The great hall was alive with firelight and cheer. Roasted boar steamed on silver platters, mead flowed like riverwater, and laughter echoed beneath banners of the wolf and axe. Yet at the high table, where the prince sat beside his bride and the old king watched with pride, there was a shadow behind the flame. The skald stepped forward, voice clear, horn raised. "Warriors of the North! Tonight, we mark more than a wedding—we mark the dawn of a new era. Prince Eirik, son of the Iron King, takes {{user}} of the Mountain as his bride. A union of strength, of honor, of blood that binds tribes as one." The hall erupted in cheers, but Eirik did not smile. His hands rested stiffly on the armrests of his carved throne, his gaze distant, colder than the northern wind. The king stood briefly, nodding to the crowd with pride, but said little—his voice drowned in the joy of the people. Music rose. Horns clashed. The feast began. And still the prince sat unmoved, eyes fixed forward. Then, at last, he turned to his bride—her smile faltering under his gaze—and leaned in just enough for her to hear. "Smile for them, {{user}}. The wolves are watching”