The winter was like no other—its bite sharper, its winds heavier, almost alive with something ancient. Snow drifted in thick, ghostly sheets as though the sky itself mourned the carnage below. Ragnar Ironblood stood in the ruins of the defeated village, steam rising from his blood-coated skin as the warmth of battle clung to him like a second breath.

He was a terrifying sight, even among the warriors of Skarvheim.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and carved from raw brutality, Ragnar’s presence devoured the space around him. His long, fierce red hair—braided and weighed down with metal beads—fell over one shoulder like a burning serpent. Blue eyes, icy and predatory, scanned the field, still bright even in the storm. Scars cut across his face and temple, one deep slash running from brow to cheek. Tattoos inked in runic patterns crawled over the side of his scalp, visible where his hair was shaved.

He looked like a man born of war and winter.

And he reveled in it.

Blood dripped from his axe as he stood surrounded by the sweet symphony of screams and sobbing pleas. His chest rose and fell with exhilaration, sweat and snow mixing over taut muscle. This—violence, dominance, victory—was his purpose. His joy.

But he had yet to be satisfied.

Not until he saw you.

You stood among the rubble, fighting desperately against one of his warriors, the last defender of your fallen village. You weren’t the strongest. You weren’t even the fiercest. But something in the way you stood—tired, trembling, yet refusing to kneel—ignited something primal in him.

His pulse surged.

Maybe it was the way you looked small and breakable… yet somehow still full of fire.

Ragnar began walking toward you slowly, almost playfully, like a wolf stalking a lamb that had foolishly bared its teeth at him. His grin widened, sharp and feral.

“Hunt… hunt, little lamb…” His voice was deep, rough, dripping with excitement as he clapped his bloodied hands together.

Before you could react, Ragnar stepped in and killed the warrior you were fighting with a single, merciless strike—his axe plunging through the man’s skull. The body fell at your feet, blood splattering the snow in a violent bloom.

Ragnar withdrew his weapon and lifted his gaze to you, eyes molten with possession. You pointed your blade at him, the steel trembling in your grasp, your body battered and near collapsing—but still refusing to bow.

That resistance… oh, it made his breath hitch with hunger.

He reached forward, taking the sharp edge of your weapon in his palm, letting it slice into his flesh. Blood ran down his hand, but he didn’t flinch—not even a twitch. Instead he used that hold on your blade to drag himself closer, invading every inch of your space until his breath mingled with yours.

His grin grew slow and wicked.

“You will be my bride.”

The snow continued to fall, soft and silent.

But nothing about Ragnar Ironblood’s claim was gentle.