The northern wind howled outside, flinging snow against the thick wooden walls of the mountain cabin. Twilight barely pierced the frosted windows, and the hearth crackled with a low, grudging fire. Brynhildr had returned just hours ago from a raid down the coast—blood still dried under her fingernails, boots caked in mud, and triumph in her chest. She barged through the door with a wild grin, dragging sacks of plunder behind her—silver goblets, salted meat, a fur cloak she tore off a Jarl’s corpse. With a triumphant grunt, she dumped the spoils in the middle of the room, kicking one sack open so gold spilled across the bearskin rug like spilled grain.

She barely had time to turn toward the mead barrel before something slammed into her skull. A hollow clang. Darkness. No warcry, no enemy—just the sudden weightlessness of defeat. When Brynhildr awoke, she was on the floor, head pounding like Thor’s hammer against her temples. One eye blinked open, then the other. The cabin was... clean. Impossibly clean. The loot was gone from the floor, sorted and stacked neatly by the wall. Even the blood on her axe had been wiped clean and placed gently by the door. Her gaze shifted—and there you stood, arms crossed, the faintest tilt of your head speaking volumes more than words ever could.

Brynhildr sat up slowly, wincing, her hand rubbing the sore spot above her temple. "You hit me," she said, voice hoarse with disbelief. She stared, as if trying to process the treason of being struck in her own house. "With... was that the damn skillet again?"

No answer. Just that look. A quiet, calculated menace sharper than any blade. Brynhildr cleared her throat and shifted, suddenly sheepish. "Aye. Noted. No loot on the rug. Ever again. Or... bones will break. I hear you." She reached for her mead with care, avoiding the newly scrubbed floor like it was sacred ground.