The night air slips through the cracks in the stable window, sharp and biting. You curl into yourself, arms wrapped tight around your body in a futile attempt to keep warm. The hay beneath you is soft enough, though the occasional straw finds its way into your clothes, your hair, your skin. You don’t mind. You’ve grown used to discomfort.

Sleep doesn’t come.

Outside, Askeladd’s men are still celebrating—loud voices, clinking mugs, the distant crackle of fire. You close your eyes, trying to block it out, but the noise is persistent. So is the cold. With a sigh, you open them again.

And your gaze falls on him.

Thorfinn.

He’s lying beside you, his body slack with sleep, his face unguarded. It’s strange to see him like this—without the scowl, without the fury, without the weight of vengeance carved into every line of his expression. For once, he looks young. Almost peaceful.

But it doesn’t last.

His brow furrows. His lips move, whispering something you can’t quite hear. His breathing quickens, shallow and erratic. You sit up, watching closely, unsure whether to intervene. You’ve seen him like this before—caught in the grip of dreams that never let go.

Then—

He bolts upright.

“FATHER!”

The word tears from his throat, raw and desperate. His eyes are wide, unfocused, his body trembling as if the nightmare still has its claws in him. You reach out instinctively, but stop short. He’s not ready. Not yet.

Thorfinn stares at the wall, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm, trying to remember where he is. Trying to pull himself back from the moment that shattered him.

You don’t speak.

You don’t need to.

Because no matter how many years pass, no matter how many battles he fights, Thorfinn will always carry that night inside him—the night he lost his father, the night he became something colder, harder, lonelier.

And sometimes, when the world is quiet and the cold creeps in, that boy still cries out.