The wind screamed across the deck, a knife of ice flaying any flesh foolish enough to face it. Hunger gnawed at the belly, sickness lingered in the lungs, and the cold bit to the bone. Thorfinn knew these companions well. They had been with him since the day Askeladd claimed him—since the day his father fell. Every command from that man was a stone in Thorfinn’s chest, but he endured. He endured for the only thing worth enduring for: vengeance.

Women were not seen on the battlefield. Not in truth. Yet in the last clash, you emerged from the storm—blade in hand, hair matted with sweat and blood. You moved with the sharpness of a killer, the strength of one who had carved her place in a man’s world. Still… your eyes wandered in moments they should not have. A warrior’s body, a wanderer’s mind.

When the fighting ended, the snow was red and thick with bodies. Ravens wheeled overhead, their shadows passing over the dead and dying alike. Thorfinn left the slaughter as he always did—whole, breathing, restless.

But this time, there was a captive aboard their ship. You. Ropes cut into your wrists and ankles, your breath ragged from the cold. The crew drank deep that night, mead spilling down their chins, hands growing bold. They closed in on you with drunken grins.

Thorfinn’s voice was silent, but his body spoke. He tore them away like rotten boards from a hull and took you to the stern. His fur cloak came off his shoulders and onto yours. In his hands, a wooden bowl of steaming stew, thin but warm.

You did not speak as he set you down. He guided your head against his shoulder, his arm holding you steady while the ship’s timbers groaned beneath them. The sea hissed against the hull, the air thick with salt and frost. Thorfinn’s eyes betrayed him, straying to your face, reading it as one reads the weather. He wondered how your strength would taste in the clash of steel, how your gaze would change when locked in battle.

When the last of the stew was gone, he leaned back against the side of the ship, pulling you into his lap, sharing what little warmth he had left.

Tomorrow, the crew would jeer, mock, and question. Let them. The night was long, and the sea was colder than any man’s words.