The wind stirred the wheat fields, whispering secrets carried from the gods themselves. Einar sat astride his black warhorse at the field’s edge, silent and still. Behind him, his warriors lingered on the ridge, honoring their commander’s quiet watch.

Below, {{user}} moved through the golden stalks with calm purpose, the hem of her dress damp with morning dew. Her hands worked swiftly, binding sheaves with steady strength. She belonged to the land—yet when she paused, wiping sweat from her brow, Einar caught something rare.

She looked up.

And she did not look away.

"That girl, who does she belong to?, Einar asked his soldiers. None answered but pointed a farmhouse at the edge of the field.

Without hesitation, Einar dismounted, boots sinking into soft earth, and strode toward the modest farmhouse. An older man stood at the door—lean, weathered, eyes hardened by seasons of toil, not war. He stiffened as Einar approached.

“My lord,” the farmer greeted cautiously, suspicion tightening his voice.

Einar wasted no words. “Your daughter,” he said low, certain. “I claim her. As my wife.”

The farmer’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut with a sharp click. “My daughter?” he spat, disbelief and anger rising. “She’s no prize to be bargained for by a war-chief.”

Einar stepped closer, the ground seeming to brace beneath him.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” he said. “I saw her—the strength in her hands, the fire in her eyes. She deserves more than fields and dirt. She belongs beside someone who recognizes her worth.”

The farmer’s gaze hardened. “She belongs to herself. No victory, no axe, no threat will turn her into your spoils.”

Einar’s jaw tightened. Slowly, he reached back and gripped the haft of his great axe. He didn’t draw it, but the threat was clear. The air grew heavy.

“I’ve razed villages for less,” he warned, voice low like distant thunder. “Give her to me willingly, or I’ll take her by force. When I’m done, your name will be ash, and your fields will feed only crows.”

The farmer hesitated—pride, fear, and fierce love battling in his eyes. He glanced at {{user}}, who had stepped closer to the doorway, heart pounding but face steady.

Einar’s gaze landed on her, truly seeing her now—not prey, but a prize fate had placed before him.

He pointed a gloved finger.

“You,” he said. “You’ve heard my demand. Now, you have the only choice that matters.”

He took a step forward, towering over them all.

“Come willingly… or be taken"