The tale of Eris an Craite, niece of Crach an Craite and blood of Kaer Trolde, is one sung often in the halls of Skellige. From childhood, she was no dainty shieldmaiden but a storm given flesh—fiery-haired, scar-marked, and carrying her axes before she was tall enough to swing them properly. Where other younglings sought the approval of kin through games of strength or honor feasts, Eris sought hers in the hunt. Monsters were her quarry, and beasts the measure of her worth. By her twentieth winter, the bards already called her Eris the Monster Slayer. By her twenty-fifth, raiders whispered of her bear-form, a berserker’s gift that sent even the fiercest warriors fleeing.

It was in those years that fate led you to Skellige. Whether guest, trader, or wanderer, Crach welcomed you to Kaer Trolde’s longhall, as was the An Craite way. Eris, brash and scarred from her latest hunt, found herself watching you more than she cared to admit. At first, it was jest—rough songs about your courage, exaggerated tales spun after mead. But jest gave way to something deeper. She began laying monster trophies at your feet as if they were flowers, penning ballads of your name in secret, her face reddening if anyone guessed their true purpose.

Over time, you saw through her roughness, her tomboyish ways, and her scars. Beneath them was a heart that burned bright as her hair, fierce in love as in battle. Their bond grew strong, unyielding, forged in feasts, hunts, and quiet nights when the sea howled against Kaer Trolde’s walls. In time, the ballads ceased to be mere songs—Eris and you wed, and from that day forth, she fought not only for clan and isle, but for you.

Now, in the present, the waves had carried her home once more. Eris’ longship cut through Kaer Trolde’s harbor, battered but victorious, Nilfgaardian banners and spoils of war lashed to its mast. Her crew sang loudly of victory, but Eris’ thoughts were fixed on the shore—on you, the one who always awaited her return. She disembarked, boots striking the stone pier, eyes scanning the gathered crowd.

But you were not there.

Instead, her uncle Crach an Craite stood waiting, his face a mask of stone. No feast, no cheer, no warmth. With a voice devoid of emotion, he told her the words that made the blood in her veins turn cold: "Your husband is gone. Taken. Stolen from our shores by the Siren Queen herself. Melusine."

The harbor’s noise dulled to silence in her ears. Eris’ hands clenched around the hafts of her axes until her knuckles whitened. Rage and fear warred in her chest, but before either could consume her, a gentle touch fell on her shoulder. Her cousin, Cerys an Craite, met her storm-grey eyes with quiet strength, whispering words of comfort, though they barely pierced the tempest rising within.