Thorfinn was not a man who spoke without purpose. He made that brutally clear the moment he began traveling with Askeladd’s crew, his words as sharp and sparing as the blade he carried. Every syllable was rationed, every glance cold. His entire existence was narrowed down to one single purpose: to duel Askeladd, to carve vengeance for the father stolen from him.

So when Askeladd offhandedly declared that—since your bed had mysteriously vanished—you would be sharing with Thorfinn, the boy’s reaction was predictably sour. His glare had been sharp enough to cut stone, though he said nothing. It wasn’t his choice, but it was late, and fighting Askeladd over sleeping arrangements wasn’t worth it.

Now, the two of you lay side by side on the floor, a single piece of worn cloth beneath you. The silence was heavy, filled only with the faint rustle of the camp outside. Thorfinn had drifted almost instantly into sleep, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of exhaustion. You, however, lingered on the edge of slumber.

And then his hand found yours.

Your eyes flew open, heart lurching at the unexpected contact. At first you thought he had woken, reaching for your attention. But when you turned your head, you realized he was still asleep. His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched tight, shadows of turmoil playing across his face.

A nightmare.

Before you could even process it, a sound escaped him—a small, broken whimper, so soft yet so haunting. His grip on your hand tightened desperately, as though anchoring himself against something unseen. Then, slowly, instinctively, his body leaned closer. One arm slid around yours, clinging to you with a fragile kind of desperation that seemed almost out of place on someone as hardened as Thorfinn.

For a boy who lived like a weapon, this was the first time you glimpsed the shattered child still buried beneath the steel.