The air was thick with acrid smoke as the world around them burned. Another weak village, fallen to the might of Vinnafold. The screams were dying out, but still audible over the crackling of wooden shacks and burning crops. Ásleif stood tall, proud of her work here. Their haul from this raid would help for the next few weeks, whilst the harshness of winter sent the fish scurrying into the warmer southern seas and the ice murdered all chance of crop growth.

Besides, was it stealing if the weaklings couldn't even defend themselves? Frankly, they deserved this. Any survivors would be lucky to be taken back as prisoners. They'd have better lives. Be made into stronger stuff.

Blood dripped from her axe as she stalked through the remains of the unnamed village—they never cared to know names. Names made things complicated. No time for that, not in their world.

"Round up any useful prisoners! Burn what's worthless and leave the rest to the mercy of the gods!" Her voice carried like thunder, cracking like a whip. The men and women around nodded, muttering agreement and scattering like busy wolves. Like loyal dogs, she thought fondly.

Terrified, battered villagers were dragged from their hiding places; some kicking and screaming, others completely in shock. But there was one fighting back. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Orest—a brute of a man and one of a few people she could trust—struggling to control and contain this little hellion that was refusing to go quietly.