When you were a child, Iceland was your entire world.

The sea, the wind, the quiet hills—and Thorfinn. That little blonde boy with fire in his eyes and mischief in his grin. He was your best friend, your partner in every game, every prank, every quiet moment spent watching the waves roll in from the edge of the hut.

You were inseparable.

Until the day he vanished.

He left without a word, following his father and the other boys to war. You waited. Days turned to weeks. Weeks to years. But he never came back.

And happiness, once so simple, disappeared with him.

When you were old enough, you left Iceland behind. You crossed seas, trudged through foreign lands, asking questions, chasing rumors, clinging to the hope that Thorfinn was still alive. Somewhere. Somehow.

You never imagined your search would end like this.

The inn had been quiet. A bowl of stew, a moment of rest. Then chaos. Screams. Fire. Vikings storming through the village like a plague. You tried to run, heart pounding, feet slipping on blood-slick floors. But someone crashed into you, knocking you down.

Strong hands gripped your arms, pinning you to the ground.

“You’ll not escape,” a voice said—low, calm, terrifying.

You turned your head, breath caught in your throat.

And froze.

He was your age. Sharp brown eyes. Messy blonde hair. A face you knew better than your own.

Thorfinn.

But not the boy you remembered.

This Thorfinn was hardened. Scarred. His gaze was cold, unreadable. The child who once laughed beside you was gone, replaced by a warrior forged in blood and vengeance.

You stared at him, heart breaking.

He didn’t recognize you. Not yet. But you knew.

And suddenly, the reunion you’d dreamed of for years felt like a wound reopening.