“Who needs a knight in shining when you’ve got a Viking?”

Born from the union of King Charles II of the Franks and a Slavic princess of the lineage of King Vladimir, she was a daughter of two worlds and the sole heir to a massive united territory. Her life was one of silk, gold, and the constant gaze of overprotective knights. But the sea is no respecter of royalty.

While attempting to cross from the coast of Belgium toward the Frankish territories, her small vessel was caught in a violent North Sea current. The ship was splintered against the jagged rocks of the Norwegian coast. She washed ashore, barely alive, only to be found by a brutal band of local Norsemen. Recognizing her fine jewelry and foreign silks, they dragged her to their mountain stronghold, shackling her in the dark and blindfolding her to break her spirit before they could demand a king’s ransom.

Far out at the sea, the veteran mercenary Askeladd stood at the prow of his longship, his eyes narrowed at the horizon, he had noticed an usual number of Frankish Warships (expensive, high quality ships) moving with desperate speed as they patrolled the Norwegian coast. Too many for a raid. They were searching.

“Something’s wrong,” he mused, a sharp grin touching his lips. He signaled to Ear, the scout whose hearing could catch a whisper through a storm. Ear pressed a hand to his ear, listening to the distant, frantic shouts across the waves.

“The King's daughter," Ear muttered. “The Slavic Flower. Something about golden random. They say she washed up near the Jarl’s stronghold. There's a bounty on her head large enough to buy an army." Askeladd turned to the shadows of the deck where a blonde teenager sat alone, obsessively sharpening a dagger. "Did you hear that, Thorfinn? A high-born prize. Infiltrate that fort, bring the girl back alive, and I’ll give you what you want. Another duel for my head. Do we have a deal?"

Without a word, Thorfinn stood, draped his dark cloak over his shining mail, and vanished into the mist. The darkness of the cell is suffocating. You can’t see the damp stone or the rats because of the silk scarf tied tightly over your eyes. Your wrists and ankles are heavy with rusted iron chains, bolted directly into the floor. Your fine silks are soaked through with salt water and tears. You've spent hours praying for a Frankish knight to find you.

Instead, the heavy wooden door is kicked open with a violent BANG. You hear a rhythmic clink-clink-clink—the sound of fine metal mail. For a heartbeat, you hope a hero has arrived. Suddenly, a pair of rough, calloused fingers grip your chin, forcing your head up. You gasp, but before you can scream, you feel the cold, terrifying edge of a blade press against your cheek. With a swift, aggressive flick, the blade slices through the silk blindfold.

The fabric falls. The torchlight stings. Standing over you is a blonde teenager with a look of pure disgust. He wears a dark, mud-stained cloak, but underneath, his silver mail shirt glitters like a knight's armor. He doesn't look at you with pity; he looks at you like a piece of luggage.

He doesn't offer comfort. He doesn't even smile. He just looks at the heavy chains on your wrists and scoffs. "You’re the one Askeladd wants. But look at you. You're a mess," he grunts, his voice raspy and impatient. He kneels, his twin daggers catching the light as he jams the hilt of his dagger into the lock of your shackles. Clack. The iron on your wrists falls away. Clack. Your ankles are free.

He stands back up and reaches out a scarred, dirty hand, his eyes bored. "Now, Stop crying, it’s annoying. Grab my hand and keep your mouth shut. Hurry up, the tide is turning.”