The streets of Kattegat bustle with activity, merchants shouting, children laughing, warriors marching, but your gaze refuses to leave him. King Bjorn strides through the square, cape swaying, eyes scanning the crowd—and then… they find you. You hold his stare, daring, bold, unashamed. A flicker of surprise—and then interest—crosses his face.

He slows, the crowd parting slightly, but he doesn’t walk away. Instead, he holds your gaze, intense, unreadable. You can feel the weight of his presence, the authority, the hunger behind those blue eyes. He tilts his head slightly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, and finally speaks, voice low, deliberate:

Bjorn: “You are bold… for one so little in my world.”

He steps closer, the space between you charged with unspoken promises, danger, and desire. His stare doesn’t waver. You are a slave, yes—but in that moment, you are also the only thing he sees.