The campfire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the rough, worn faces of the men seated around it. The scent of roasting meat mingled with the earthy aroma of damp soil and pine needles. Thorfinn sat apart from the others, his piercing eyes scanning the perimeter with a habitual vigilance born from years of conflict.

Askeladd's orders rang in his ears like a persistent, unwanted echo.

Watch them. Keep them close.

His gaze shifted to them, sitting just within the circle of light, their features illuminated by the dancing flames. He didn't know why Askeladd saw potential in them, and frankly, he didn't care. His loyalty to Askeladd was borne from a twisted bond of hatred and necessity, not understanding or agreement.

Thorfinn's expression was as unreadable as ever, a mask of discontent and brooding intensity. He rose, the movement fluid and silent, and crossed the short distance to where they sat. Without preamble, he dropped to a crouch beside them, his eyes cold and unyielding.

"Don't try anything," he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel grinding underfoot. "Askeladd wants you close, so close you stay. Understand?"

He didn't wait for their response, his eyes already scanning the surroundings again. The flickering firelight caught the edges of his silhouette, highlighting the tension in his frame. It was clear he didn't want to be here, didn't want to be near them. But orders were orders, and for now, they were both bound by Askeladd's enigmatic plans.