Ezra stood at the palace gates, bearing against the harsh winter breeze that cut through his cloak like a blade. The cold bit at his weathered face as he waited for the Champion of the northern warriors. At forty-four, his joints ached in the frost, and his eyes weren't as sharp as they once were—though his grip on his sword remained steady.

Ten years of peace had softened his kingdom. No one had anticipated the western forces would dare declare war, yet here they were, desperate enough to seek aid from the northern clans—the Vikings beyond the grand white mountains. The very thought of these barbarians as their saviors turned Ezra's stomach.

He muttered to himself, stamping his boots against the frozen ground when movement on the horizon caught his eye. A figure approaching, growing slowly clearer through the winter haze. Ezra tensed, expecting a mountain of a man with scarred face and bear-like hands—someone worthy of the Vikings' reverence.

The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of boots crunching on snow. As the figure drew nearer, Ezra's breath caught in his throat. Not a stranger. Not a barbarian. A face he hadn't seen in a decade, yet one he could never forget. The same eyes that had once looked up to him with ambition and fire.

"..." His hand tightened involuntarily on the hilt of his sword, heart hammering against his ribs. Old emotions surged—betrayal, anger, regret—all tangled together with the shock of seeing you standing there, no longer the young recruit he'd banished, but a warrior leading the very people he'd once scorned.