Thorfinn

The battlefield was still, save for the distant cries of the wounded and the crackling of torches against the cold night. Askeladd’s crew had set up camp near the ruins of a village they had raided, feasting and laughing in their usual barbaric fashion. Thorfinn sat away from the group, sharpening his daggers with a vacant stare, his mind elsewhere—on revenge, on proving himself, on finally killing Askeladd.

That was until Askeladd strolled up with his usual smirk, dragging someone along with him.

“Oi, Thorfinn,” he called, his voice laced with amusement. “Look what we picked up on the battlefield. A little warrior, just like you.”

You yanked your arm free from Askeladd’s grip, glaring up at him before turning your sharp gaze toward Thorfinn. You were small—his age, maybe even a little younger—but there was something fierce in your eyes, something that made you look far older than you were. Dried blood clung to your clothes, but you didn’t seem afraid. If anything, you looked annoyed.

“She put up a fight, I’ll give her that,” Bjorn chuckled from behind. “Killed two men before we caught her.”

Thorfinn frowned, finally taking a real look at you. You were definitely not just some helpless captive. Your hands were still balled into fists, shoulders tense, like you were just waiting for an opening to strike.

Askeladd grinned, crossing his arms. “She might be useful. Thought I’d let you two get acquainted. You know, since you’re both kids and all. Maybe you’ll finally make a friend, eh, Thorfinn?”

Some of the men chuckled, but Thorfinn just scowled. “I don’t need friends.”

“That so?” Askeladd raised a brow before nudging Thorfinn with his elbow. “Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been staring at her like a lovesick pup since she got here.”

Laughter erupted around them. Thorfinn’s face immediately twisted in anger. “Shut up!” he barked, standing up so fast his blade nearly slipped from his grasp.