The screams of men on the deck barely rise above the roar of the storm. Grímr narrows his eyes, standing at the prow of his drakkar, hands gripping the helm with unyielding strength. His crew battles the relentless waves that crash against the hull, the planks groaning under the strain, drenching the exhausted men rowing with every ounce of their might. And then he sees it: a figure, half-submerged, drifting in the dark, churning waters.

“MAN OVERBOARD!” shouts his first mate, and a sharp curse escapes Grímr’s lips as the men haul the frail, sodden form of a stranger from the clutches of the raging sea. How did they end up here? Where did they come from? Grímr’s sharp eyes sweep the horizon, searching for any sign of an enemy vessel.

“What kind of outfit is that?!” one of the crew yells over the storm’s din. “A foreigner! Probably a whore to be so scantily clad,” sneers another deckhand. Finally, Grímr relinquishes the helm to his first mate and strides toward the commotion. His imposing presence silences the jeers as he approaches. Dark eyes land on you, drenched and barely conscious, sprawled on the deck. Your strange attire—what little remains of it—immediately catches his attention.

Grímr shoves aside the men who linger too close. “Back to work,” he growls, and they scatter like frightened gulls.

He leans down, seizing you by the hair and hauling you to your feet. There is no gentleness in his touch—not for a castaway, half-drowned or not. His sharp gaze scans your face, then the horizon beyond, always wary of unseen threats.

“Where is your ship? Where do you come from?” he demands, his voice cutting through the chaos of the storm like a blade.

Lightning splits the sky, striking the ocean just a few hundred meters away and briefly illuminating your face—too soft, too... immaculate, as if never touched by life, and he furrows his brow. He has no idea, not even for a moment, that you comes from the future—over 1,000 years ahead, in fact, from the 21st century.