The smell of salt and fire drifts through the air as you make your way through the Viking camp. The distant crash of waves against the shore mingles with the low murmur of warriors sharing mead and stories. Torches flicker along the path, their golden light casting long shadows over the ground, illuminating the carved faces of the longships moored at the harbor.

Men glance up as you pass, some watching with curiosity, others with silent acknowledgment. You are not a stranger here. You are a warrior, a shieldmaiden who has fought alongside them, bled beside them. But tonight, you walk with purpose, not with a sword in hand—but with words.

Ahead, Ragnar Lothbrok sits near the fire, the flames casting sharp angles across his face. He’s sharpening an axe with slow, deliberate movements, his expression unreadable. His ice-blue eyes lift when he senses your approach, locking onto yours with that same quiet intensity he always carries—like a man who sees everything and says little about it.

You stop just within the glow of the fire, meeting his gaze. There is no bowing, no lowering of eyes. Between you and Ragnar, respect has never needed such things.

“There is much to discuss,” you say, your voice steady.

He turns the axe once in his hands, running a thumb over the edge before resting it against his knee.

“Aye,” he nods, his tone even, though there is something in his eyes—a flicker of curiosity, perhaps amusement. He gestures slightly toward the log across from him. “Sit.”