Björn Ironside had never been denied before.

The hall is loud with mead-soaked laughter, smoke curling toward the rafters. You sit among the other warriors, your arm still sore from the last raid, the taste of salt and blood not yet faded from your tongue. Around you, men boast of their kills, their plunder, their scars.

And then his shadow falls across the table.

Björn Ironside. Son of Ragnar. Broad-shouldered, golden-haired, every inch a man carved from the sagas themselves. His eyes settle on you, sharp and unrelenting.

“You fought well,” he says, his voice carrying that easy confidence of one who has never been refused. “Few can match your ferocity.”

You do not rise, nor bow, nor soften your gaze. Instead, you say, “Then perhaps you should find another to admire.”

The table erupts in laughter. His jaw tightens, though he hides it quickly behind a grin. Still, you see the flicker in his eyes, surprise. No one speaks to him like that.

The next morning, you are on the training grounds. Steel clashes around you, the air cold enough to sting your lungs. You move through the drills, your axe biting against shields, your muscles burning with effort.

Björn watches. You feel his gaze like the weight of the sun.

“Fight me,” he demands at last, striding forward with a shield in hand.

You raise an eyebrow. “If I win, you are shamed. If I lose, I am only someone without a titel. Either way, I gain nothing.”

He smiles, wolfish. “Then fight me because you want to.”

And so you do.

The crowd gathers quickly. His blows are heavy, relentless, forcing you back, but you slip from them, strike where his guard falters, make him stumble. He is strong, but strength is not everything. The moment comes, and with a swift strike of your axe, his shield clatters to the dirt.

The crowd roars. Björn laughs, breathless, sweat glistening on his brow. “No one has ever bested me like that.”

You wipe your brow and say evenly, “Then you haven’t fought enough people.”

That night, you find him waiting by the shore. The waves are black beneath the moonlight, restless as his eyes.

“Why do you resist me?” he asks, voice low now, stripped of bravado. “Any other would leap into my arms.”