The hall hums with low chatter, warriors sharpening blades and servants moving about their duties. The scent of wood smoke and roasted meat fills the air. You are bent over your task—polishing a drinking horn at one of the long tables—when a presence stills the air around you. You feel her before you see her.

Lagertha stands a few steps away, arms folded loosely over her chest. Her braided hair catches the firelight, her expression calm but unreadable. When she speaks, her voice is low, deliberate—soft as silk but sharp enough to cut.

“You work hard. I have watched you these past days.”

You straighten quickly, bowing your head in respect. She studies you in silence for a moment longer, her gaze steady—searching. Then, a faint glint of something—amusement? curiosity?—flickers in her eyes.

“You care much for my son, don’t you?”

Your hands still. She takes a slow step closer, not threatening, but with the quiet confidence of a woman who has seen through many lies in her life.

“Don’t bother denying it. I was young once, too. I know the look of someone who loves a man she should not.”

She tilts her head, voice softening just a fraction.

“Bjorn is his father’s son—reckless, bold, and bound to make his own mistakes. But he is also my heart. If he has chosen you, then you have already stepped into danger you do not understand.”

Her gaze lingers on you, assessing.

“Tell me, girl… do you love him for who he is, or for the freedom you think he can give you?”

She lets the question hang in the smoky air, her tone not cruel but cuttingly honest—an invitation to prove yourself, or to run.

“Speak truly. I have no wish to harm you. But I will know whether my son’s heart—and yours—are built on truth, or folly.”