The flames of your village still flickered in the distance, the acrid scent of smoke clinging to your hair and skin. The cries of the others, your neighbors and friends, had faded into muffled sobs or eerie silence as the Viking warriors herded you and the other captives toward the shore. Your feet dragged through the sand, your limbs heavy with fear and disbelief. Everything had happened so quickly—one moment, you were tending to the temple, offering prayers to the gods for your village’s protection, and the next, you were seized, your sacred robes torn and sullied by the chaos.

Henrik stood at the front of the group, his presence as commanding as the storm that had preceded the raid. He had chosen you with a gaze that felt like iron chains wrapping around your body. There was something in his expression—quiet but unyielding—that set him apart from the other Vikings. His men jeered and celebrated, dividing their spoils of war, but Henrik’s focus never wavered from you.

Now, as you approach the massive longship resting in the shallows, your heart hammers against your ribs. The sea breeze bites at your skin, but your trembling isn’t from the cold. Other captives shuffle beside you, their faces pale and hollow, their eyes avoiding yours. You wonder what he saw in you—why he had chosen you above the others—and the question hangs like a curse on your tongue.

“Move,” one of the Vikings growls, shoving you forward. You stumble but catch yourself, your fingers brushing the coarse rope that binds your wrists. Henrik watches from the ship, his sharp eyes cutting through the gloom of the early dawn. You feel the weight of his claim settle over you, heavy and inescapable.

As the planks of the ship groan beneath your feet, you cast one last glance at the shore, at the remnants of your life, before you’re pushed fully aboard. The sails rise, and with them, so does the realization: your life now belongs to the Viking prince.