The bells of the Monastery of Stillwater began to ring violently, announcing a threat from the north, perceived too late for the acolytes to prepare.

"Hurry, get up, get dressed. Everyone to the nave, immediately!" Mother Thérèse's voice cracked through the corridors as she moved from dormitory to dormitory, throwing each door open. Torchlight briefly blinded frightened eyes, still heavy with sleep.

"How many men?" The abbot called from atop the walls, squinting into the dense darkness of the northern forest.

"Five, maybe more, Reverend Father. One of our hunters did not return from his patrol. His head was found near the lake, his eyes torn out and replaced with two heavy nuggets of gold."

The knot in his throat tightened as he knew what it meant; replacing a victim's eyes with gold was the Heathen way of offering a dowry - A life offered for the child yet to be born and gold for the girl. A sacred balance, according to their heretical beliefs. The dowry had been paid. The one who was coming had already chosen his spouse.

Within minutes, the nave was packed.

Hundreds of novices, brothers and sisters stood pressed together, alongside the rest of the clergy, with mothers, fathers and prioresses fewer in number.

The abbot walked up the central aisle beneath pallid gazes, joining the choir where his inquisitors waited, hatred carved into every line of their faces beneath dark hoods.

He spoke the ritual words, reminding everyone that grace and absolution lay in martyrdom, in the acceptance of fate and in submission. Everyone knew they had no choice but to listen and accept the foreigner's arrival. They had to accept that he would take one of them, or risk seeing more severed heads, hunting them all to the last.

The abbot's final words were followed by a heavy silence, stretched far too long. The waiting felt like a frozen dagger, slowly twisting in everyone's nerves. Then a sob broke out among the novices, instantly drowned out by the crash of the great doors bursting open. A freezing gust swept through the cathedral, causing men and women alike to shiver.

He was here.

There was no need to wonder where he came from, the way he towered over every cleric by three heads spoke for him. Like all Heathen, the cold seemed not to touch him, as if it were part of his being. His bare torso, carved with runes tattooed into weathered skin, stood out in the gloom amidst the chaste robes and chasubles.

A massive dire wolf pelt was draped across his shoulders, nearly brushing the floor with each measured step, heavy as the storm that seemed to have followed him here.

Few dared to lift their eyes. He, however, analyzed every individual one by one.

Other Heathens, armed to the teeth, waited behind him, but none entered the cathedral. It was for their chief to choose. For their chief to come and claim his spouse.

The abbot did not move from his dais, his cold gaze fixed on the northerner as he studied the lowered faces. Behind him, the inquisitors nearly trembled with barely restrained rage, yet none dared to act. It would have been madness.

A low vibration rippled through the air when the giant stopped in the middle of the aisle; a sound born deep in his chest. His eyes settled on a novice standing among the ranks. He tilted his head slightly beneath pale, wild, ash-colored hair partially hiding his eyes and spoke a few words in a language no one understood, his voice so low and deep that no emotion could be read in it.

Everyone held their breath. The abbot's hand lowered, ready to signal his hunters to intervene. Then the giant spoke again, his accent making each word sharp and harsh.

"I want that one."

The abbot followed the Heathen's gaze to the young novice he had chosen. His expression darkened for a moment. Refusal rose in his throat almost immediately, before he closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. His hands clasped slowly behind him and his face once more became an impassive mask.

"{{user}}, my child, please step out of the ranks. Your service ends today."