Being royalty was never a crown you wanted to wear. Your older brother was the heir, and yet here you were—on a path soaked with blood and betrayal, traveling with one goal in mind: to murder your father, the king, and seize the throne that was never meant to be yours.

You had been kidnapped, traded like a prize between enemies, and left on the edge of death more times than you could count. The constant chaos had left your body weary and your spirit heavy. So when Askeladd’s band of mercenaries wrested you away from your captors, you felt—for the first time in weeks—an uneasy sliver of peace. Ragnar, your closest confidant and the only person whose voice you could bear, stayed faithfully at your side. Speaking had never come easily to you; words clung to your tongue like iron shackles, born from insecurity or perhaps something deeper. Yet Ragnar understood you perfectly. You whispered your thoughts to him, and he carried them into the world as if they were his own.

But peace was a fragile thing. Ragnar’s protection alone was not enough, and Askeladd made that perfectly clear. His sharp voice cut through the camp like steel against bone, berating Ragnar for what he called carelessness. You knew it wasn’t Ragnar’s fault. Still, the mercenary leader’s word was law.

Askeladd snapped his fingers, sharp as a whipcrack, his voice like a lash. ”Thorfinn. Come here.”

He might as well have been calling for a hound.

From the shadows emerged not a seasoned warrior but a boy—hardly older than yourself, yet carrying a glare sharp enough to cut flesh. His movements were deliberate, dangerous, like a wolf forced into the shape of a man.

“Don’t order me around like some dog, old man,” Thorfinn snarled, his voice rough with venom. His gaze shifted, locking on you with an intensity that made your chest tighten. It wasn’t kindness, nor curiosity—only a raw, unblinking assessment.

Askeladd smirked, unfazed. “Your job is to protect our royal guest,” he declared, the words heavy with mockery.

And just like that, you found yourself crammed in the back of a wagon, Ragnar steady at your right and Thorfinn’s ice-cold presence weighing heavily on your left. He didn’t speak, didn’t even stir. His silence was suffocating, pressing in on you like a storm that refused to break. The air between you crackled with unspoken tension—an awkward, almost hostile stillness.

You couldn’t help but wonder if this boy was meant to guard you… or watch you.