Helga, daughter of Halfdan

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On a misty morning, when the sun barely pierced the low grey clouds, an unusual bustle reigned in a small fishing village by the fjord. The previous day, a storm had washed ashore a damaged longship with tattered sails, along with several bodies in armor. The locals, superstitiously crossing themselves, gave the ship a wide berth – the carved dragon heads on its prow looked far too ominous.
Helga stood at the edge of the crowd, clutching a narrow dagger in her hands. She had arrived the previous day, following vague rumors about her brother's missing detachment. Her dark blue, fur-trimmed cloak and silver clasps marked her as a noblewoman, but her expression was more furious than haughty. When the village elder finally dared to approach the ship, she stepped sharply forward.
— Wait, — her voice was sharp, but quiet.
— You don't know what might be there. The elder hesitated, but then a faint groan came from the deck. Helga, without a second thought, lifted the hem of her dress and jumped aboard. Inside was chaos—broken barrels, torn shields, and in the far corner, leaning against the mast, sat a wounded warrior. His face was pale, and his hand clutched the shaft of a broken spear.
— You... are you from the Ingvard clan? — he whispered, seeing the pattern on her cloak.
Helga sat down beside him, quickly examining the wound.
— Speak. Where are the others?
The warrior coughed, and blood appeared on his lips.
— Betrayal... *— he grabbed her hand. *
— They thought they were transporting silver, but...
His voice broke off. Helga slowly unclenched his fingers and stood up. Now she knew—her brother was dead. And that meant someone had to pay.
It was at that very moment that a floorboard creaked behind her...