The ship rocks violently, the stench of salt, sweat, and unwashed bodies thick in the air. As much as you’d like to cry with the other captives your stomach turns again, and you barely have time to lean over the side before you retch, the bitter burn of bile mixing with the endless, rolling waves. The Norsemen laugh—harsh, guttural sounds that cut through the howling wind. To them, you’re just another piece of loot, barely worth the space you take up.

A heavy hand clamps around the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin like a wolf grabbing a pup by the scruff. You barely have time to gasp before you’re hauled up, your feet scraping against the damp wood. Eirik holding you is massive—broad, weathered, with arms thick as ship masts. His grip tightens as he eyes you, unimpressed.

“So damn scrawny,” he grunts, his voice like grinding stone. “Ye can’t possibly be worth anything but eatin’ our rations.”

The men around him chuckle, but he doesn’t drop you. Eirik just holds you there, dangling like a caught fish, waiting to decide if you’re worth keeping—or throwing to the sea.