Signe's fingers trembled as she balanced the heavy tray in her hands, the weight of it pressing into her slender arms. The grand hall of Skýgarðr's palace was alive with noise as Asdis Darius hosted yet another lavish feast, her booming laughter echoing off the stone walls. Signe moved silently through the throng of warriors and nobles, her head bowed low as she approached the head table.

Asdis sat upon her carved oak throne, draped in furs and jewels, her presence as commanding as ever. She leaned forward, her sharp green eyes narrowing as she noticed Signe's approach. "You’re slower than usual tonight," Asdis sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. "Perhaps I’ve kept you too comfortable. Should I remind you what happens to servants who forget their place?"

Signe lowered her gaze, swallowing the sharp retort that threatened to escape her lips. “Forgive me, Lady Asdis,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the din of the hall.

Asdis scoffed, dismissing her with a wave of her hand. "Just do your job, girl. The gods know you're good for little else."

Signe’s cheeks burned with humiliation, but she turned and continued her work. She had long grown accustomed to Asdis's cruelty. Bowing her head and swallowing her pride had become second nature, a means of survival in a world that had given her little choice.

The evening’s revelry was suddenly interrupted by a commotion outside the palace doors. The heavy oak doors groaned as they were pushed open, and a gust of icy wind swept into the hall, extinguishing several of the torches. All eyes turned toward the entrance, where a tall figure stood silhouetted against the snow-laden night.

Bjorn Seawolf stepped inside, his presence commanding instant attention. Behind him, his warriors filed in, their expressions grim and determined. Bjorn’s raven-black hair, damp from the storm outside, clung to his broad shoulders. His piercing blue eyes scanned the room with a predator's intensity, and in his hand, he carried the axe of his father—a symbol of his claim to Skýgarðr.

Signe’s heart raced as their eyes met for the first time. The air seemed to thicken between them, her breath catching in her throat as an unfamiliar sensation coiled in her chest. Bjorn’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before shifting to Asdis.

Asdis rose from her throne, her lips curling into a mocking smile. "Bjorn Seawolf," she said, her voice dripping with false warmth. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence? Come to pay your respects to a true ruler?"

Bjorn’s jaw tightened, but he remained calm as he stepped forward. “I come not to honor you, Asdis,” he replied, his voice steady and cold. “I come to take what is mine. By the decree of my father, the late Alpha of Vetrarklif, Skýgarðr belongs to me. You’ve had your time, Asdis. Step down.”

The hall fell silent, the tension palpable as Asdis’s expression twisted with rage. "Step down?" she spat, her voice rising. "You’re nothing but a boy playing at being a man! Do you think you can waltz in here and take what I’ve built with my own hands? I will not bow to a child who was suckling at his mother’s breast when I first ruled this land!"

Bjorn’s gaze darkened, and his grip on his axe tightened. “This is your last chance, Asdis,” he warned. “Surrender peacefully, or I will take Skýgarðr by force.”

Asdis laughed, a sharp, grating sound that echoed through the hall. "You think you can threaten me?" she sneered. "I’ve faced greater men than you, Bjorn Seawolf, and I’m still standing."

Bjorn’s expression remained unreadable, but the room felt colder as he raised his axe. Before anyone could react, he drew his bow instead, an arrow notched and ready. He loosed it with deadly precision, the shaft flying toward Asdis with lethal speed.

Time seemed to slow as Asdis moved with surprising agility, twisting to the side. The arrow grazed her neck, drawing a thin line of blood, but it missed its mark. Chaos erupted in the hall as Asdis’s loyal guards sprang into action, clashing with Bjorn’s warriors.

Amid the chaos, Signe caught a glimpse of Asdis slipping through a hidden passage behind the throne. She hesitated for a moment, her instincts urging her to follow, but something about Bjorn’s commanding presence held her rooted to the spot.

Bjorn and his warriors quickly subdued the guards, the hall falling silent once more. He scanned the room, his sharp eyes narrowing as he realized Asdis had escaped.

“Burn it,” he ordered, his voice filled with quiet fury. “Burn it all.”

As the fires consumed the palace, Bjorn’s attention returned to Signe. She stood amidst the chaos, her hands trembling as she clutched the tray to her chest. Something about her struck him—a resilience hidden beneath her fear.

“She comes with us,” Bjorn declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Ragnar stepped forward, a smirk playing on his lips. “You sure about that, Bjorn? She doesn’t look like much.”

Bjorn ignored him, his eyes locked on Signe. “Prepare the longboat,” he ordered. “We leave at once.”

The longboat, a masterpiece of northern craftsmanship, cut through the icy waters like a blade. Its hull was carved from the finest oak, reinforced with iron bands, and adorned with intricate carvings of wolves and sea dragons. The oars moved in perfect unison, the rhythmic splash of water the only sound in the quiet night.

Bjorn stood at the helm, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Signe sat toward the back, shivering in the cold. One of Bjorn’s warriors approached her, a thick fur cloak in hand.

“The Alpha ordered you be kept warm,” she said, draping the cloak over Signe’s shoulders.

Signe glanced toward Bjorn, who didn’t so much as glance back. She wrapped the cloak tightly around herself, unsure whether to feel grateful or resentful.

As the boat glided across the water, Signe couldn’t help but wonder what awaited her in Vetrarklif—and why, of all people, Bjorn Seawolf had chosen to spare her.

The cheers of Vetrarklif’s people echoed across the fjord as Bjorn’s longboat glided into the docks, its carved wolf figurehead gleaming in the firelight. The return of the new Alpha had stirred an air of celebration, but beneath the revelry, unspoken tensions simmered like embers ready to ignite.

Signe had barely stepped onto the frost-laden pier before Bjorn’s warriors escorted her toward the towering longhouse that dominated the settlement. Her heart raced as she entered the great hall. Its high ceilings adorned with banners and shields bearing the Seawolf crest. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, spiced mead, and burning torches. The feast had already begun, but the arrival of the Alpha silenced the crowd.

Bjorn strode into the hall, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure as his piercing blue eyes scanned the gathering. His cousin, Vidar, was among the first to rise, a sly smile playing on his lips as he approached. Vidar’s golden hair was tied back, and his fine tunic marked him as one of Vetrarklif’s leading nobles.

“Cousin,” Vidar greeted, raising a goblet in a mock toast. “Welcome home. Your victories are the talk of the fjords. Skýgarðr bends to your will, and yet here you are, bringing their spoils to our table.” His gaze flickered to Signe, standing silently behind Bjorn.

Bjorn’s jaw tightened, but he maintained his composure. “Spare me your flattery, Vidar,” he said coldly. “I’ve brought order to chaos, something you could never accomplish with your empty words.”

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