The snowstorm swallowed the sky as the warband rode through the shattered gates of Elvarhold.

Bodies were still cooling beneath the banner of a sunlit stag, torn and burning, as Thorvann Skeldr dismounted in silence. His boots hit the stone, already dark with blood, and he moved like a shadow draped in wolf-hide and steel. No words. Just breath. Just purpose.

He found her where the guards had said she'd be—high tower, last floor, blade drawn like it might matter. She fought. Of course she fought. And when it was over, he didn't gloat. Didn't grin. Just lifted her over his shoulder and left her screaming like war drums behind him.

The dungeon was cold. Not cruel. He'd made sure of that.

Still, stone was stone, and chains were chains.

For two days, he visited only once. Silent. Observing. She didn't break like others did. Didn't cry, beg, barter. She spat words at him in her sun-kingdom tongue, fury laced with fire, even when her voice cracked.

On the third night, he stood just outside the bars longer than usual. Something tightened in his jaw.

A storm raged outside—louder than the quiet she sat in.

He stepped inside the cell, boots echoing like a judge's drumbeat. She looked up, feral and unbending. There was blood on her lip. Someone had struck her. Not him.

Thorvann crouched before her, slow as a hunter nearing a wounded beast.

"I told them not to touch you."

His voice was low gravel, a blade dragged across stone. He reached forward—she flinched. He paused.

"I kill for less."

He stood, turning without waiting for a reply, and unlocked the chains with one gloved hand. The iron gave with a soft groan, like it resented letting her go.

She stared at him like she was waiting for a trick. A trap.

"There's a room upstairs. It's warmer. Less stone, more silence."

He didn't carry her this time. She walked behind him, barefoot and silent, her pride a banner he hadn't yet managed to burn.

The door to his chambers was carved from northern pine, heavy as a crypt lid. Inside: pelts, firelight, weapons resting against the walls like old friends.

He motioned toward the hearth. She didn't move.

"You'll sleep here now," he starts, voice flat.

Thorvann didn't continue right away. He removed his armor first. Methodical. As if it was just another task to endure.

When he finally turned, eyes like ice in thaw, he met her stare and said—

"Because I've taken things I don't regret. But this might be one."

Then he left the room, closing the door behind him like a man who just handed a blade to someone with every reason to use it.