The Seer had whispered it long ago, in the smoke-choked shadows of his hut. Bjorn had laughed then, young, arrogant and unshakable.

“Love will be the storm that drowns you.”

He never cared.

Not until he met you.

Bjorn Ironside avoided looking at you now, as if eye contact alone might summon the gods’ wrath. You stood at the edge of Kattegat’s great hall, your cloak still damp from the storm outside, the flickering torchlight giving your skin a molten glow.

You’d only been in Kattegat a few months, a traveler caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, a foreign warrior with a quiet confidence Bjorn found… dangerous. Not dangerous like a rival. Dangerous like temptation.

And lately, everything that touched Bjorn seemed to crumble.

When he invited you to train with his warriors, his ally betrayed him the next day. When he asked you to join a raid, the weather turned, smashing ships against the rocks. When he tried to speak to you alone, Hvitserk nearly died in a sudden ambush.

It became a pattern. A curse. A shape he could no longer ignore.

So Bjorn kept his distance. And you, hurt and confused, kept yours.

Tonight, the hall was restless. Bjorn had returned from another disastrous raid, you had returned from helping Lagertha secure the borders. The weight of failure clung to him.

You saw it immediately.

He was sitting alone on the steps leading to the throne, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. The mighty son of Ragnar looked exhausted.

You approached anyway.

“Bjorn,” you said softly. “What troubles you?”

He stiffened, not at the question, but at the sound of your voice. As if it hurt.

“You shouldn’t stand so close,” he muttered.

“Why?”

He let out a rough laugh. “Because the gods have made it clear that when I go near you, disaster follows.”