The camp was quiet now. The laughter, the shouting, the clash of steel from earlier — all drowned beneath the weight of night. Only the fire still breathed, its orange light dancing over the worn faces of sleeping men.

Thorfinn sat apart from them, knife in hand, dragging the blade across a whetstone with steady, almost mechanical movements. Sparks flickered for a heartbeat, then vanished into the darkness. His eyes were sharp but distant, fixed on nothing.

A faint sound broke the rhythm. Soft footsteps, light — too careful to belong to one of Askeladd’s men. He looked up.

At the edge of the camp, half-shrouded by the trees, the masked fighter stood. The same one who had cut through men with frightening precision earlier that day. She moved with purpose but carried none of the harshness she had in battle. Thorfinn watched as she knelt near the river, gloved hands pulling the hood back first, then the mask.

The moonlight caught her hair, and then her eyes — bright, unmistakably green. He froze, realization flickering across his face. Those were the eyes he’d seen through the smoke, the ones that met his across the battlefield.

For a moment, he said nothing. The quiet between them was heavy, stretched thin by the sound of the river and the whispering wind. Then, finally, he stood. His footsteps were nearly silent as he crossed the distance, stopping a few paces behind her.

“You should be more careful,” he said, voice low, almost calm.