The smell of blood and the clash of steel echoing with screams began to fade in the distance, replaced by the crackling of candle flames within the sanctuary.

You didn’t know how you had gotten here; in truth, you didn’t even know how you were still alive.

Your small coastal village in the south had once been a center of political relations, and now it lay destroyed beneath the boots of Viking invaders.

Your mother, who had just given birth when the Norsemen invaded, didn’t think twice before placing the tiny baby girl into your arms and telling you to run as fast as you could—without looking back.

That’s how you ended up here, in a small Christian chapel. You are crouched down, holding the small bundle tightly against your chest while whispering prayers in Latin. The small wooden crucifix pressed against you.

The heavy doors burst open violently, and your eyes immediately snapped toward the light.

A tall warrior stood there.

Hvitserk Ragnarsson.

His axe dripped blood onto the wooden floor. His sharp eyes swept across the room—until they found you.

But instead of attacking, he simply looked at you. You both seemed almost the same age. Perhaps he was a little older, judging by his height. His head tilted slightly, as if he had found something unexpected in the midst of fire and destruction.

“You’re not hiding very well,” he said, his voice low and faintly amused, as he took a few steps forward.

The torchlight flickered across his face—dangerous, wild, but strangely softer when his gaze dropped to the small bundle in your arms, which you held tightly.

“A Christian girl,” he murmured. “What are you hiding in your arms?”

He stopped just a few steps away, close enough for you to feel the heat of battle radiating from him. Still, he did not raise his weapon.

“Tell me your name and what you are hiding,” he said, more quietly this time, “and perhaps I will ask my brothers to spare you.”