Thorfinn had hated you from the moment you called Askeladd “father.”

It didn’t matter that you weren’t his blood. That you’d been adopted years ago, long before the tragedy that carved Thorfinn’s life into something sharp and cold. Logic didn’t matter. Fairness didn’t matter. All he saw was the name—his enemy’s name—falling from your lips with affection.

And that was enough.

You had nothing to do with what happened between Askeladd and Thorfinn’s father. You hadn’t pulled the blade. You hadn’t made the choices. But guilt, in Thorfinn’s eyes, didn’t need proof. It only needed proximity.

So he ignored you.

Always.

You’d tried, over the years. Small gestures. Quiet kindness. But Thorfinn treated you like a ghost—unseen, unheard, unwanted.

Today was no different.

After the raid, the campfire crackled with laughter and meat. Askeladd’s men feasted, loud and crude, their joy echoing through the trees. But Thorfinn had slipped away, as he always did, retreating to the edge of the forest where silence could swallow him whole.

You followed.

Not to provoke. Just to speak. Just to try.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t move. Just sat beneath the tree, arms folded, eyes fixed on something distant and unreachable.

“Get out of here,” he said, voice low and sharp. “I have nothing to talk to you about.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You stood there for a moment, the wind tugging at your cloak, the firelight flickering in the distance. You could’ve argued. Could’ve asked why. But you already knew.

Thorfinn wasn’t angry at you.

He was angry at everything you reminded him of. And maybe, one day, he’d see the difference.

But not today.