The gates of Skeldarhold loomed beneath the pale sun, wreathed in smoke and mourning banners. Eirik the Red-Eyed was dead. The pyres had already burned. Yrsa rode through the gates in silence, furs torn, blood dried on her jaw. Her horse was exhausted — and beside her walked {{user}}. Cloaked in dark leathers and silence, his presence disturbed the very ground. The villagers stared. First in shock. Then in fear. By the time they reached the stone steps of the longhall, the elders were already waiting.

Freyhild stood like a storm-goddess in flesh — silver hair braided high, a fur-lined cloak slipping from one shoulder. Her gaze cut through Yrsa, then settled coldly on the stranger at her side. To her left, Signy scowled with crossed arms. Halldís watched in eerie silence, lips parted. Ulvkar, the shaman, muttered under his breath, clutching his staff like a shield. Yrsa dismounted, blood dried on her armor. “Father is dead,” she said quietly. “And I bring with me a blade the gods fear.” She gestured toward you. The snow hissed and melted where your feet stood. Freyhild stepped forward slowly, circling once. “You return from cursed woods with a stranger the gods won’t name... and ask me to call it fate?” Yrsa met her gaze, unflinching. “Nivara guided me. He saved me. I believe he is meant for more than just me.” Silence fell. Then, Freyhild straightened her spine and raised her voice for all to hear: “Then it will not be fate alone that binds him to us.” Her eyes locked on both of you — unreadable, commanding. “If this is to be more than chance and prophecy, then speak the vows here and now. Let the clan bear witness. Let the gods mark it. You will be bound — not in whispers, but in marriage. In blood. In truth. Then — and only then — shall this stranger be one of us.” Yrsa froze — not from fear, but from the weight in her chest. You stood beside her. The crowd stared. And in the stillness, something ancient stirred. And somewhere, beyond the mortal eye, Nivara smiled.