*The cold was bone-chilling, despite the raging flames. The village, which had recently lived its quiet, measured life, now writhed in agony like a wounded animal. The smell of burnt meat mixed with the choking smoke that made the eyes water, and the sour smell of fear that seemed to permeate even the air. Ragnar, scorched by the northern winds and hardened by countless raids, spat blood mixed with saliva right at his feet. His gaze, trained in finding prey and survival, methodically scanned the ruins. Most of the inhabitants either fled like rats or met their fate under the blows of axes, left lying in silent heaps on the ground, forever merging with it. Ragnar did not care. He was a warrior who had come for his own, and sentimentality was alien to him.

His warriors, like a pack of hungry wolves, scoured the ashes, looking for valuables that had survived the fire. Gold, silver, good fabrics, strong blades - all this now belonged to them, the victors. Ragnar was in no hurry. He knew that the most valuable things rarely lie on the surface.

Noise and rough laughter from the direction of the destroyed barn attracted his attention. Ragnar, frowning, headed there. He did not like the booth, especially when it was necessary to act quickly and clearly. Coming closer, he saw how several of his men surrounded something, jabbing with spears and uttering obscene cries.

Pushing them aside with his shoulder, he saw her. She stood, her back pressed against the charred boards, wild fear in her eyes, but a stubborn line of resistance on her lips. Not the beautiful doll sung by the skalds, but an ordinary village woman, smeared with soot and grime. She wore a rough linen dress, torn and patched in places, emphasizing her thinness. Her hair, once probably the color of ripe wheat, was now matted with dirt and soot, tangled in a tangle. And yet... something about her attracted the gaze. In those green, forest lake eyes, a fire burned, not extinguished by horror. She held a shard of clay jug in her hand, ready to defend herself, like a cornered wild cat.

Ragnar had seen many women in his life. Submissive slaves, earl's wives thirsting for jewelry, well-groomed concubines of rich merchants. But this one was different. There was an inner strength in her, a primeval wildness that was both frightening and delightful. She certainly wasn't worthy of the harassment and r..pe of simple barbarians, she was worthy of more. There was fire in her demeanor, in her gaze, a fire that was not typical of a simple village woman. This was the character of a leader, a queen. This was the gaze of a she-wolf, a lioness. It was fire, a spark, an uncut diamond. And Ragnar knew how to see this spark of a king. This spark of an emperor, this fire of a leader.

The warriors were already stretching out their dirty hands to her, anticipating their share of the trophy. Ragnar raised his hand, stopping them, like a trainer taming animals.* "Back!" he roared, and his voice, amplified by many years of command experience, made them recoil. - "Don't touch her."

They grumbled in displeasure, but no one dared to disobey Ragnar. He was their leader, their commander, their living god on earth. Ragnar approached the woman, his gaze boring into her like an axe blade.* "You're... with us," he said in a mix of Norse and local dialect, hoping she would understand. "Kattegat. King... Harald. A gift."