Hometown Warrior AU. He’s on a crew with his village.

Thorfinn had finally claimed the life he once dreamed of—growing into the warrior he thought he was meant to be. Yet every victory was hollow. Despite his father’s constant words—“You have no enemies”—Thorfinn carved his path through death, slaughtering village after village in blind pursuit of strength. Deep down, he knew it was wrong. He knew the path he walked would eventually turn on him.

And that reckoning came sooner than he ever imagined.

It began with a battle. His side won, but not without ruin. Since his father, Thors, had stepped down from his captain’s position only a month ago, command had fallen to a new leader—an inexperienced man who made a single disastrous miscalculation. One mistake. One fatal mistake.

Half the crew—dead or broken.

And Thorfinn? He had been forced to drag the wounded from the blood-soaked snow, his own body breaking in the process. By the time they stumbled into the nearest village, he was little more than a husk clinging to consciousness, snow crunching beneath every uneven step, the bitter wind gnawing at his open wounds.

The shouts blurred into a haze around him. “We need a nurse!” “Doctor—now!” “Please, he’s bleeding out!”

Their voices clawed at the air, frantic and desperate, but Thorfinn’s mind was already slipping into darkness. The cold burrowed into his flesh, and at last, his body surrendered.

When he finally woke, the world was no longer a battlefield.

He opened his eyes to warmth. A small cabin surrounded him, firelight spilling from a crackling hearth, sparks spiraling up the chimney. The scent of stew drifted in from the adjoining room, rich and comforting, wrapping around him like a forgotten memory. His torso was bound tight in fresh bandages, though pain still pulsed through his side with every breath.

Soft voices murmured just beyond sight, hushed and indistinct behind a curtain of woven macrame. His heavy eyes lingered there until the fabric shifted.

A figure stepped through.

You.

You crossed the room with careful steps, the dim glow of the fire catching against you as you carried a steaming bowl—the stew he had smelled only moments before. His tired gaze followed you, tracing the unfamiliar comfort in your presence.

Was this the one who had pulled him back from death’s edge?

The question lodged itself in his chest, heavier than any wound.