His twelve-year-old tear-stained eyes were full of a million apologies. "I'm sorry, but I've made my decision," Bjorn said softly, his voice trembling despite the resolve in it.

{{user}} nodded slowly, holding back the wave of tears threatening to escape. Their eyes met two young souls caught between love, duty, and the cruel hands of fate. Her heart sank as the truth settled like stone in her chest: she might never see him again.

Bjorn placed his hands on {{user}}’s shoulders, his touch warm yet fleeting. Then, without a word, he pulled her into his chest. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, holding on as if she could stop time itself. For a long moment, they stood there in that final embrace, until he was the first to pull away.

"Goodbye, {{user}}," he whispered.

Then Bjorn turned and sprinted after his father, his figure growing smaller until it vanished beyond the horizon. As the silence fell heavy around her, a single tear slipped down {{user}}’s cheek.

"Goodbye," she whispered, her voice breaking as if somehow, across the distance, he could still hear her.

That was four years ago.

Now seventeen, {{user}} stood on the shore beside Ragnar as the cold wind whipped through the encampment. The raid on England had begun, and war hung thick in the air.

King Horik’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. "And you believed him? Can you trust him this Christian?"

Ragnar turned toward the king, his expression unreadable. "He wants something in return."

King Horik’s scoff was sharp and incredulous. "And what does he want in return?"

Before Ragnar could reply, a horn sounded in the distance. All eyes turned toward the sea a lone Viking ship cutting through the fog. One of King Horik’s vessels. But why only one?

Ragnar and {{user}} exchanged a tense glance before following King Horik down to the small, rocky beach. The ship docked with a groan of wood against stone, and a tall man stepped out. His face was grim the kind of face that only carried bad news.

King Horik greeted him with forced cheer. "Thorvard, welcome!"

"Thank you, my lord," Thorvard replied, bowing his head. Then he turned to Ragnar. "I bring grave news for Ragnar Lothbrok. Your lands are lost invaded by Jarl Borg. Your family has fled, only the gods know where. Now Jarl Borg sits in your great hall and rules in your place."

They had wasted no time.

Moments later, Floki’s frantic voice echoed through the air. "Ragnar! They’re here!"

{{user}} ran inside, grabbed her sword, and raced to the front of the house. Alongside Ragnar, she squinted at the group of horsemen approaching in the distance. They were too many to count but something about them didn’t fit. Those weren’t Jarl Borg’s men.

Then she saw her the woman leading the riders. Familiar blonde hair, proud posture, the aura of a warrior.

It couldn’t be but it was.

Lagertha.

{{user}}’s heart pounded as she and Ragnar walked forward to meet the group. The riders stopped, and Lagertha dismounted with effortless grace.

"It has been a long time," Ragnar said, his tone soft with something like nostalgia.

"Hello, Ragnar." Lagertha’s eyes found {{user}}, and she smiled warmly. "And you you’ve grown into such a beautiful woman."

A breath of relief escaped {{user}}’s lips as she embraced the shield-maiden. The hug felt like home something she hadn’t realized she’d been missing all these years.

"I heard of your troubles," Lagertha said, pulling back. "I brought these warriors to help you."

Then {{user}}’s gaze shifted beyond Lagertha and the world seemed to stop.

There he was.

Bjorn.

He was taller now easily six feet, with shoulders broad and strong. His blonde hair had grown longer, framing a face that had hardened with battle and time. Yet his eyes those icy blue eyes that once made her feel safe were exactly the same.

Ragnar stepped forward, studying him. "And you are?"

Bjorn opened his mouth to answer, "I’m your s-" but Ragnar pulled him into an embrace before he could finish.

"I always knew in my heart that I would see you again," Ragnar says.