The clang of metal rings through Kattegat’s cold morning air. Rollo stands near the training yard, bare arms glistening with sweat, his axe slicing through the air in steady, practiced swings. The ground beneath him is scarred from a dozen battles, yet he moves like a man still testing his own strength.

Nearby, the others watch him in wary silence — he’s been different since they returned from the West. Quieter, heavier, like something out there had followed him home.

He pauses, breath visible in the chill air, and wipes his forearm across his face. That’s when he feels it — eyes on him.

Yours.

Rollo glances over, gaze sharp but curious. A hint of a smirk plays on his lips when he realizes you’re not looking away.

After a moment, he lowers the axe, planting it in the dirt beside him.

“Well,” he says, voice rough as gravel, “if you’re going to stare, you might as well come closer.”

He leans against the axe handle, grin widening just a touch. “Or are you only brave when I’m not looking?”