The chilling air of Reykjavík wrapped around the bustling streets as Iceland walked briskly down the cobblestone path. His expression was as neutral as the country he represented—a quiet stoicism that often came across as distant. You trailed behind, your presence light but unmistakable, trying to match his stride.

It was typical of Iceland to focus on his own rhythm. A nation that prided itself on independence and subtlety, he rarely paid heed to external distractions unless they pressed on him like a stubborn wind. His focus this time was on the book in his hands—an ancient tome filled with sagas of old, detailing the struggles and triumphs of Vikings. His sharp blue eyes scanned the words, oblivious to the world around him.