A crisp, chilled morning, Yrsa stirred under the thick fur covers of her bed, reluctant to leave the warmth. She willed herself out from beneath them, and for a moment, she admired her youthful naked form before slipping on a thick wool tunic.

"Yrsa!" her mother's voice called out sharply, "You'll be late for breakfast. Your father won't wait." Astrid stood in the doorway, hands on hips, her own blonde braids framing a face that mirrored Yrsa's but with the wisdom of years etched around her eyes. "He has news, and you know how he hates repeating himself."

Yrsa hurried after her mother into the Grand Hall, the smoky warmth wrapping around her like an embrace. At the far end of the long oak table sat Gunnar the Unbreakable, a mountain of a man whose very presence commanded the room. His thick black beard, streaked with silver like iron filings, bristled as he tore into a roasted boar haunch with his knife. To his right, her brothers Vestgir and Thror leaned in, their low conversation ceasing as Yrsa approached. Vestgir winked, while Thror smiled seeing his little sister.

"Finally," Gunnar grumbled, wiping grease from his beard with the back of his hand. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Yrsa. "Sit, cub. We speak of England." Yrsa's heart hammered against her ribs as she slid onto the bench opposite her brothers. Gunnar unrolled a worn vellum map, anchoring its corners with an axe head and a tankard of mead. "The Saxon coast is soft as a milkmaid's palm after winter," he said, tracing a thick finger along the coastline. "Here, at Lindisfarne, their monastery hoards silver. But their men are sheep." Vestgir chuckled darkly, his knuckles whitening around his own tankard.

Gunnar tapped three points – Lindisfarne, then Whitby, then Jarrow. "Three raids. Three ships. Hit each before dawn screams." Thror leaned forward, eyes glittering like fjord ice. "Like a wolf pack scattering the herd," he murmured. Yrsa’s breath caught. She could almost smell the salt spray, hear the splintering of Saxon doors. Her father’s gaze swept over his children, a predator assessing his pack. "The gods will sing of this," he rumbled. Then his eyes settled on Yrsa, heavy as an anchor chain. "I’ll announce the raids tonight during the grand feast..."

A pause stretched, thick with the crackle of the hearth fire and the scent of roasting meat. "...as well as your acceptance to join us as a warrior, my daughter." The words struck Yrsa like a physical blow. The hall seemed to tilt. Vestgir choked on his mead, coughing violently. Thror’s smile vanished, replaced by sharp disbelief. Astrid, standing near the hearth, dropped a wooden spoon with a clatter that echoed in the sudden silence. Yrsa’s own heart hammered so fiercely she felt dizzy, the smoky air suddenly thin. Her father’s face was granite, unreadable. Acceptance? Not just permission to sail, but as a warrior? Equal to her brothers? The sheer impossibility of it stole her voice.

Gunnar held her gaze, unwavering. "You think this is a whim, cub?" His voice was low, cutting through the stunned quiet. "I see the fire in your eyes when the skalds chant of battle. I watched you train last summer, day after day, until your hands bled on that practice sword, hiding it from your mother." He leaned forward, the massive table groaning slightly under his weight. "You tracked that wolf pack through the blizzard last winter, alone, when grown men lost its trail. You have the sharp eye of a hawk, the quiet feet of a lynx, and a spirit as restless as the sea." He tapped the map again, hard. "I see the hunger, Yrsa. The hunger for more than spinning wool. Will you sail? Will you fight?"

The question hung, shimmering like heat haze. Yrsa’s knuckles were white where she gripped the bench edge, splinters biting into her palms. Her brothers’ shock was a tangible pressure – Vestgir’s incredulous stare, Thror’s frown of deep concern. Her mother remained frozen by the hearth, eyes wide and glistening. Yet, beneath the roaring in her ears, a fierce, impossible joy surged. It was recognition, raw and absolute. He saw her. Not just his daughter, but the warrior she burned to become. Her throat felt tight, parched. She forced herself to meet his deep brown eyes. "Yes, Father," she breathed, the words barely audible but ringing with conviction. "I will sail. I will fight."

The night grew darker, and the feast was already in full swing. Smoke thickened the air in the Great Hall, swirling around the beams hung with shields and hunting trophies. The long tables groaned under the weight: roasted boar glistening with fat, wheels of sharp goat cheese, plump berries stewed with honey, and barrels of dark mead tapped and flowing freely. A skald near the central hearth plucked the strings of his lyre, his voice rising above the rumble of voices, weaving tales of Odin’s wisdom and Thor’s thunderous battles. Warriors slammed tankards in rhythm, their laughter rough and loud, faces flushed with drink and anticipation. The scent was intoxicating – woodsmoke, charred meat, spilled ale, and the earthy tang of damp wool drying near the fire.

Gunnar the Unbreakable rose from his high-backed chair at the head table, the carved wood groaning as he pushed it back. He raised one massive, scarred hand, fingers spread wide. The gesture wasn't loud, but it was absolute. Like a wave cresting and breaking, the noise in the hall subsided. Conversations trailed off mid-sentence. Tankards paused halfway to lips. The skald’s last note hung, unresolved, in the sudden quiet. All eyes, sharp and expectant, turned towards the chieftain. The firelight caught the silver streaks in his black beard and the hard glint in his blue eyes. Even Thror and Vestgir, seated beside him, stopped their low murmuring, their expressions shifting from wary to watchful. Yrsa, seated further down beside her mother, felt the stillness press in, the air crackling with tension. Her palms were slick on the cool wood of her untouched tankard.

He spoke then, his voice a deep rumble that filled the cavernous space without strain. "Brothers! Sisters!" Gunnar began, the word encompassing every warrior present. "The ice retreats! The sea roads open! And the Saxon sheep grow fat on lands they cannot defend." He unrolled the worn vellum map once more, slamming his fist down beside the marked coast of Northumbria. "Lindisfarne!" The name echoed like a war cry. "Whitby! Jarrow! Their stone houses are full of silver and gold, plucked from the earth by soft hands that know no axe!" He outlined the plan with brutal simplicity: three sleek longships, striking simultaneously at dawn's first grey light, hitting each monastery like a hammer blow before resistance could gather. "We take their wealth, their pride, and show them the fury of the North Wind!" A roar erupted, a thunderous wave of approval. Tankards crashed together, fists pounded tables. The very air vibrated with bloodlust and greed.

The chieftain let the fervor crest, then raised his hand again, a gesture like quelling a storm. Silence crashed back, sharper now, charged with anticipation. Gunnar’s gaze swept the hall, lingering for a heartbeat on his sons – Vestgir’s eager grin, Thror’s calculating nod – before settling, heavy and deliberate, on Yrsa. "But a raid needs more than axes and sails," he declared, his voice dropping, becoming intimate yet carrying to the farthest corner. "It needs sharp eyes. Keen ears. A spirit that burns bright and will not falter." He paused, letting the implication hang. "For this," he stated, his voice hardening like forged steel, "My daughter, Yrsa, is our new shield-sister.” The words weren't a request; they were a pronouncement, carved into the silence.

Cheers erupted, sharp and sudden like breaking ice. Tankards slammed against oak as warriors surged to their feet. "Sköldottir!" bellowed a grizzled veteran near the hearth, his fist raised high. "Shield-daughter!" The cry echoed, bouncing off the smoke-stained beams. Rough hands clapped Yrsa’s shoulders, sending jolts through her frame. Congratulations were given, thick with mead and genuine awe: "By Thor’s hammer, Gunnar!" "The cub has teeth!" "A true daughter of the Unbreakable!" Vestgir grinned fiercely, pounding the table beside her, splashing ale. "About time, little hawk!" he shouted over the din. Thror, however, offered a slower, measured nod, his eyes appraising her anew, the concern replaced by a warrior’s calculating respect. Across the hall, Astrid stood rigid, her knuckles white where she gripped her own cup, a complex storm of pride and fear warring in her damp eyes.

The feast dissolved into a blur of noise and warmth. Yrsa felt adrift, buoyed by the sudden, overwhelming tide of acceptance. She tried to eat a piece of boar, but the rich meat felt like ash in her mouth. Her father’s pronouncement echoed – Shield-sister. It meant standing watch, boarding first, defending the ship’s flank in the shield-wall. It meant blood oath and shared plunder. It meant sailing on the Sea-Wolf. Her gaze instinctively sought her brothers. Thror was already deep in conversation with their father, likely discussing tactics, his finger tracing invisible lines on the tabletop. Vestgir, flushed and boisterous, was regaling a group of younger warriors with exaggerated tales of past raids, his laughter booming. The Sea-Wolf was Gunnar’s own ship, the fastest and fiercest in their small fleet. Thror, as the eldest and most seasoned tactician, would command its oars. Vestgir, a whirlwind of berserker fury in battle, would lead the boarding party. And now, she would stand beside them. Not as baggage, but as one of them.

Dawn arrived not with fanfare, but with the bone-deep chill of preparation. Three longships – the Sea-Wolf, the Wavecutter, and the Raven's Beak – lay pulled high on the shingle beach, sleek hulls glistening with frost like sleeping serpents. The air crackled with tension and the sharp scent of pine tar. Men loaded barrels of fresh water, sacks of hard bread and dried fish, bundles of arrows, and carefully wrapped bundles of spare sailcloth. The rhythmic thud of hammers securing shields along the gunwales echoed like a war drum against the cliffs. Yrsa stood apart, near the edge of the bustling activity, clad only in her thick woolen tunic and trousers, her breath pluming white in the frigid air. Her eyes scanned the horizon where the sea met a sky the colour of bruised steel. This was it. The threshold. Her stomach churned, a mix of icy fear and burning anticipation.

A heavy hand settled on her shoulder. She turned to find her father, Gunnar, his expression unreadable in the grey light. Beside him stood Astrid, her face pale but composed, holding a bundle wrapped in oiled leather. Gunnar gave a curt nod. "Before you step onto the Sea-Wolf, Shield-Sister," he rumbled, his voice low and gravelly, "You stand ready." He gestured to the bundle Astrid held. Astrid stepped forward, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears that refused to fall. With deliberate slowness, she unwrapped the leather. Inside lay armour unlike any Yrsa had seen. Not the bulky, overlapping plates worn by some warriors, but supple, hardened leather meticulously reinforced with hundreds of small, interlocking scales – like a dragons hide. It was lighter than she expected, yet dense, the scairs catching the weak dawn light with a subdued, deadly glint. The leather was dyed a deep blue, the colour of the fjords in deep shadow, and lined with the fur of a wolf. "Crafted by Bjorn Ironshaper," Gunnar stated, pride softening his voice for an instant. "Fitted for speed. For you."

Astrid then lifted the final item from the bundle. Not a shield, but a sword. Its scabbard was plain, dark wood bound with iron. But when Astrid drew the blade, Yrsa caught her breath. The steel seemed to drink the dawn light, not reflect it, a dark river flowing down its length. Along the centre fuller, ancient runes were etched deep, catching the light only from certain angles – swirling patterns that seemed to move like smoke trapped beneath the surface. It felt balanced and alive in Astrid's hand, humming with a quiet, cold resonance. "This is Frostfang," Astrid said, her voice surprisingly steady. "Forged in fire quenched in mountain ice, passed from mother to daughter for ten generations." She held it out, hilt first. "My grandmother wielded it befire given to me. It knows a woman's grip. It knows a shield-sister's heart." As Yrsa's fingers closed around the worn leather grip, the cold metal seemed to pulse faintly against her palm, a silent acknowledgement.

"Be careful, my daughter," Astrid whispered, pulling Yrsa into one final, crushing embrace. Her scent – hearth-smoke, dried herbs, the faint tang of lye soap – enveloped Yrsa, achingly familiar. Astrid’s voice was muffled against Yrsa’s shoulder, thick with unshed tears. "See with the hawk’s eye. Move with the lynx’s step. Trust the blade, but trust your brothers more. And remember..." Astrid pulled back slightly, her hands cupping Yrsa’s face, thumbs brushing away the tears Yrsa hadn't realized had fallen. Her eyes, blue like Yrsa’s own but clouded with a mother’s depth of fear, bored into hers. "...the sea is a fickle lover. She rewards courage but drowns recklessness. Come back to me." The words weren't a plea; they were a command, fierce and final. Then Astrid stepped back, her posture straightening, the vulnerability vanishing behind the mask of the chieftain’s wife.

Yrsa boarded the Sea-Wolf, her new armour surprisingly silent. The supple, scaled leather moved with her, whispering against the thick wool beneath, feeling less like a burden and more like a second skin – the tough hide of a creature born for battle. Frostfang hung heavy and reassuring at her hip, its dark blade sheathed but radiating a subtle, cold energy that seemed to resonate with the slap of waves against the hull. The familiar scent of the longship – tarred oak, damp rope, stale seawater, and the underlying musk of men – filled her nostrils. It was sharper today, charged with the tang of anticipation and nervous sweat. Men already manned the oars, their muscles bunching, faces set. Vestgir was bellowing orders near the prow, his usual grin replaced by focused intensity. Thror stood beside the steering oar, his gaze sweeping the horizon, calculating wind and tide.

They landed on a stretch of desolate beach north of Lindisfarne under a sky the colour of tarnished pewter. The shore was a chaos of wet sand and slick rock, the air thick with the salt spray and the keening cries of unseen seabirds. Yrsa leapt into the shallows alongside her brothers, the icy water shocking her legs even through her boots, grounding her instantly. Her senses sharpened: the crunch of shingle underfoot, the damp chill seeping through her armour, the metallic scent of blood already rising from a scraped knee nearby. Ahead, through the predawn gloom, the dark outline of the monastery rose against the sky – not a fortress, but a collection of low stone buildings huddled within a flimsy wooden palisade. Silence hung heavy over it, broken only by the wind and the distant crash of waves. "Sheep in a pen," Vestgir muttered, his knuckles white on his axe haft, a predatory hunger in his eyes.

Then, a sound cleaved the quiet – a single, piercing, discordant clang. Then another. And another. The monastery bell. Its frantic, panicked tolling echoed across the dunes, shattering the illusion of surprise. From the main gate, a small group emerged: perhaps two dozen figures, silhouetted against the growing light. Not monks in robes, but men in boiled leather jerkins and kettle helmets, clutching spears and shields. Saxon levies. They formed a ragged shield-wall just beyond the gate, their formation tight but visibly trembling. Their leader, a tall man with a dented helm, stepped forward, his voice cracking as he shouted a challenge in guttural English, the words lost on Yrsa but the defiance clear.

Vestgir roared a wordless battle cry, pure and terrifying, that was echoed by the massed Vikings behind him. Axes rose, shields slammed together, and the line surged forward like a breaking wave. Yrsa moved with them, Frostfang singing free of its scabbard, the runes along its dark blade seeming to writhe in the low light. The impact was brutal. Wood cracked, steel shrieked, and the first screams ripped the air. The Saxon line buckled instantly. Men stumbled, spears wavered, and the Vikings poured through the gaps like water through rotten timbers. Yrsa sidestepped a clumsy spear thrust, her own blade licking out, a swift, brutal cut across a young levy's throat. The hot spray hit her cheek as he crumpled, his eyes wide with shock. The metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils, thick and nauseating. Move. Keep moving. The lynx’s step.

Chaos erupted. Vikings fanned out, some smashing towards the main buildings, others rounding up fleeing figures in rough-spun robes. Vestgir was a whirlwind of death, his axe cleaving through shield and bone. Thror fought more methodically, his sword a blur of precise, economical strokes, directing knots of warriors towards the sturdier stone structures. Yrsa pressed forward, avoiding the main crush, her eyes scanning the periphery. A burly Saxon warrior, his face contorted with rage, broke free from the crumbling shield-wall. He spotted Yrsa – smaller, seemingly isolated – and charged, bellowing. He wielded a massive, notched woodsman's axe, meant for felling trees, not men. It was clumsy, but terrifying in its sheer power.

Yrsa sidestepped the first overhead swing with ease. The axe whistled harmlessly past her shoulder, burying itself deep into the muddy earth with a heavy thud. Her opponent’s swings were careless and heavy, fueled by panic and brute force. He grunted, wrenching the axe free, spraying dirt. He lunged again, a wild horizontal sweep meant to take her head. Instead of retreating, Yrsa closed the distance. She ducked under the whistling blade, feeling the wind ruffle her hair, and stepped into his guard as he overextended. The stench of his sweat and sour breath filled her nostrils. Frostfang flickered out like a serpent's tongue – a short, brutal thrust upwards beneath his raised arm, seeking the gap in his boiled leather jerkin. The dark blade slid in with sickening ease. His roar choked into a wet gurgle. He stumbled back, eyes wide with disbelief, clutching the blossoming crimson stain on his side before collapsing. The sheer simplicity of it, the efficiency, left Yrsa momentarily breathless. He saw only a girl. He never saw the blade.

As Yrsa moved on she faced another, while Yrsa became locked in a tight block she was left open for a spearmen behind her, as he charged she was saved by a fellow Viking, striking the soldier in the jaw with his shield. Her saviour no more than two winters older than her, and his strength was impressive.

Yrsa pressed towards the main chapel, where the richest plunder was said to be stored. The scent of incense now mixed with blood and smoke. Inside, monks huddled behind a heavy oak altar, their chants drowned by the clash of steel outside. A burly Viking kicked in the sacristy door, revealing glittering chalices and jeweled reliquaries. Vestgir bellowed orders to strip the room bare.

Outside, the Saxon levies were shattered. Bodies littered the muddy ground, shields splintered, spears broken. The survivors fled through the monastery's rear gate, stumbling into the dunes towards the distant woods. Their commander lay face down near the well, his dented helm split by Thror’s blade. Only a handful of defenders remained—older men with grim faces who formed a desperate circle near the scriptorium, shields locked. They knew escape was impossible. One grey-bearded warrior met Yrsa’s gaze across the carnage, his eyes hollow with resignation. He raised his seax in a silent salute before a Norse axe felled him.

Inside the chapel, Vestgir’s men worked with brutal efficiency. Gold crosses were wrenched from altars. Silver candlesticks clattered into leather sacks. Jeweled reliquaries—bones of saints gleaming through crystal—were ripped from their velvet nests. Vestgir himself smashed open a heavy iron-bound chest with his axe-haft, scattering silver pennies across the flagstones. "Hurry, magpies!" he roared, scooping coins into his helmet. "The tide won’t wait!" The air thickened with the smell of spilled sacramental wine and the sharp tang of plundered metal.

Yrsa slipped away, drawn by the muffled sobs echoing from a shadowed alcove. Behind a tapestry of the Virgin Mary, three young novices cowered—boys no older than ten, their faces streaked with dirt and terror. One clutched a crude wooden cross. Their eyes widened as Yrsa’s scaled armour glinted in the gloom. Frostfang hung heavy at her side, its runes still faintly luminous. Sheep, Vestgir had called them. Yet these were lambs. Her knuckles whitened on the sword’s grip. The boys whimpered, pressing deeper into the stone.

A roar shattered the moment. "Yrsa! The storeroom!" Vestgir’s voice boomed from the chapel entrance, raw with urgency. "Move your feet, little hawk!" She hesitated, her gaze locking with the eldest novice’s tear-filled eyes. His lips moved in silent prayer. The air tasted of incense and iron. Then, with a sharp exhale, Yrsa ripped the tapestry down, burying the boys in dusty wool. "Stay," she hissed in broken Saxon before turning away. The cold weight of her sword felt suddenly alien.

Outside, the frantic loading had begun. Men staggered under the weight of plunder: bulging sacks clinking with silver, heavy chests hauled between pairs of warriors, ornate tapestries rolled roughly like firewood. The air vibrated with curses, barked orders, and the groaning of strained wood as the loot was dragged down the muddy path towards the longships. Smoke now curled thickly from the scriptorium roof, carried inland by the wind. The Saxon dead lay where they fell, stripped of anything valuable. Vestgir stood near the breached gate, directing the flow like a frenzied conductor, his axe dripping onto the churned earth. "Faster, before the tide turns!.”

The journey home was one of cheer and tales. As the Sea-Wolf sliced through grey-green swells, leaving Lindisfarne’s smoke smudge far behind, the grim tension dissolved. Men slumped against the stacked plunder, faces smeared with soot and blood, but eyes alight. Tankards of captured ale and rich monastery wine passed freely. Vestgir, perched on a barrel, roared with laughter as he recounted his axe-swing that shattered a Saxon shield "like kindling!" Nearby, Thror quietly pointed out constellations to a younger warrior, using them to illustrate the raid's flanking maneuver. The wind carried snatches of song, deep voices weaving sagas of bravery and gold. The rhythmic dip of oars became a drumbeat for their boasts.

As night consumed them, letting the sail guide them home, Yrsa leaned against the dragon-headed prow. The cold spray kissed her face, washing away the lingering coppery tang of battle. Her scaled armour felt warm now, molded to her body. Frostfang rested heavy at her hip, its runes dormant but present. The rhythmic slap of waves against the hull and the creak of ropes were a lullaby after the chaos. She traced the worn wood grain beneath her fingers, replaying the day: the crack of shields, the Saxon boy’s terrified eyes, the sickening ease of Frostfang finding its mark. A shadow fell across her. She turned.

He stood there, the warrior who’d saved her from the spearman’s thrust – a young man with eyes like storm-lit fjords and a shock of unruly dark hair escaping his helmet rim. In his hands, he held a heavy silver chalice, intricately chased with crosses now stained purple by rich monastery wine. He offered it to her, his knuckles scraped raw. "For the shield-sister," he said, his voice roughened by the sea air but steady. His gaze held hers, not with pity, but a fierce, unspoken understanding. "You fought like Tyr unleashed today." The wine sloshed, catching the moonlight like captured fire.

Yrsa accepted the chalice, its metal cool against her calloused fingers. The wine's scent, deep and fruity, warred with the lingering salt and blood on her skin. She took a deliberate sip, the liquid smooth and potent, warming a path down her throat. "My thanks," she replied, her voice finding its strength. The memory of the spearpoint aimed at her spine flashed – the sudden thud of his shield striking the Saxon’s jaw, the crunch of bone. "That spear… it would have found me." She gestured towards the dark sea where Lindisfarne was now just a memory. "I owe you my breath."

She offered the chalice back. He waved it away, leaning against the gunwale beside her. The moonlight etched the lines of his young face – high cheekbones, a stubborn jaw, and those startlingly clear eyes. He hadn’t cheered like the others; his gaze held a watchfulness that mirrored her own. "We stand together," he said simply, tapping his knuckles against the ship’s rail. "Shield-wall holds, or we all fall."

“My name is Harald.” Yrsa studied him. "Harald." She tested the name. It felt solid, grounding, like the oak beneath them.

My grandfather fought beside Chieftan Gunnar's father at the Battle of the Frozen Fjord.

Yrsa raised an eyebrow. Yet this Harald moved with the lethal grace of a seasoned fighter, his shield-work flawless during the chaos. She remembered the precision of his block – no wasted motion, just brutal efficiency saving her life. "Your grandfather earned his place," she acknowledged, taking another sip of the rich wine. Its warmth spread through her, contrasting sharply with the biting sea air. "And you fight like you carry a warriors legacy."

Harald chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to resonate in his broad chest. He turned to face the open sea, the moonlight catching the strong line of his jaw beneath the slight stubble darkening his cheeks. His profile was sharp against the night – high cheekbones, a straight nose, and those intense, storm-grey eyes that seemed to see beyond the waves. His dark hair, damp from spray, curled rebelliously at his temples where it escaped his helmet’s leather lining. As he removed his helmet, he wasn’t just handsome; he had the rugged solidity of a coastal cliff, wind-carved and enduring. "Legacy is a heavy shield," he murmured, his gaze distant. "Sometimes it’s easier to fight for the warrior beside you." His words hung in the air, simple and profound.

As the Sea-Wolf crested a gentle swell, the first blush of dawn began to bleed into the eastern sky, staining the horizon with streaks of rose and molten gold. The rhythmic dip of the oars had long since ceased, replaced by the soft sigh of the sail catching the freshening breeze. Men stirred from their exhausted slumber against sacks of plunder, blinking against the new light. Ahead, the familiar, sheltered embrace of their home fjord materialized through the thinning mist. And there, already pulled high onto the familiar shingle beach like resting sea beasts, lay the Wavecutter and the Raven's Beak. Their dragon-headed prows pointed defiantly inland, sails furled, hulls glistening with dew. Smoke already curled lazily from the longhouse chimneys beyond the strand, carrying the faint, comforting scent of woodsmoke and baking bread. They were the last to return.

A low murmur rippled through the weary crew as they sighted the beach. Then, a single, sharp cry pierced the morning stillness – a lookout’s signal. By the time the Sea-Wolf’s keel scraped against the pebbled shore, a crowd had gathered. Not just warriors, but women, children, elders, all spilling down the slope from the longhouse village. Their arrival was met not with shouts, but with a collective, breath-held silence as the first heavy chest, bound with iron and groaning under its weight of silver plate and chalices, was hauled over the side. The silence broke like a wave. A roar erupted from the assembled villagers, a raw, primal sound of triumph and relief that echoed off the steep fjord walls. It wasn't just noise; it was a physical force that vibrated in Yrsa’s chest. "The Sea-Wolf returns!" "Gunnar's brood!" "Look at the haul!"

Then, Yrsa saw him. Gunnar the Unbreakable stood apart on the higher shingle, framed by the rising sun that ignited the frost clinging to his beard and the fur edging his cloak. He wasn't roaring. He wasn't cheering. He stood utterly still, a rock against the tide of jubilation. His gaze swept the ship, lingering for a heartbeat on the stacked plunder, then shifted, searching. It found Yrsa, still standing near the dragon prow, the scaled armour gleaming dully, Frostfang prominent at her side. His expression was unreadable for a long moment – the familiar sternness, the chieftain’s assessing mask. Then, something shifted. A subtle tightening around his eyes, a slow, deliberate nod of his massive head. Not a smile, but an acknowledgment so profound it stole her breath. It wasn’t pride for the loot; it was pride for her. She stood taller, the silent approval easing the weight on her shoulders.

Inside the smoke-hazed longhouse, the air pulsed. It wasn't just the heat from the central fire pit, roaring higher than usual, nor the press of bodies jostling for space on the benches. It was the raw energy of triumph laced with the sharp tang of grief. The feast was riotous and sombre by turns. Mead horns clashed in raucous salute, spilling golden droplets onto the packed-earth floor as Vestgir recounted the shield-shattering blow, his voice booming. Thror spoke calmly of the tactical precision that broke the Saxon levy. But then, a hush would fall. An empty space on a bench where Bjarni the Broad should have sat. The gleam of a recovered arm-ring, now placed reverently on the high table beside Gunnar’s seat – a silent marker for Arnkel, who fell defending the scriptorium door. The laughter would dim, faces hardening for a moment before the next tankard was raised. "To the fallen!" Gunnar’s voice, deep and resonant, cut through the din. "May their axes ring loud in Valhalla’s halls!" A hundred throats roared back, the sound shaking the rafters. "To the fallen!"

Yrsa sat near her father, the high-backed chair unfamiliar and stiff beneath her. Frostfang lay heavy across her lap, its dark blade reflecting the leaping flames. She felt the weight of stares – not just the lingering curiosity of before, but appraising glances now. Respect, edged with something new: wariness. She’d fought. She’d killed. The wine tasted sour on her tongue as she remembered the spray of blood, the crumpling Saxon levy, the panicked eyes of the novice boys hidden beneath the tapestry. Harald sat diagonally across from her, his storm-grey eyes meeting hers briefly across the smoky haze. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, raising his own horn slightly in her direction before turning back to a conversation with Thror. The unspoken understanding was a small anchor.

As the night grew darker and the longhouse quieter, the roar of the feast softened to a low, weary murmur. The immense fire pit had dwindled to glowing embers that pulsed like dying hearts, casting long, dancing shadows across the faces of those still awake. Empty mead horns littered the benches; the air hung thick with the cloying scent of spilled ale, roasted meat grease, and woodsmoke. The songs had faded, replaced by the snores of men slumped over tables and the low whispers of the grieving. Yrsa felt a familiar exhaustion settle deep in her bones, a weariness that went beyond physical fatigue. The approving nods, the whispered "Shield-sister" from a passing warrior. Quietly, she eased Frostfang into its scabbard, the soft rasp lost in the ambient noise, and slipped away from the high table, her footsteps silent on the packed earth floor.

The cool night air hit her like a balm as she pushed open the heavy oak door leading to the family quarters. The sudden absence of the longhouse's stifling heat and noise was jarring. Moonlight streamed through the narrow window slit in the short corridor, painting a silver stripe on the worn wooden planks. Her room, a small chamber adjacent to her parents' larger space, felt like a sanctuary. She shut the door behind her, the latch clicking softly, sealing out the world. The scent here was different: dried herbs hanging from the rafters, beeswax from a half-finished candle, and the faint, clean aroma of the wool blankets on her pallet. Only the distant murmur of the sea and an owl's mournful call in the pines outside broke the silence.

With trembling fingers, Yrsa began the ritual of unbuckling. The scaled armour, so vital hours before, now felt like an alien carapace. Each leather strap gave way with a sigh. The cuirass, surprisingly heavy without the adrenaline of battle, came off first, landing with a muffled clatter of metal scales on the packed earth floor. Next, the vambraces protecting her forearms, then the greaves shielding her shins. Piece by piece, the warrior's shell fell away, revealing the skin beneath. Gooseflesh rose instantly on her arms and shoulders in the cool air. The linen undertunic, soaked through with sweat, salt spray, and the faint, stubborn copper scent of blood she couldn't quite wash away at sea, clung damply to her skin. She pulled it over her head with a gasp, the fabric catching on the small braids woven into her sweat-damp blonde hair. Finally, she stepped out of her trousers and boots.

She stood naked in the center of the small room. Moonlight streamed through the narrow window slit, painting a silver stripe down her slim, athletic body, from the curve of her shoulder over her full, firm breasts, down the flat plane of her stomach, and onto her strong thighs. The air was cool, almost cold, against her bare skin, a stark, welcome contrast to the stifling heat and smoke of the longhouse. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, trying to shed not just the clothes but the weight of the day.

Her fingertips brushed lightly over her skin as she turned slowly. They traced the faint red lines where the scale armour had pressed, the slight bruises blooming like storm clouds on her ribs from a glancing shield bash she hadn’t registered during the chaos. The touch was automatic, exploratory. She felt the ridge of a scar on her hip from childhood training, the slight tremor in her left hand that hadn’t quite subsided. And then, lower.

Her palm cupped the soft swell of her belly, fingers splaying downwards through the fine blonde hair. A sharp intake of breath. The tingle wasn't just exhaustion or chill. It started as a faint hum beneath her skin, a low vibration like the distant thrum of the Sea-Wolf’s oars. It centered deep within her pelvis, a persistent pulse that quickened as her fingers dipped lower. The pads of her thumbs brushed the sensitive folds, slick and swollen despite the cool air. It wasn’t the familiar ache of desire after a feast; this was sharper, deeper, resonant. Her clit throbbed under the tentative pressure, sending jolts up her spine. She leaned back against the rough timber wall, the wood cool and grounding against her bare shoulder blades, her head tipping back as a soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. The moonlight seemed to intensify, focusing on the heat building between her legs.

Her hand moved with a will of its own, no longer exploratory but demanding. Two fingers slid inside, curling upwards, finding that sweet, hidden ridge. She bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper again—not blood, just the ghost memory on her tongue. Her hips rocked against her own hand, seeking friction, depth. The images flashed: Harald’s storm-grey eyes holding hers across the fire. Each thought tightened the coil in her belly. Her breath hitched, coming in short, sharp pants that misted in the moonlit air. She pressed the heel of her hand hard against her clit, grinding in tight circles. The vibration became a drumbeat, urgent, insistent.

Harald’s face filled her mind—the sharp cut of his jaw beneath the stubble, the way his throat moved when he drank, the raw scrape on his knuckles as he offered her the chalice. She imagined those hands now. Not saving her, but claiming her. Rough palms skimming up her thighs, callouses catching on her skin. His mouth hot and demanding on her neck, her breasts. The fantasy was visceral: his weight pinning her to this very wall, the heat of him searing against her cool flesh. She pictured him above her, between her legs, his hips driving forward. That first, impossible stretch as he filled her—the barrier breaking, pain flaring bright and sharp before melting into a relentless, consuming pressure. She craved it. The invasion, the possession, the proof of life after so much death.

Her fingers plunged deeper, fucking herself with punishing urgency. The heel of her hand ground hard against her swollen clit. Her breath came in ragged gasps, echoing the rhythm of her hand. Let him take it, she thought wildly. Let him be her first. She imagined the moment: Harald’s storm-grey eyes locking onto hers, fierce and possessive, as he thrust past her maidenhood. The shared gasp. The blood marking his claim. Her most precious gift, willingly surrendered. Not to a husband chosen by her father, but to a warrior who fought beside her. Who saw her strength. Her back arched, pressing harder against the wall. The coil snapped.

Yrsa let out a soft groan as her legs clamped together, her fingers still deep inside her, her stomach convulsing as wave after wave crashed over her. It was a silent, shattering release that stole her breath. She shuddered violently, biting down hard on her knuckle to stifle any louder cry. Heat flooded her core, radiating outwards in dizzying pulses that left her trembling. Her knees threatened to buckle; only the rough timber wall held her upright. For a long moment, she stayed pressed against the cool wood, eyes closed, breathing ragged, riding the aftershocks that echoed the day’s violence in miniature – intense, primal, utterly consuming. The phantom pain of imagined penetration lingered, a sweet ache blending with the deep throb of satisfaction.

The coolness of the air was non-existent as the amount of heat radiating off her kept it at bay. Her skin glowed, flushed pink from her collarbones down to her thighs, shimmering with a fine sheen of sweat in the moonlight. The room felt stiflingly warm, thick with the scent of her own musk – salt, arousal, and the fading metallic tang of battle. The chill that had greeted her nakedness moments before was utterly vanquished, replaced by a furnace-like warmth emanating from her core. Even the rough wood against her back felt merely warm now, not cool. Her breath steamed faintly in the small space, proof of the sheer thermal energy her body generated in the aftermath. She felt molten, liquid.

Slowly, her trembling legs regained their strength. She pushed herself off the wall, each movement languid, heavy with spent energy. Her fingers, slick and glistening in the silver light, slid free with a soft sound. She stood for a moment, swaying slightly, the deep throb between her legs a persistent echo of the release, mingling strangely with the phantom ache of her imagined surrender. The images of Harald – his hands, his eyes, the imagined stretch and burn – still flickered behind her eyelids, less urgent now but potent. Exhaustion crashed over her, a tidal wave far more profound than any battle fatigue. It was a bone-deep weariness that seeped into her marrow, leaving her limbs leaden and her mind blissfully blank.

She didn't bother washing. The thought of the cold stream water felt like an assault. Instead, she stumbled the few steps to the low wooden pallet piled thickly with sheepskins and woolen blankets. The familiar scent of lanolin and dried herbs rose to meet her. With the last vestiges of her strength, she peeled back the top layer and slid naked beneath the heavy furs. The wool was scratchy against her overheated skin, a welcome counterpoint to the lingering internal heat. She burrowed deep, pulling the blankets up to her chin, seeking the dark, enclosed warmth like a den. The cool linen pillowcase felt divine against her flushed cheek.

Exhaustion hit her like a physical blow the moment she stilled. Every muscle unclenched at once, the tremors finally ceasing. The phantom sensations – the imagined weight of Harald, the remembered slide of her own fingers, the deep, satisfied ache – blurred and softened at the edges. The roar of the feast was a distant murmur now, the owl’s call had ceased, replaced only by the rhythmic sigh of the sea against the rocks below the longhouse, a lullaby older than her people. Her breath slowed, deepening. Yrsa was deep in slumber, dreams of future battles and future passions ran through her mind.