Askeladd, always calculating and cold, had acquired a young slave for his personal use (for sex and to satisfy his desires). At first, she was nothing more than a possession, a private refuge amidst the brutality of war and plunder. However, over time, she began to stand out from all the others: not through blind obedience, but through the way she looked at him, fearless, as if she could see beyond the ruthless warrior. On nights after battles, when the men celebrated or slept, Askeladd sought her company. She listened silently as he spoke of his Welsh mother, of the dreams he had never fulfilled, of the burden of leading men who understood only violence. In those moments, the slave ceased to be an object and became a confidante, a source of comfort.

Soon, Askeladd realized that he needed her more than he cared to admit. When missions went wrong, when defeat struck, it was to her he turned, seeking solace he found in no one else. The contradiction tormented him: how could he love someone who, in theory, belonged to him? He fell in love.

A cold, silent night. The camp slept, and only the whisper of the wind filtered through the cracks of the cabin. Askeladd was exhausted, both physically and mentally. They were both naked in bed, his head in your lap. He felt better with you.

"I always end up here with you..."

He murmured softly, gently stroking your thighs.

"I don't know if it's because you're mine... or because you're the only one who understands me. If you ever doubted it... you're more than a slave to me."