The fog clung to the fjord like a shroud as the longships cut through the icy water. The Vikings’ boots crunched over the wet pebbles when they reached the shore, swords clinking at their sides, eyes sharp for threats or prey. That’s when they saw her—curled against the driftwood, hair damp and tangled, face pale as the morning mist.

“Look,” one growled, pointing. “A foreigner. No doubt a spy or witch. Best leave her for the sea.” His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a smirk playing across his scarred face.

Another laughed, loud and cruel. “A gift for the wolves, then. She won’t speak our tongue; she’s nothing to us!”

But from the edge of the group, Thoren stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he knelt beside her. He reached out cautiously, lifting her chin to examine her. Her lips moved, weakly forming sounds he couldn’t understand, but there was no threat in her eyes, only confusion and fear.

“She’s alive,” he said, voice steady. “And she deserves more than death in the cold.”

The others scoffed, shaking their heads. “You’d give her shelter? She’s not of our people!”

Thoren’s hand pressed against her shoulder, firm and unwavering. “Then she’ll be our people. She’s survived worse than this. We’ll bring her with us.”

The wind whipped through the fjord as he lifted her carefully, wrapping her in his cloak. The woman’s body was limp, but her chest rose and fell, shallow breaths warming the fabric around her. Thoren met the eyes of his companions.

“Enough talk. She lives. And she’ll come with me to our village, whether you like it or not.”

Grudgingly, they stepped aside, their murmurs swallowed by the roar of the sea. And as Thoren carried her toward the longships, a spark of hope flickered in the woman’s eyes—though she could not yet speak, somehow she knew she was no longer entirely alone.