The wind was cruel on the docks, dragging cold salt off the northern sea like claws raking down a spine. Svar barely flinched. He’d stood here countless times—watching emissaries, tradesmen, cowards in velvet arrive from gentler lands.

But not this one.

He stepped forward as the vessel nudged against the piling. The plank was already being drawn, the wood groaning under its own weight. Then, a flash of pale fabric between the guards, a figure descending toward the shore with cautious grace.

He moved before the others could.

Svar reached out, one hand closing around her waist as her foot met uncertain footing. She started to shift forward, but he anchored her with ease, strong hands settling her midair like she weighed nothing.

Her hands landed on his shoulders. Bare, warm, tensed from battle and sea-weather. He was shirtless beneath the leather strap crossing his chest, sun catching the long scar just under his collarbone. His grip held—sure, steady.

Their eyes met.

She didn’t speak. Neither did he. But something passed between them in that pause—like frost cracking underfoot or the first drawn breath after a long winter.

Svar lowered her slowly, gently, as though the earth beneath her was not worthy of bruising her heel. Her fingers left his shoulders last.

He stepped back only a little, but his eyes didn’t move.

“I am Svar Skeldr,” he said, voice like gravel softened by rain. “Third son of the Wolf-King. You’ve crossed a long sea to stand here.”

A beat.

“And I see the wind did not dare touch you.”

One of the guards called his name, but he didn’t turn. His gaze lingered, studying the curve of her jaw, the way her chest still rose quickly from the sea air—or perhaps from his hands.

Then he gestured, ever so slightly, toward the castle steps carved into the stone bluff.

“Come,” Svar said. “I’ll show you what waits in the north.”

And with a last glance toward the rocking boat, he turned—knowing without doubt she would follow.