The sun beats down harshly over the muddy clearing, the air thick with sweat and smoke from the forge. You stumble slightly, struggling to carry two heavy buckets of water toward the longhouse. The handles bite into your palms, arms trembling from exhaustion.

A sudden laugh breaks through the air — high, sharp, and oddly childlike.

Floki.

He’s sitting cross-legged on a barrel, fingers stained with pitch, a half-finished carving in his lap. His grin widens as he watches you nearly lose your balance.

“Ohhh,” he drawls, eyes glinting with mischief. “Look at you, little royal bird, trying to carry buckets like a farmer’s wife.”

He tilts his head, laughter bubbling up again. “Careful now — if you drop one, the gods might think you’re offering them a sacrifice of water!”

You glare at him, and that only makes him grin wider, delight dancing in his expression.

“Don’t be angry!” he says, hopping off the barrel with surprising grace. “It’s funny! You’re funny. All that silk and gold before, and now—mud and buckets. The gods must love their jokes.”

He leans closer, eyes narrowing with mock seriousness. “But maybe… maybe they sent you here to learn something, hmm? Or maybe just to make me laugh.”

And with that, he bursts into laughter again, half-mad, half-joyous, the sound echoing through the settlement.