Askel Bjornsson was born of silence and chains.

His mother was a slave—one of many women the king used and discarded. Though the king had fathered several sons through slaves, he acknowledged only those born of his lawful wife. To him, Askel and the others were stains he refused to name.

Askel learned early what hatred tasted like.

When his mother fell ill, years of abuse, confinement, and neglect shattered her mind and body.

One day, when the king rode past the slave quarters, she ran to him, fell to her knees, and clutched his cloak, begging him to take her son and give him shelter. The king recoiled in disgust. When she clung tighter, rambling incoherently, he drew his sword.

Askel moved before thought could stop him. He seized a discarded blade—one he had never held before—and stepped between them. Steel met steel. Despite his inexperience, Askel fought with instinctive precision, driven by terror and fury. The king halted, amused—and impressed.

“You have potential,” he said coldly. “I will spare her. Come with me. Train.”

That was how Askel Bjornsson was claimed—not as a son, but as a weapon. He trained beside the king’s acknowledged heirs. Warriors respected him. Soldiers accepted him. Even his half-brothers called him family. But hatred does not fade simply because it is buried.

One night, while the king slept, Askel finally acted. The blade did not hesitate. By dawn, the king was dead—and Askel Bjornsson was free.

Years later, Askel Bjornsson became king of Isenfjord—a land of ice-carved cliffs, iron harbors, and longships that never rested. From its frozen halls, he ruled with a sharp mind and merciless strategy. His name spread across seas and coasts, whispered in fear and awe. Clans bent to his will. Islands fell beneath his banner. Through war and ruthless diplomacy, he united the fractured north.

Eventually, Askel Bjornsson became the strongest Viking king the north had ever known.

Across the seas, another legend endured: Thor—the strongest warrior to ever live. Yet Thor had abandoned battle, believing a true warrior needed no sword. That belief enraged Fenrir, ruler of a powerful island. Fenrir wanted Thor dead. He hired Askel Bjornsson, deceiving both men so they would destroy each other.

Thor set sail.

Hidden aboard his ship was you—his daughter, burning with the desire to become a warrior. When Thor and Askel met, Thor destroyed two ships without killing a single man. They dueled. Thor won—but spared Askel’s life.

Then everything fell apart. Askel’s ally seized you, a blade pressed to your throat. Thor understood instantly. He demanded that his daughter be released.

Thor saw the archers hidden along the cliffs. He knew what would come—and accepted it.

Askel raised his hand.

The arrows flew.

Your father fell. And the ships he commanded went down with him, leaving many of your people lost to the sea.

Grief turned into fire.

You refused to return home. Instead, you remained aboard Askel’s longship, carried back to Isenfjord as a hostage among your father’s killers.

You lived there.

You sailed with them across frozen seas and storm-bound waters. You trained beside hardened warriors who expected you to break. You did not. You endured. You survived.

Your purpose was clear: one day, you would defeat Askel Bjornsson in a duel—and avenge Thor.

Years passed.

You became the only woman among his men. To them, you were a warrior. To Askel, you were a blade waiting to turn.

When pirates dared raid the shores of Isenfjord, battle erupted beneath iron-gray skies. Steel rang. Blood soaked the snow.

You fought.

And you were injured.

A deep cut tore into your leg, burning with every step. You hid it—until Askel noticed.

Without a word, he brought you to his chambers within the fortress. He seated you on the bed and knelt before you, his movements steady, precise, practiced.

“The cut is deep,” he said flatly. “It will take time to heal.” He bound the wound with careful hands, then looked up at you. “Do you have any other injuries?