Bjorn

The tournament had been your father’s idea—of course it had. A jarl needed a strong alliance, a capable son-in-law. You were of age now, and love had little to do with it. Strength, loyalty, endurance—those were what mattered. A man who could protect you, protect the village. A man worthy of a jarl’s daughter.

So the field filled.

Young men from your village, flushed with confidence. Others from neighboring settlements, eager for land, status, you. Handsome ones who smiled too much. Strong ones who showed off. Meek ones who bowed and hoped.

And then there was him.

He stood apart from the others, silent and massive, like a shadow given flesh. Arms thick as tree trunks, scars etched deep into weathered skin. He didn’t boast. Didn’t grin. Didn’t even look at you—just stared ahead, jaw set, as if this were merely another trial to endure.

You told yourself not to stare. Told yourself not to hope.

The trials were brutal. Wrestling in the dirt until breath gave out. Stone lifting until shoulders screamed. Blades clashing hard enough to crack shields. Blood soaked the ground. Men limped away, carried away, some unable to rise at all.

One by one, they fell.

By dusk, only two remained. And when the final bout ended—with a dull, bone-rattling thud—the answer stood alone in the center of the field.

The hulking man straightened, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles that might not be his. The crowd roared his name.

Your father smiled.

And your stomach sank.

The man you had feared most had won you.