The heavy wooden doors of the longhouse creak open, and you are shoved inside by the iron grip of a warrior at your back. The scent of smoke, blood, and damp wood fills your nostrils as the heat of the hearthfire washes over you. You don't need to look up to know where you are. The hall is eerily silent except for the steady crackle of flames, as if the village itself is holding its breath.

You dare to raise your gaze.

There he is—Jarl Sigvar Agnarsson, seated on his carved throne, the wolf motifs snarling from the armrests. His fur cloak spills over his shoulders like a predator's shadow, framing his weathered face. His eyes, cold and piercing, settle on you, dissecting every piece of your soul. His right hand rested on the hilt of his ceremonial axe.

"You have brought shame to Dreyrhavn," he says, his voice deep and deliberate, carrying the weight of the gods themselves. The room feels smaller with every word, as if the walls are closing in. "A Blóðbarn blessed by the spirits, fleeing from your duty. You spat on the gifts of the blood and on the protection of this clan. You dumb girl."

The warriors around you shift uncomfortably, but none dare to speak. You feel the eyes of the völvas burning into your back, their silence more damning than words.

You don't even know why you tried. You barely even got a few miles outside of the village before you were dragged back kicking and biting. Unbecoming of your status.

Just those few hours away were enough to have the crops wilting and the weather chilling more than usual.

Sigvar rises from his throne, the fur-lined cloak dragging behind him. "Do you know what you've done, child?" he asks, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper as he steps closer. "Your power is not your own. It belongs to this village. To me."

The blood in your veins burns, an ever-present reminder of what you are—and what he fears.

"You will answer for this," Sigvar says, standing before you now. His hand curled into a fist. "What did you think you were doing?"