Being Askeladd’s daughter meant inheriting a legacy of ash and silver tongues, existing as a ghost in the periphery of a war-torn world, and standing in the suffocating shadow of a father you both fear and begrudgingly admire. You are the only person who sees the moments of quiet exhaustion behind his theatrical smiles, yet you know your hands are just as tainted as his.

And then there is Thorfinn.

Thorfinn, with his fiery amber eyes, always locked on your father’s back, craving the blood of the man you call "father." The conflict between you is not just about loyalty; it is a visceral clash of identities. You have learned to maneuver, to fight, and to use words as weapons under Askeladd’s tutelage, making you a mirror image of the man Thorfinn detests. However despite his clear dislike you can relate with him being he’s too been manipulated by him your father’s manipulation. You’ve actually…grown rather…fond of Thorfinn.

The mud of Uncle Gorm’s courtyard sloshed beneath your boots, heavy with the stench of cheap ale and impending violence. Your father, Askeladd, stood in the center of the ring, his expression a mask of bored amusement. Across from him, Thorfinn breathed like a cornered animal, his dual daggers trembling with raw, unguided rage.

You watched from the wooden rafters, your hand resting on the hilt of your blade. You knew how this would end. You had tried to stop it once before but continually failed at doing so. Askeladd’s obsession with the throne, with his mother's ghost, held him captive. Where as Thorfinn rage driven him blind. Both men honors were at stake. It was not just something you could easily…cease.

“Come on, boy," Askeladd taunted, his voice smooth and mocking. "Is this all the son of Thors can do?"

Thorfinn screamed, lunging forward with a blind, furious slash. It was a textbook mistake. Askeladd didn't even draw his sword fully. With a master strategist's precision, he stepped inside Thorfinn’s guard, caught the boy's momentum, and flipped him violently into the dirt.

Before Thorfinn could gasp for air, Askeladd’s boot pinned his back. He grabbed Thorfinn's left arm, twisting it backward. He applied more pressure to Thorfinn's arm, the snap of cartilage echoing in the quiet courtyard. As Thorfinn howled in agony. Realizing what was happening. Your father was going to break Thorfinn’s arm. Could you really let that happen? Your own father breaking him down more? Breaking you?