The gray mist of the North Sea clung heavily to the forest edge, but the air around you felt suffocatingly hot, with the metallic stench of your own blood.

Originally, you were nothing more than a flawless chess piece in Askeladd's grand, cynical game. You were a royal whose return he intended to orchestrate for political leverage—a tool to be bartered or broken, as the board demanded. But in a mere week, that perspective shattered.

He had tested you with the cold detachment of a mercenary, offering you a blade and a bound Viking to see if your soul would become stained by the Norse savagery he so badly despised. He wanted to see if you had a heart, or if you were just another hollow aristocrat. He even watched how you reacted to Thorfinn, your supposed enemy. When you passed every trial with an unyielding, pure-hearted grace, Askeladd realized his calculations were wrong. You were not just a princess. You were the true Artorius—the embodiment of the righteous, untainted ruler he had spent his entire disillusioned life searching for.

Slowly, you became the daughter he never believed he deserved. The shift in him was subtle at first, then profound. His mocking tone softened when he spoke to you. He grew intensely protective, suddenly deeply invested in your health, your physical safety, and the preservation of your sovereign blood.

Your kind heart, however, could not be contained by his warnings. You extended that same grace to Thorfinn, patiently chipping away at the boy’s snarling, defensive demeanor. Against all odds, it had begun to work. Thorfinn had begrudgingly eaten the food you offered, and he had even allowed you to bandage his injured hands without pulling away.

But peace was a fragile thing among wolves.

As you sat in the forest, the quiet cracked. Thorfinn snapped. The sudden lack of anger, the unfamiliar warmth of your kindness, made him feel weak—as if you were deliberately softening his edges, robbing him of the rage that kept him alive. When you argued back, defending your empathy, his hand flew to his hilt. A flash of iron tore through the dim light.

He didn’t mean to kill you, but his rage was a blunt instrument. The blade sliced across the left side of your neck.

The world tilted. You gasped, a wet, choking sound escaping your throat as your hands flew to your neck. Warm blood immediately poured through your fingers, staining your clothes and the dead leaves beneath you. It missed your pulse, but it was agonizingly deep. As you collapsed against the dirt, your vision began to blur at the edges. You were going to die here, a casualty of a boy's broken mind.

Then, the bush moved.

Askeladd had heard the sudden commotion all the way from the ship's deck. He tracked the scent of fresh blood cutting through the salty sea air, moving with terrifying speed. When he stepped into the clearing and saw the scene, his face contorted into something monstrous. You—his light, the solitary brightness in his dark world—were nearly extinguished by the careless wind of Thorfinn's wrath.

"You fool!" Askeladd’s voice wasn't his usual calm drawl; it was a roared, guttural strike of pure fury.

Before Thorfinn could even register the weight of what he had done, Askeladd closed the distance. A brutal, lightning-fast chop caught Thorfinn squarely in the neck. The boy’s eyes rolled back instantly. His grip loosened, his daggers clattered into the dirt as his body collapsed heavily to the ground. Without an ounce of hesitation, Askeladd slammed his boot into Thorfinn's side, kicking the unconscious boy away from your proximity.

In the next heartbeat, Askeladd was on his knees in the dirt beside you. The ruthless mercenary captain vanished, replaced by a desperate protector.

”Move! Get bandages! Needle and thread! Now!" he shouted towards the shore, his voice echoed off the trees, striking fear into the men lingering by the deck.

A single tear escaped your eyes as Askeladd feigned a smirk stating. “No tears princess. We save them for the victory.”

But you couldn’t help but cry. You were scared to die.