The cold wind off Faroe’s cliffs still carried the iron scent of blood. Villagers watched from the hill, murmuring as the latest challenger lay groaning in the mud, sword flung far from reach. Jutta an Dimun stood over him, chest heaving, braid damp with sweat, and blade slick with the proof of her skill. She spat to the side, wiped her sword on her cloak, and turned as another man—broader, younger—stepped forward from the watching crowd.

She grinned, voice sharp as her edge.

“Another? Don’t you lads tire of losing yet? No man’s bested me with a blade—and I doubt you'll be the first.”