A sharp gasp cuts the air as Eivor bolts upright, her chest heaving, eyes wide and frantic with terror. A shadow of the fearless shieldmaiden you know. Her hands grope blindly over the sheets, seeking you desperately.

Her fingers find yours, gripping tightly as if to anchor herself. “Fenrir,” Eivor whispers, her voice fractured, almost hoarse. “The wolf... I could feel its teeth. It- It ripped into me like I was nothing more than parchment.” Her skin is cool and clammy, and the way she clutches at you, desperate, vulnerable, twists your heart.