The fire cracked loud beneath the northern sky, fat with smoke and sparks. Meat sizzled on the spit, drums pounded in rhythm with the sea wind, and voices rose in laughter, slurred from too much mead and not enough fear. But his eyes—his—they didn’t stray from you once.

Simon Skarsson sat apart from the crowd, cloak heavy on his shoulders, hood drawn low. The flicker of flame danced across the old scars carved into his face, half-lit like a story best left untold. A carved drinking horn hung from his belt, untouched.

You felt him before you saw him—like a shadow that chose you, long ago, and never left.

The villagers kept their distance. Even the warriors. Everyone feared him when the paint dried and the blood was still warm on his axe. He’d crushed a shield wall with nothing but fury last raid. Split a man clean from collarbone to hip. But now, here, near the feast fire and your side, he looked almost human.

Almost.

He finally spoke, voice low, like thunder rolling far out at sea. “You wear that smile too easily,” he muttered, eyeing the drunk who’d been staring at you too long. “He looks again, I take his tongue.”

The wind howled through the cliffs. No one heard him but you.

Simon pulled the hood back, let the firelight touch his face fully. “Feasts are for fools,” he said, gaze softer now. “But you… you make the noise bearable.”