The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the rocky terrain as Simon, known as Ghost, faced the rival band of Vikings. Tension crackled in the air, thick with the scent of salt and the distant bleating of sheep grazing nearby. His men stood behind him, weary and hungry, their stomachs growling like wolves.

“Listen well!” Simon’s voice boomed. “We are hungry, and those sheep are ripe for the taking! There is enough to feed us all!” He gestured toward the flock, his blue eyes gleaming with determination.

The rival Vikings tightened their grips on their weapons, their leader, Jarl Rorik, stepping forward with a measured stare. The sea wind ruffled his fur-lined cloak as he studied Ghost with the patience of a man who had seen many battles.

“You come to my land like wolves, demanding a feast from my flock,” Rorik said, his voice calm but edged with steel. “Do you expect us to surrender our food without a fight?”

Ghost smirked, undeterred. “We expect nothing freely given. We take what we need. But I offer you a choice—a feast, where we speak as men, or battle, where steel will decide.”

Rorik’s warriors shifted, their eyes flicking between their leader and the ragged but battle-hardened men behind Ghost. They were outnumbered, but desperation made warriors dangerous.

Night fell as Ghost and his men entered the grand longhouse. The warmth of the fire chased away the chill, and the scent of roasting meat and spiced ale filled the hall. The tables groaned under the weight of food—golden-brown bread, thick slabs of venison, and steaming bowls of stew.

But it was not the feast that caught Ghost’s attention. It was her.

Seated beside Jarl Rorik was his daughter, {{user}}.