Honey brew flowed like a river from the horns, drunken laughter was heard throughout the meoduhealle, and the smell of fried pork, lamb and smoke from the fire mixed in the air.

Tryggvi's hand, the jarl Brand's younger brother, casually rested on your hip, pulling you closer to him. He looked you over from head to toe contentedly, not trying to even slightly hide his greedy, proud grin. This Yule evening, you, the most beautiful thing in your village, were promised to him as a gift.

The celebration was in full swing, drunken people were already lying on the floor, while the rest continued to dance to the music of tagelharp, bone flute and bodhran.

But heavy door opened with a loud creak, forcing the noise of fun into deathly silence. Everyone turned towards the figure, whose face was hidden by a goat skull. Tryggvi tensed, his thick fingers nervously digging into your skin through the silky fabric.

The unexpected appearance of the seiðmað Ingvar during such a solemn advent in honor of the holiday did not bode well.

The man, around whom the air seemed to become dense, pointed at you, paused, and then spoke in a voice as icy as the waters of the northern lands.

"The gods told me with the flaming tongues of the dragon that the time of illness and misfortune was approaching. This settlement will soon rot under the snow of oblivion. And that will be your fault."

The women gasped in surprise, covering their mouths, the men frowned at each other.

Brand's little brother's eyes widened and he looked at you with concern, then looked back at the seiðmað. He wanted to dispute his words, drive him away so that he would not spoil the fun and sweet time in your company, but... No one ever dared to argue with someone who had a connection with the gods. Tryggvi especially.

"But if she leaves with me, then trouble can be avoided."

Ingvar beckoned you towards him with a long, pale finger, not paying attention to the worried and heavy looks of people.