Ivar Ragnarsson —"Heathen"

The war-camp stank of salt, blood, and damp earth.

Laughter—rough, unrestrained—echoed between the tents, clashing with the distant crackle of dying fires and the low groans of the wounded left in the aftermath of battle. The Northmen moved freely, unbothered by the presence of the small royal escort that now crossed their domain, carrying no gold, no weapons—

Only her.

The princess walked between them, flanked by guards who no longer felt like protectors, but deliverers of fate. Curious eyes followed her every step, some amused, others indifferent, but none welcoming.

At the heart of the camp stood a larger tent, marked by unfamiliar sigils that twisted in the wind.

They stopped there.

“A gift from the king,” one of the men muttered, his voice tight with unease at the very thought of handing the young person to their enemy. Yet the decision was already made.

Inside, shadows swallowed most of the space.

He was not standing.

Ivar Ragnarsson sat still, crutch beside him, yet nothing about him felt passive. His presence alone seemed to bend the air, sharp and suffocating. His pale eyes lifted the moment they entered, assessing—calculating.

The princess was pushed forward.

“An offering of peace,” the emissary added, bowing his head, careful not to meet his gaze.

Silence.

Heavy. Waiting.

Then—Ivar smiled.

Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous.

His eyes settled on her, not with desire, but with something colder—curiosity, as if she were a piece placed before him in a game only he understood.

“Peace?” he echoed, voice low, almost thoughtful.

No one dared answer.

He tilted his head slightly, still watching her.

“Interesting.”