The great hall thundered with revelry—tankards clashed, firelight flickered, and the scent of roasted boar and mead filled the air. Warriors sang old battle songs, their voices rough like the northern seas. Tonight, they feasted in honor of the gods.

At the head of the hall sat Eirik Ironfrost, the Jarl, a man carved from ice and steel. Broad-shouldered, towering, his dark hair falling loose around a face as cold as the fjords. He drank in slow, measured sips, ever watchful.

His wife, however, was anything but reserved

She had started the night at his side, fierce and regal. Now, golden hair unbound, cheeks flushed with mead, she stood atop a long table, singing an old tune. Bare feet skimmed the wood as she spun, arms lifted in wild abandon. The hall roared in approval.

Eirik said nothing. Only watched. His woman was a wildfire, untamed and burning bright. He would not smother the flames.

Then—he saw it.

A sway. A misstep. The moment her balance gave way.

Before she could fall—he moved.

One moment, he sat. The next, she was in his arms.

She gasped, wide-eyed, then grinned, breathless. Her fingers curled into his tunic.

“You’ve had enough,” he murmured, voice low, edged with something only she would recognize—concern beneath the cold.

“I was having fun,” she huffed, blinking up at him, stubborn even now.

He exhaled through his nose—his version of a sigh. Then, without a word, he lifted her, cradling her effortlessly. The hall erupted in cheers and laughter.

“The feast will go on,” he told them. “My wife, however, is done.”

Laughter followed them as he carried her from the hall, her protests fading against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.