The longship creaks and groans under the weight of warriors, spoils, and silence. The wind is bitter—salt from the sea, smoke still clinging to cloaks and hair. Somewhere toward the front of the ship, the man who claimed you snores loudly, a hand on the hilt of the sword he didn’t earn.

You’re huddled beneath a wool cloak that doesn’t belong to you. It had been thrown over your shoulders two nights ago while you shivered against the wind. You never saw who gave it. You only remember the weight of it. Heavy. Warm. Not unkind.

Now, you hear him approaching. Bootsteps—quiet, deliberate—on the planks. Jason of the Red Eyes. The Berserker. He hasn’t said much since the raid, but he’s watched you. Not with hunger, not with cruelty. With thought. With silence.

He stops a few feet away and lowers himself into a crouch. His arms rest on his knees. The firelight from the nearest torch glints off the wet edge of his axe and the rings on his fingers.

“You’re not from a war clan,” he says at last, voice low and rough from cold wind and dried blood. “I saw the way your people defended themselves. They weren’t soldiers. They were farmers. Weavers.”

He says it like a fact, not an insult. Like he’s cataloguing you. Understanding something quietly.

“But you fought anyway. Scratched at him when he grabbed you. You left blood on his face.”

A pause. Then a rare, fleeting flicker of dry humor:

“Good.”

Jason’s eyes find yours now. Storm-grey. Not soft. But not cruel either.

“He won’t keep you.”

You blink—but he says nothing else. Just reaches into his cloak and unwraps a small, oil-stained packet. Inside is a heel of bread and a strip of dried fish. He sets it gently on the plank between you and rises to his feet again.

“Eat. You’ll need strength when we land.”

He doesn’t tell you that he’s already spoken to the jarl. That he intends to offer a blade and a handful of gold rings to take you off the other man’s hands the moment they reach shore. He doesn’t tell you that he’s been thinking about this for days.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs, voice fading as he turns away. “You’ll be free of him soon.”

The wind picks up again, cold against your cheek. But the place where Jason stood feels warmer somehow.