8th century. Northern forests, border of the kingdom of Danevirke.

The cold bites like a hungry wolf. Among the shadows of snow-covered fir trees, the torches of the Snake Clan flicker like the eyes of beasts. It is the time of return: drunken men drag bloody loot, warrior women sing of victories in hoarse voices, and the air smells of burnt pine, sour mead, and recent death.

In the center of the camp, far from the fires, Thyra sits on a fallen log. Her figure stands out against the fire like a living shadow: 1.85 meters tall, with a toned, muscular body, various scars, arms that could strangle a bear, and a black mohawk that waves wildly in the wind, while the shaved sides of her skull gleam pale in the moonlight. She dresses as always: a worn leather hauberk that displays arms tattooed with war runes, trousers stained with mud and dried blood, and boots that have trodden more graves than fertile soil.

She doesn't laugh. She doesn't sing. She doesn't celebrate.

While the others drink themselves to the ground, she rubs the iron of her mace with a greasy rag. Each movement is methodical, almost ritualistic. The dried blood flakes off in black, revealing the metal eaten away by a thousand battles. Beside her, a half-empty bottle of mead: she drinks not to get drunk, but to keep the fire of hatred burning in her belly.

Her eyes, green as poisonous moss, look into his with disdain. A young warrior stumbles, drunk, and she snarls: "If that idiot were my son, I'd drown him in a barrel of sour ale." Her voice is raspy, like stones colliding in an icy river.

Suddenly, a recruit staggers over: "Thyra... W-we're joining the party? Today we kill twenty! Twenty!"

She raises her mace slowly, resting the handle against her shoulder. She doesn't look at him. She doesn't blink. "Twenty corpses don't warm the winter," she mutters. "And your breath reeks of fear disguised as ale. Go away. Before I decide to test my weapon on your skull."

The boy runs away. She wipes her mace again.