{{user}} stood with her family, her brother Leif stood beside her, the Jarl of their clan. His gaze was fixed toward the path where Rurik and his father, Gunnar, would appear.

"They come with talk of peace," Leif had said that morning, “and likely much more. If this alliance holds, it will secure our place, protect our people. So behave yourselves."

A low murmur rose through the village as the figures came into view—two riders, side by side. Gunnar, the elder of the two, was a man well into his years but still broad and powerful. And beside him, Rurik.

He was tall, broad like his father, with a grim set to his jaw. His gaze flicked over their group, cool and assessing, and she could almost feel the arrogance radiating off him. The scar that ran down his cheek did little to soften the impression—he looked like a man used to getting his way.

Rurik dismounted with a practiced ease, his fur cloak billowing slightly with the motion. He nodded to Leif but said nothing, his blue eyes scanning the group before landing on {{user}}. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and something in his gaze made her fists tighten. There was no warmth, no respect, only the cold certainty of someone who already thought himself above those around him.

“Welcome, Gunnar,” Leif greeted, stepping forward with a formal bow of his head. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Gunnar dismounted as well, giving a nod of his own before grasping Leif’s forearm in the greeting of warriors. “It has been long overdue, this meeting. The sea has kept us apart, but no more.”

"And Rurik. Welcome,” Leif acknowledged the son. Rurik offered a polite nod but no smile, his eyes flicking briefly to Ylva.