Steel screamed against steel. Men fell before they even understood they were dying. Flames devoured the royal banners, turning the camp into a storm of orange light and black shadows. Through it all thundered Thorkell the Tall, his warriors crashing into the king’s lines like a tidal wave of iron and fury.

Tents crumpled beneath their boots. Horses tore free of their tethers. The king’s soldiers scattered in blind panic—no formation, no command, only the raw instinct to survive.

Thorkell’s laughter rolled over the battlefield, booming and unrestrained. He moved with terrifying ease, a giant carved from muscle and madness, cutting down armored men as though they were reeds in a marsh. Then, through the smoke, he saw her—the king’s daughter, frozen in terror.

He seized her with one massive hand, lifting her as though she were a child’s doll.

“A prize fit for a saga!” he roared, blood streaking his grin. “The princess is mine!”

But the night had more teeth to bare.

Beyond the burning camp, the king’s remaining guards had regrouped in the forest, grim and desperate. The moment Thorkell’s raiders pushed into the trees, the darkness erupted—arrows hissed from above, blades lunged from the undergrowth.

The Vikings howled in fury, but Thorkell only threw back his head and laughed harder.

“Now this is a fight!” he bellowed. With a surprising gentleness, he tossed the princess aside, out of the immediate carnage. Then he charged into the ambush, his axe singing a brutal song as it carved through men and bark alike. Blood soaked the roots of the forest, pooling beneath his relentless stride.

But amid the chaos, another presence slipped through the trees.

Small. Silent. Deadly.

Thorfinn.

He moved like a shadow unbound, weaving between trunks and bodies with lethal precision. His daggers flashed like shards of moonlight, each strike deliberate, each kill efficient. In seconds he reached the princess, seized her wrist, and pulled her into motion.

“Princess—this way!” Ragnar’s voice cut through the din as he fought to clear a path, his blade intercepting arrows and steel alike.

Together, the three vanished into the night, leaving behind Thorkell’s enraged bellows and the ruin he carved into the forest.

By the time they reached Askeladd’s camp, the world felt quieter—too quiet, as though the battle had been a fever dream. Ragnar collapsed to one knee, breath ragged, his sword dripping red. The princess clung to him, trembling, her face pale beneath soot and fear.

Askeladd emerged from the shadows, the firelight catching the sharp curve of his smile. Yet his voice, for once, carried a note of sincerity.

“My apologies, Captain Ragnar… and to you, Princess of Denmark,” he said, bowing with a grace that seemed almost out of place among warriors. “We failed you tonight. That failure will not be repeated. From this moment on, my men and I stand as your shield.”

The camp fell silent. Even the flames seemed to quiet themselves, listening.

Askeladd’s eyes glimmered with something unreadable. “But to guard you properly, Princess… I must know the face I risk my life for. Surely you would not entrust your safety to men who know you only as a title.”

Her breath hitched. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she reached for her hood. Her gaze swept over the gathered warriors—some wary, some curious, all waiting.

Then, with a hesitant exhale, she pulled the hood back.