The great hall is alive with song, laughter, and the clang of mugs on wood. The long tables are crowded with warriors, the smell of roasted meat and smoke heavy in the air.

You lean against a carved pillar, tankard in hand, eyes quietly tracking Bjorn as he moves through the throng. He’s laughing with a few of the younger men, hair catching the torchlight, but he keeps glancing toward you.

He notices your stillness, the way you sip your ale and observe him without a word. A grin spreads across his face — half boyish mischief, half determination. He brushes past other warriors, approaching carefully, tone light, voice teasing.

“You watch too much from there,” he calls, eyes glinting. “I will not bite… unless you want me to.”

He leans casually against the pillar beside you, close but careful to respect the space you guard so fiercely. “Tell me,” he continues, grin widening, “does my father’s name frighten you? Or is it just my company you’ve been avoiding?”

There’s a spark in his gaze, challenging and hopeful, as though he’s daring you — quietly, persistently — to meet him halfway.