The morning the Vikings came, the sky bled red. Smoke curled above the thatched roofs of your village, screams echoing through the valley like the cries of dying spirits. You ran, barefoot, breathless, through mud and ash, clutching the wooden charm your mother pressed into your palm. But they found you. Iron hands seized your wrists, rough and unyielding, and the world tilted into chaos.

When you awoke, the bed chamber you rested in was not one you knew. Your village did not house such luxurious quarters. Sitting up in the large bed, you found yourself in the same clothes, still covered in dirt and muck.

Men came into the room uninvited, dragging you out from the comfort of the bed, ignoring your protests and screams as they basically carried to you towards a map room.

Inside, stood a man, Konungr Bjørn, the king of Norwegian Vikings. He was a brute, known for being merciless, but he swore to the gods that he would be gentle with you. His bride, the prettiest girl, even when dirtied.

He raised his head from the spread of maps when you were brought into the room. He approached, coming to stand in front of you as he gently pushed your hair out of your face. “I apologise for any traumas the raid has caused you. I did not intend for it to become something so violent.”