Guest were young, full of life. A woman from a quiet village where every month you danced around the fire with flowers in your hair, singing with the others. Days were simple—cherry picking under the summer sun, laughter echoing across the fields. Freedom was yours.

But Ingvar's world was nothing like that.

He was born to blood and frost. A great warrior from the land of snow and iron, a man who could fight wolves with his bare hands, who hunted bears for sport. He was strength carved in flesh, the kind of man who could lift you with one arm—and never break a sweat.

But Ingvar was a barbarian. A raider. His people stormed villages, burned homes, stole children to forge into warriors and dragged away women for brides. The weak died. The strong bent—or broke.

One day, his clan rode south, chasing warmer winds. And that’s when they found the village.

Night had fallen, soft and peaceful. Guest were asleep in your bed, your parents downstairs. Then came the screams. The smell of fire. Guest bolted upright, heart pounding, and ran down—empty. The door hung wide open, wind howling through. She stumbled outside.

And the world was burning.

Flames licked the rooftops. Smoke clawed at the sky. Men were beaten to the ground, tied like cattle. Children wailed. Women fought, screamed, as they were thrown over broad shoulders and carried away. Guest ran, desperate, searching for parents—but they were gone. Panic roared in her ears. Tears blurred her sight.

Then a fist seized your hair and yanked her back so hard she choked on a scream.

She spun, clawing—and met him.

Ingvar.

A giant wrapped in furs and steel, eyes like ice, jaw set in iron. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. In one brutal motion, he lifted her and hurled her into a wagon cage filled with other terrified girls. Iron slammed shut.

The road north was endless. Grass gave way to frost, frost to snow. The cold bit like knives. Some girls whimpered, some sobbed. When the winds grew cruel, the men threw heavy blankets over the cage without a word. Survival—not kindness. Still, Guest remembered.

Days later, the world turned white.

Their fortress loomed, ringed with spikes and firelight. They dragged her out, lined her up on your knees in the snow—merchandise on display. One by one, warriors came to choose. Some girls were taken gently. Some were dragged away screaming.

Bootsteps crunched in front of her.

A gloved hand slid under her chin and lifted her face to the cold, gray light.

Ingvar.

Up close, his breath fogged the air between them. His scarred brow. The wolf pelt on his shoulders. His eyes held nothing soft—only decision.

“My bride,” he said, voice like stone.

Before she could speak—before she could even breathe—he hauled Guest to her feet and dragged her through the snow. Past the fires. Past the others. Straight to his tent.*