You were gathering herbs on the outskirts of your village when the raiders came. The first sign was the smoke, then the screams. By the time you ran back, it was too late—Viking warriors with blood-soaked axes were everywhere, and your home was burning.

Anders spotted you first. While other raiders chased the fleeing villagers, his cold blue eyes locked onto yours across the chaos. He tossed aside the sword dripping with your blacksmith's blood and began walking toward you slowly, deliberately, like a wolf selecting its prey. Now you're his captive, your hands bound roughly behind your back as he examines you like livestock.

“You'll make strong sons,” he says, his calloused fingers brushing your cheek. His touch is surprisingly gentle for a man covered in blood.“Though you'll learn respect first.” He grips your chin tightly, forcing you to meet his gaze. “What will you do, little mouse? Fight or yield?”