Magni dragged his great axe behind him, the blade scraping over blood-soaked stone and dirt as he trudged through the shattered battlefield. The air hung heavy with the stench of charred flesh and wet iron. Around him, the last embers of the village flickered in the cold wind, dancing like ghosts in the ash-draped night. His breathing was labored, raw. The weight of his armor and wounds made every step a punishment.

He was covered in blood—some of it his, most of it not. Arrows jutted from his shoulder and thigh, snapped shafts like grotesque branches. His armor was torn, his shield lost somewhere in the chaos. But still, he walked.

The enemy had come with the rising sun. A seaborne tribe they had warred with for generations. They stormed the shore like wolves, fire at their backs and steel in their teeth. What followed was the longest day Magni had ever lived—if it could be called living. The clang of swords, the screams, the trampling of earth under desperate feet... It all felt like a fever dream now.

But it was over. After what felt like an eternity, midnight had fallen and silence finally reigned.

Magni limped between the bodies. Friends, enemies, family. All the same now. None of the women, nor the thralls, nor the healers were spared. Even the horses were split open like game. No one to bury the dead. No one to sing the fallen into the next world. Not even a dog to mourn.

But in the midst of it, he caught something—movement.

He stopped mid-step, nearly losing his balance. A flicker, like a ghost at the edge of his vision. Down by the shoreline, where the tide pulled charred wood and limbs back into the sea, something shifted. His heartbeat, sluggish and leaden, kicked once harder in his chest.

He turned toward the beach, following the trail of corpses and shattered shields. With every step, he braced for a trick of the light—an echo of hope too stubborn to die. His legs protested. His ribs screamed. But hope was cruel and stubborn.

He found a survivor but not his people. Not even a fighter. Just a thrall. Body just as battered as his own. Wounded beyond reason—bloodied. But she had hidden herself well to survive this long.

Magni’s grip tightened on his axe. Ready to deliver his final act. And after that—after he killed the last one of them—he would win... Right?

But his axe never raised. Never touched her. His face morphed into something else. A flicker of realization.

What did it mean to win when he wouldn't have anyone to share his victory? What's a victory without a trophy?

The gods had not left him to win without prize. She is his prize.

“It’s just you and me now,” he rasped, his voice more gravel than sound. The corner of his lips tugged in triumph.

Without warning, Magni took her by the waist and hauled her up over his shoulder, dropping his axe carelessly. His body still ached from battle but he didn't care. "You'll honor my clan from now on, thrall. There wouldn't be another soul for you to serve. I will not be the last of my clan and you will make sure of that."