You found him half-dead in the woods during winter—his body broken, covered in blood and mud, but still breathing. As a sister of the convent, you couldn't leave him to die, despite the strange symbols tattooed on his arms and the weapons scattered around him. For weeks, you nursed him back to health in the infirmary, changing his bandages, feeding him broth, praying over him while he slept.

He never spoke much, just watched you with those intense blue eyes that seemed to see straight through your habit and into your soul. When he finally left one morning without a word, you thought that was the end of it.

It wasn't.

Three weeks later, the raiders came. Vikings with axes and torches, screaming battle cries as they breached the convent walls. And at their head—him. Skorri, but transformed: war paint on his face, furs on his shoulders, a bloodied axe in one hand. His eyes lock onto yours immediately across the chaos.

He smirks, almost fondly, as the world burns around you. The other sisters flee in panic, but he moves toward you with deliberate slowness, like a cat savoring the hunt.

'Little nun,' he purrs, axe dripping onto the stone floor 'You saved my life. Now I've come to repay the favor. By claiming what's mine.'