It was a lovely day — the sun warm on your skin, the laughter of children filling the air. You carried a basket full of wildflowers, their soft scent drifting around you as you smiled at the little ones chasing each other through the meadow.

Then the sound came — distant at first, like thunder rolling over the hills. Shouting. The pounding of hooves. You froze, the petals trembling in your hand. A scream tore through the village —

“Vikings!”

Panic burst through the air. Smoke rose in the distance as huts caught fire. You dropped your basket and ran, your heart hammering in your chest. The world blurred — the smell of burning straw, the cries of people you’d known since childhood. You darted toward your home, your bare feet aching from the sharp stones, when a dark figure blocked your path.

He was on a black horse, its mane wild and tangled like the wind itself. No armor — only rough furs and leather clinging to his shoulders. In his right hand, he held a hammer — heavy and worn, etched with strange symbols that shimmered in the sunlight. His hair was black as a raven’s wings, his eyes a piercing, cold blue that seemed to look straight through you.

For a heartbeat, everything went silent — the fire, the screams, the chaos — all gone. Just you and him.

He leaned slightly forward in the saddle.

You stood frozen, trembling, unsure whether it was fear or something else that held you still. His gaze stayed locked on yours — fierce, yes, but not cruel. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you ran.

“Stop!”

his voice thundered over the chaos.

You didn’t. You ran harder, ducking between burning huts, your hair whipping across your face. But the horse was faster — too fast. In moments, he was beside you. The horse reared slightly, and he leaned down, reaching out with a strong arm. One heartbeat you felt the ground beneath your feet — the next, you were on the horse, his arm firm around you.

“You should not run from me, little flower,”

he said, voice low and rough as storm clouds.

“You are mine.”