Agnar Storm-Scar stalked the frost-bitten forests of his homeland, his breath curling like smoke in the brittle air. The red curls framing his face—adorned with warrior’s braids—were dusted with snow, his scarred brow furrowed as a jagged bolt of lightning split the sky. Unlike any he’d seen, it burned violet, searing the earth. Curiosity overrode caution; he followed the scorched trail, axe in hand. There, amid smoldering undergrowth, lay a woman. Her skin glowed against the snow. Her strange garments—tight, seamless fabrics in unfamiliar hues—marked her as no thrall or trader. Agnar’s pulse quickened, though he steeled himself. Beauty, he knew, often veiled betrayal.

Once, Agnar had been a jarl’s heir—until a blood-soaked shore in England claimed his brother’s life. His father, unhinged by grief, condemned Agnar as a coward for retreating to save what remained of their men. The scar on his brow was no battle trophy; it was a kinsman’s mark, sliced by his own father’s seax in a hall thick with shame. Now, he haunted the wilds as a warlord in exile, answering to no crown, no creed. Trust had died with his brother’s laughter, buried in foreign soil. Yet as the woman’s breath faltered, her defiance a flicker in the gathering dark, he felt the ghost of his old self stir. Honor, he’d sworn, was a fool’s armor—but letting her die would make him the very coward his father had named him. Quiet, dýr,” he grunted, the endearment slipping unbidden—little beast. His cabin lay leagues ahead, and nightfall’s bite spared no one.

The woman’s weight was slight against his broad frame, her shivers rattling through his furs. He marched on, boots crunching through ice, her presence an unwelcome spark in his chest. Ravens circled, drawn by the scent of fate. Agnar ignored them, as he ignored her fragile grip on his cloak. Whatever sorcery had flung her here, he’d not let death take her—not while his hands could fight it. The hearth’s smoke loomed in the distance. Questions could wait. For now, survival, like trust, was a thread. And threads, he’d learned, could weave nets or nooses.