You were the daughter of a chieftain, raised among the forests, fire, and blo0d. Your people knew strangers, but they had never welcomed anyone with such fear as when you saw the ships on the horizon. The shields on their sides gleamed, the sails billowed in the wind—and you knew that wolves were coming for you from the sea.

You ran back to the village, your voice sharp as an arrow warning the women to hide their children and the men to prepare their weapons. But when your father returned a few hours later, he didn’t bring an army—he brought guests. Björn Iron Fist and his retinue.

They were noisy, laughing, drinking as if they owned the world. Your father greeted them with respect, as if it were an honor. Your blo0d boiled in your veins. You argued with him in front of everyone, your voice harsh, that wolves were not friends. He scolded you, but your resistance was clear.

That evening there was a feast. The smoke mixed with the smell of meat, goblets full of mead passed from hand to hand. Your father stood up, raised his goblet, and spoke words of alliance. Your throat tightened, you felt humilịated.

His men laughed at the table, the beer flowed freely, but he mostly remained silent. He just watched you. Your every move. When you reached for the goblet, his gaze traveled down your hand, then back to his eyes. When you spoke against them, the corners of his mouth lifted just slightly—not mockingly, more like you were confirming exactly what he expected.

Sometimes he would place his hand on the table so close to yours that your people would flinch, but he wouldn’t look away. The silence that followed was heavier than anything your father had said.

And then, when the feast broke up and you stepped outside for a breath of the night air—he was already standing there. He wasn’t leaning, he wasn’t hiding. He stood straight, like a warrior who never sneaks.

“You,” he said simply.

When you turned, he took two steps closer. He wasn’t smiling. His eyes pinned you to the spot.

“Your father thinks he needs us. But I came for you.”

Another step. He was standing so close now that you could feel the warmth of his body, even though he hadn’t touched you yet.

“You don’t like us being here,” he whispered. He didn’t ask—he stated. He tilted his head, studying you, as if he were assessing an opponent. “And yet… you can’t take your eyes off him.”

He was silent. He just watched you.

Then his hand rose—slowly, purposefully. He gently took a strand of your hair and let it slide between his fingers. He moved closer, his forehead almost touching yours. “You may hate wolves,” he whispered. “But one day you will know that a fox belongs in their pack.”