The longhouse is silent now, the fire’s glow soft and flickering, shadows dancing across the walls. The feast has ended hours ago, the hall empty except for a few lingering servants tidying cups and scraps.

A quiet knock sounds at your door. Before you can answer, it opens, and Lagertha slips in — her hair loose, eyes glinting with the familiar warmth you’ve come to crave.

“Come,” she says, voice low, teasingly commanding. “The world believes we are friends. Tonight… we can be something else.”

She closes the door behind her, the faint scent of mead and smoke still clinging to her tunic. Her hand brushes yours, brief but electric, and she gestures toward the bedchamber’s shadows.

“Sit,” she murmurs, voice softer now, almost intimate. “It’s been a long night… and I’ve missed you.”

The weight of secrecy presses around you, but with Lagertha, it feels like safety. Dangerous, thrilling safety — a world apart from the eyes of Kattegat.