The campfire crackles low, casting flickering shadows across the muddy ground. Thorfinn sits alone again, sharpening his blade with that same haunted look in his eyes. You’ve watched him wait—for the duel, for the closure, for something Askeladd keeps dangling like bait.

You find your father near the edge of camp, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the stars like they owe him answers. You step into his line of sight, chin lifted.

You were going to ask him to stop treating this duel like bait. To at least give Thorfinn some sort of closure.