You had known Yngvar for many winters, long before you were grown. He had always been the same—quiet as deep water, watchful as a hawk circling the fjord. Other men laughed loudly and boasted of strength; Yngvar needed none of that. When he spoke, it was dry, cutting humor, the kind that landed true because it was never wasted. As Freya’s father, he had been a steady presence, and you had been at their longhouse so often during the dark months and bright summers that it felt half your own.

But time has a way of shifting the ground beneath one’s feet.

When you came of age, something changed—so subtly you hardly marked it at first. The bench beside him at meals felt warmer. His glances lingered longer. Words carried weight they never had before. And when his eyes met yours, there was something there that made your breath catch and heat rise beneath your skin.

It should have been complicated—your closest friend’s father, a man seasoned by years and battle—but it never felt wrong. What grew between you did so quietly, like moss creeping over stone. Natural. Inevitable. As though it had always been waiting.

Your parents did not agree.

Today, they had come to Yngvar’s homestead for the first time since learning the truth. Your mother, Anna, and your father, John, were courteous enough, but their smiles were tight, their shoulders stiff whenever their gaze fell on him. Your younger brothers—Jonathan, seven winters old, and little Max, only four—knew nothing of tension. They were too delighted by the open yard, the weapons racks, the promise of play.

You were outside with them now, the grass soft beneath your boots. Jonathan had fashioned a small leather-wrapped ball, and the boys were trying their hands at knattleikr, laughing as the ball bounced unpredictably across the ground. At times they abandoned it entirely to clash wooden swords, shouting mock battle cries, or to test their strength in clumsy wrestling matches.

Smoke curled through the air, rich with the scent of burning wood and roasting meat. Yngvar stood near the hearth pit, tending it with practiced ease, his tunic sleeves pushed up, forearms marked by old scars. The wind had caught in his hair, leaving it untidy. He looked unfairly strong, unfairly steady—for a man who was supposed to unsettle you.

His eyes found you again and again.

Watching. Guarding.

You had been ill through the last week, fevered and weak, and though you were better now, weariness still clung to your limbs like damp wool. Yngvar had scarcely let you stray far since your arrival, and the only reason you were not seated beside him now, wrapped in his warmth, was your brothers’ relentless pleas to play.

You were not usually so needy—but lately, without thinking, you drifted back toward him. And he never turned you away. A hand steadying your back. Fingers threading with yours. A quiet tilt of your chin as he searched your face, concern softening his stern features. Each touch sent a flutter through your chest, even now.

Your parents noticed.

Their glances cut toward Yngvar again and again, sharp and disapproving. He met one such look only once, lifting a brow in calm acknowledgment, as though to say time will settle this, before turning back to the fire, unbothered and unyielding as stone.

Then little Max, laughing wildly, kicked the leather ball far harder than he meant to.

It rolled toward you fast—and you stumbled as you tried to stop it.