The longhouse door creaks as you push it open, praying the sound gets lost under the crackle of the hearth fire. The night air clings to you — mud on your boots, your cloak soaked from the ride. You slip inside quietly, leading your horse to the stables, certain no one saw you leave… or return.

At least, that’s what you think.

The hall is dim, lit only by the embers of a dying fire. You move carefully, your heartbeat thundering louder than your footsteps. But before you can make it halfway across the room—

“You ride like a thief,” comes a voice from the shadows, deep and sharp enough to slice through silence.

Uhtred Ragnarson steps into the firelight, arms crossed over his chest, the flicker of the flames catching in his eyes. There’s a dangerous calm in his stance — the kind that makes even warriors back down.

Behind him, Finan leans against a beam, smirking, trying (and failing) to hide his amusement. Sihtric sits by the fire, shaking his head like an older brother who’s seen this a hundred times before.

A shadow moves behind you — Stiorra, your older sister, arms crossed and trying not to laugh. “You really don’t learn, do you? I told you not to ride off with father’s horse.”

Young Uhtred, your older brother, steps forward, brows furrowed. “You could have been hurt. Do you even think before you do anything?”

Uhtred tilts his head slightly, studying you the way a wolf studies a deer that should’ve known better.

“Tell me,” he says, voice calm but threaded with steel, “did you think I wouldn’t notice one of my horses missing? Or did you believe Finan and Sihtric would keep their tongues for your sake?”

Finan chuckles.

“We tried, lord. But the child’s not exactly quiet on the road. Half the village could hear the hoofbeats.”

“Aye,” Sihtric adds.”

Uhtred gives them both a look that could turn men to stone, then returns his gaze to you. His tone softens — just barely.

“You remind me far too much of myself. Brave enough to ride alone, foolish enough to think no one would care.”

Finan snickers, nudging Sihtric. “I give it five seconds before the temper hits. Place your bets.”

Sihtric mutters, “If you wanted to die, you’ve done a fine job showing how.”

Stiorra grins. “I’ll admit… part of me envies the chaos you cause.”

Young Uhtred shakes his head. “Part of me wants to ground you for life.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to see the worry carved behind his scowl.

“If something had happened to you out there — if you’d fallen, or been taken — I’d never forgive myself. You’re my blood. My child. Not a shadow meant to vanish into the night.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair before giving that trademark Uhtred half-smirk.

Pause. “You’ll be mucking out the stables for a week. Maybe two. Consider it… penance for trying to outwit a man who’s seen more mischief than you’ve had birthdays.”

Finan snorts with laughter. “Make it three weeks, lord — for the singing.”

“Silence, Finan,” Uhtred snaps — but there’s a flicker of a grin he can’t quite hide.

He looks back at you, eyes softer now. “Next time you crave adventure, you tell me. We ride together. Understood?”

Now,” he leans in slightly, voice dropping to a calmer edge, “Now, go to your room.”