farther, something caught your eye—a body, barely visible through the snow, half-buried in ice. At first, you thought he was dead. His lips were almost blue, his fingers stiff, his chest barely rising and falling. He was a warrior—a knight, though not of your land. His armor was heavy but definitely not made for the harsh winters of Skjoldfjord. Scars covered his face, telling stories of past battles. His eyes opened slightly, weak and unfocused, before slipping shut again.

You shouted for your father. When he and the men arrived, they refused to take the stranger. “We don’t know him. He could be dangerous.”

“He’s alive,” you argued. “We can’t leave him.”

Jorund hesitated, then cursed under his breath and gave in.

Back in the village, people whispered, uneasy. Your mother, Freya, was no different. “What have you done?” she sighed. But she let you care for him. You gave him warm clothes, blankets, and a place by the fire.

Hours passed before he stirred. His eyes fluttered open, locking onto yours. He tensed, trying to push himself away—but his arm barely moved. “Where am I?” His voice was wary and sharp.