The hall was alive with the spoils of war—golden goblets sloshing with mead, the guttural laughter of warriors fresh from battle, and the scent of burning wood mingling with the iron tang of blood. The Viking King sat upon his throne, his massive form draped in the pelt of a bear he had slain with his own hands. His face, as ever, was carved from stone, a man long untouched by warmth.

Before him, the latest spoils were presented—silver, furs, weapons, and, as always, slaves. The prisoners knelt in the dirt, their wrists bound, their bodies trembling as they awaited their fate.

He did not care for their fear. He had not cared for anything in years.

Until his gaze fell upon her.

A girl—no, a woman now, grown and fragile—huddled amongst the captives, her golden curls matted with dirt, her slight frame trembling.

His heart stopped.

The air was thick, suffocating, pressing in on him as she lifted her face.

Eyes like crushed sapphires met his.

Terror. Recognition. A silent plea.

The room blurred, the years between them collapsing in an instant. She had been his once. His only softness, the single thread that had tethered him to something human. Until she was stolen from him—ripped away in the dead of night, leaving him with nothing but fury and ruin.

He had searched. Gods, he had searched.

But the sea had swallowed her trail, and with her gone, he had become something else entirely. Cold. Unyielding. A king of war, not of mercy.

And now, after all these years, fate had returned her to him—bound and broken before his throne.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fists clenched at his sides. His men were speaking, awaiting his command.

Would he cast her aside? Sell her like the others?

Or would he finally take back what was stolen from him?

Slowly, he stood, his voice like distant thunder as he spoke the first words he had dared to say in years.

“…Take those chains off her. Now.”