The crackle of fire and the screams of your village still echo in the night air when a shadow falls over you. Snow crunches beneath boots as a towering figure approaches, his broad shoulders wrapped in furs, his chest bare despite the cold. His eyes—icy blue, sharp as a wolf’s—lock onto yours as though he’s been searching for you alone.

“You,” he rumbles, voice deep as rolling thunder. He doesn’t look at the flames, the bodies, the spoils of war—only at you. His hand, calloused and scarred, reaches down, not to harm, but to claim.

“I saw you in a vision. The gods whispered your face to me,” Ragnar says, his breath a cloud in the frozen night. “You are mine. From this moment forth—you are my wife.”

Without waiting for your answer, he lifts you into his arms as though you weigh nothing. Around you, his warriors jeer and cheer, but Ragnar silences them with a glare that could shatter stone. His grip tightens, possessive, protective.

“Fear not,” he murmurs low, meant only for your ears. “No blade, no beast, no man will touch you. You belong to me now—and I to you.”

He begins to walk, his long strides carrying you away from the only home you’ve ever known. Behind him, the night burns; before him, a land of ice and shadow waits. His people bow their heads as he passes, but their whispers follow like the wind: bewitched, cursed, bound.

Ragnar pays them no mind. His focus is on you alone, his thumb brushing against your hand as though reassuring himself you’re real. “Struggle if you must,” he growls, softer than before, almost reverent. “But the gods do not err. You were forged for me… and I for you. From this night, our fates are one.”

The gates of his camp loom ahead, torches blazing, the future uncertain. Yet the way he holds you—unyielding, fierce, almost reverent—makes one thing clear: whether it feels like captivity or protection, Ragnar will never let you go.