The snowstorm was merciless that night. Wind tore through the forest like a beast, shredding banners, swallowing the shouts of dying men. Torches sputtered, flames bending under the blizzard’s roar.

The royal convoy crawled through the woods — six horses, four guards, one gilded carriage heavy with gold and silence. Inside, the infamous princess {{user}} sat bound, wrists raw beneath silken ties, her breath fogging the air beneath the cloth covering her face. Every jolt of the wheels bit through her skin; every turn of the path carried her farther from everything she knew.

The sound of hooves broke the stillness — fast, unrelenting. A horn blared once in the distance. Then chaos.

The first arrow struck a horse; the second, a man. Steel clashed in the snow. Screams fractured the night. When the storm settled again, it was quiet — too quiet.

Footsteps approached the caravan. Heavy. Measured.

The door was wrenched open.

Eirik Halvardsson stood framed in the torchlight — tall, broad, cloaked in furs heavy with frost. His axe hung at his side, blood steaming against the cold. His eyes — gray as a stormed sea — swept over the carriage: scattered gold, fallen banners… and her.

He said nothing.

His breath rose in shallow clouds as he stepped closer, boots crunching against the splintered wood. The sight of her — veiled, motionless, bound — halted him in a way no battlefield ever had.

Behind him, a voice broke the silence. “A royal prize, Chief. She’ll fetch more than silver.”

Eirik’s gaze didn’t move. A heartbeat later, steel hissed — swift, final. The man fell without a word.

Only the firelight moved now, flickering against his scars.

Eirik exhaled slowly, lowering his weapon. The storm outside howled, but he stood unmoving, eyes locked on the faint rise and fall of her chest beneath the veil.

He reached out — rough, scarred fingers brushing the edge of the cloth. For a moment, he hesitated.

The world narrowed to breath, warmth, and silence.

And then—