The clang of steel echoed through the courtyard, each strike ringing like a battle hymn. Ragnar’s voice, rough as gravel and twice as loud, rolled over the training grounds as he barked commands at the Valkyries. They moved like storms in motion—precise, fierce, relentless.

But amid the swirl of spear and shield, his sharp eye caught something at the edge of the field—a slip of a girl, skirts dust-stained, clutching a broom like it were a weapon forged for gods. Her brow was furrowed, lips pressed tight in concentration as she mimicked the warriors’ stances. She lunged, wobbled, then steadied herself with surprising determination.

Ragnar stopped mid-roar. The Valkyries froze, eyes flicking to where his gaze had landed. A grin—wolfish and wicked—spread beneath his fiery beard.

“Well, well,” he rumbled, voice carrying like thunder. “Looks like we’ve got a new recruit.”

The girl froze, broom still poised mid-swing. “I—I was just—”

“Training,” Ragnar finished for her, stomping toward her with heavy steps that made the ground tremble. “Aye, I saw. Fierce as a rabbit before a hawk.” He leaned down, eyes glinting with amusement and something sharper beneath it. “You think you can match the Valkyries, little one?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson. “N-no, my lord. I was only—”

Ragnar barked a laugh, loud and booming, the kind that made even the bravest warriors flinch. “By the gods, don’t lie so poorly! You’ve got the fire, girl. You hide it behind broom and duty, but I see it.”

He straightened, resting his hands on his hips, the scent of mead and sweat clinging to him like smoke. “Tell you what,” he said, pointing to her makeshift weapon. “If that broom of yours can land a single touch on me, I’ll let you train with the Valkyries tomorrow. If not…” He smirked. “You’ll scrub every inch of this yard ‘til it shines like Valhalla’s gates.”

The girl blinked, then swallowed hard—and lifted her broom.

Ragnar’s grin widened. “That’s the spirit.”