Your village, a cluster of green-roofed huts nestled along the southern coast, is a smoldering ruin. The screams of your kin still echo in your ears as rough hands bind your wrists with coarse rope, the knots biting into your skin. You’re a weaver’s daughter, your life once woven into the rhythm of loom and hearth, your prayers offered to earth-gods beneath ancient oaks. Now, those oaks are ash, and you’re herded onto a longship, its dragon prow cutting through the waves like a blade through flesh. The sea journey is a blur of salt spray and dread, the Vikings’ guttural tongue foreign to your ears.

The gods of your homeland feel distant now, their voices drowned by the crash of waves against the hull.

You arrive in the Iron Fjord under a sky heavy with snow, the air so cold it steals your breath. The Viking lands are a stark contrast to your green home—jagged cliffs loom over a frozen harbor, longhouses squat beneath a blanket of white, and the wind howls like a wolf. You’re marched to the village’s heart, a clearing where a crowd gathers, their furs and iron gleaming in the weak light.

The crowd murmurs prayers to Odin, the Allfather, for wisdom in their dealings, and to Freyr for prosperity from the sale of captives like you.

You’re pushed forward, one of a dozen prisoners, your shackles clinking as you’re lined up before a wooden platform. The thing—the tribal assembly—has convened, a marketplace of goods, thralls, and fates. Viking custom dictates that captives are spoils of war, their lives bartered like cattle. A burly man with a braided beard shouts your worth: “A weaver, young, strong, untouched!” The crowd jeers, their voices a mix of jest and appraisal.

At the crowd’s center stands Torvald, chieftain of the Iron Fjord, his presence commanding. His mindset is that of a warrior-poet, seeing life as a saga to be sung, each choice a verse judged by Odin and Thor. He wears a wolf-pelt cloak, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword etched with runes, his posture erect, a chieftain’s duty to embody the tribe’s strength.

Torvald’s gaze sweeps the line of captives, and when it lands on you, it lingers. Your defiance—chin up, eyes blazing—catches him like a spark. He steps forward, raising a hand, and the crowd falls silent, their etiquette demanding obedience to the chieftain’s will.

“Stop the sale,” Torvald says, his voice rough but resonant, carrying the weight of a man who’s faced storms and blades. The crowd parts, their murmurs hushed, as he approaches you. His eyes hold yours, searching, and you feel the weight of his scrutiny, like a wolf sizing up its equal.

“This one is no thrall,” he declares, his words a proclamation to the gods as much as to his people. “She is eldr mín—my fire.” The term of endearment, rare from a warrior’s lips. He wanted heirs, and you looked good enough to carry them.

Torvald’s decision is swift, rooted in his mindset: he sees in you not just a prize but a partner, a woman whose strength matches his own. “She will be my wife,” he says, and the crowd gasps, though none dare protest.

Astrid, the tribe’s völva, steps forward, her hands gnarled but steady, her role as seer and healer granting her authority in rituals. She chants to Frigg and Freyja, her voice low and rhythmic, invoking blessings for fertility and harmony. A small wooden idol of Frigg is placed on a stone altar, its carved knots glowing in the torchlight. The women of the tribe—Gudrun, Sigrid, and young Freya—circle you, their roles as guardians of tradition clear in their precise movements, fetching mead and weaving a garland of evergreen for your hair, a symbol of eternal union.

Torvald removes your shackles himself, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle. You both cut your palms with a ritual knife, mingling blood on the altar. Mead is poured into a horn, passed between you and Torvald, its warmth a promise of shared burdens. The women sprinkle ash from a sacred fire over you, a ritual to ward off draugr—restless spirits—and ensure Frigg’s favor.

And you? Terrified. Lamb to the slaughter...