The grand and dimly lit Great Hall was loud with revelry — laughter, shouting, the clatter of cutlery. Smoke curled from the central hearth, mixing with the scents of roasted meat, spilled mead and damp fur. Long wooden tables creaked under the weight of food and booze, and firelight flickered across stone walls and fur-covered benches, casting dancing shadows on the warriors who bellowed with laughter and slammed their drinking horns together in celebration.

You sat stiffly on your seat, a throne matching the one next to yours. Your back was aching from holding tension for hours, your gaze fixed on the flickering flames that danced along the stone walls. You were so out of place here, surrounded by brawny men and loud celebration. Your hands rested in your lap, cold despite the roaring hearth nearby, and your gaze remained fixed on the oaken table before you, even as the man, your new husband, beside you laughed gruffly with his comrades.

Arkyn, the man now bound to you by marriage, was a brute in every sense of the word. A towering figure of hardened muscle and quiet menace, he feasted with an intensity born of hunger and habit, tearing into a leg of lamb and downing horn after horn of mead. He hadn't spoken to you since the ceremony earlier that day. Not a single word. In fact, since the day his raiding party descended upon your village, he had hardly acknowledged you.

You had no idea whether it was hatred, disgust, or indifference. Maybe all three.

The memory of the raid was still fresh in your mind. Just a week ago, the days were spent tending the goats, gathering herbs with your mother, and fetching water from the forest stream. The world beyond your village had always felt distant, almost mythic. But then, at night, the sky over your village had been painted with fire and smoke. The Earth trembled under the boots of invading Norsemen. They came like thunder, merciless, unstoppable. You could still hear the screams, smell the blood in the air, feel the terror that gripped your chest as your world was torn apart. Your father had tried to fight and your mother had tried to hide you. In the end, both had failed.

With the village ransacked, half its people dead or scattered, you had made a desperate bargain. You, seeing no other way to secure food, protection, or mercy, had offered yourself to him in marriage. A peace offering.

The wedding had taken place once their ships brought them back to their home. You wore a thin white dress, too fine for your station, hands trembling as you walked toward the man you had every reason to hate. The ceremony was short and soulless. He hadn't spared you a single glance when the vows were uttered in a tongue you barely understood. Not even when your hand accidentally brushed against his.

You eyed your surroundings with distaste. The men behaved like true savages, their roars of drunken joy lacking all restraint. Bones were thrown to the dogs sprawled beneath the tables, and the flickering torchlight illuminated scenes that made your stomach churn. Women, likely taken from other raids, sat on laps or knelt between the legs of warriors, their eyes glazed or hollow. The room reeked of meat, sweat, and unspoken suffering. And in the far corners of the hall, where the firelight flickered dimmest, shame had vanished entirely.

You had dared to glance around and your eyes soon encountered bodies pressed together, hips grinding into one another. A woman was bent over a bench, a drunken man gripping her waist as if the entire world had vanished but her. Another couple writhed on the floor beside the hearth, ignored by all, their breathless moans nearly drowned out by the rowdy bawls and laughter.

One of Arkyn's friends, a burly and bearded brute named Thorgrim, swaggered over with the confidence of a man well into his drink. The leather of his forearm vambrace creaked, his mead-slicked grin too wide, too knowing. He clapped Arkyn on the back hard enough to jostle the mug in his hand, sloshing golden liquid across the table.

"Ah, Arkyn, ye lucky bastard." Thorgrim chuckled, turning his gaze toward you like a butcher assessing meat. "Ye got yerself a plump little wench, didn't yer?"

Arkyn said nothing at first, continuing to drink, but his grip on his cup tightened.

Thorgrim leaned in closer, his tone turning even lower, a lewd snicker in his voice. "She looks so untouched. Bet you can't wait to break her little pussy in good. Reckon she will squeal like a sow in labor."

That got the feared chief to move.

His mug slammed down with a sharp crack, the echo cutting through the surrounding noise. He turned his head slowly toward Thorgrim, eyes dark and dangerous. "Watch yer fuckin' tongue, Thorgrim." He growled, his voice low, but there was something primal in it — like the rumble of a bear before it strikes. "You are my wife, not some camp whore for yer entertainment."

Thorgrim blinked, taken slightly aback, but then he just chuckled and raised both hands in mock-surrender, stepping back with a crooked grin. "Relax, 'm just messin' with ye, cousin! 'm sure ye'll have yer fun tonight."

Arkyn didn't react. He turned away, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on the fire ahead. Thorgrim took the hint and moved on, laughing to himself as he rejoined the others.

For a long moment, silence hung between Arkyn and you despite the revelry continuing all around. You could feel tension rolling off him like waves — his fury, his restraint, his disdain, and somewhere beneath it all... a strange, protective edge that caught you off-guard.

You flinched when his deep, gruff voice sounded next to you. "Ignore him." He muttered, not quite looking at you, leaning back in his seat.

Then he did something unexpected. He reached forward and picked up a piece of warm bread from your plate. With surprising care, he tore it in half and offered you a piece — not forced, not demanding, just holding it out, his scarred fingers curled around it.

"Eat." He muttered, his eyes now focused on you.