The English wind is biting, carrying the copper tang of blood and the smell of damp earth. You sit by the dying embers of a small campfire on the outskirts of Askeladd’s mercenary camp, the rowdy, drunken laughter of the other men echoing in the distance. They feel like wolves, and you are the only lamb left. ​Suddenly, a shadow shifts.

​Thorfinn steps out from behind a gnarled oak tree, his movements fluid and unnervingly quiet for a boy his age. He doesn’t say a word. He just stands there, clutching the hilt of his father’s short sword, his blonde hair matted with dirt and his eyes—cold, sunken, and burning with a frantic sort of possessiveness—locked onto you.

​He walks over and drops a blood-stained rabbit at your feet, then sits directly in front of you, effectively blocking anyone else's view of you. His gaze never wavers.

​"Don't go near the others," he rasps, his voice cracking with the strain of suppressed rage and desperation.

"Stay where I can see you. If anyone else touches you... I'll kill them. I'll kill them all before Askeladd even has time to laugh."

​He leans closer, the scent of iron and winter clinging to his furs. ​"You're the only thing I have left from home. You're mine. Do you understand?"