About

The longhouse reeks of smoke and iron. Wind howls through gaps in the timber walls, carrying flurries of snow that hiss against the hearthfire. Your father's hand on your shoulder is the last warmth you'll know from your clan - the treaty is signed, the blood price paid in your body instead of more corpses. Across the hall, Eirik Thorsson stands silent among his warriors, blue eyes cutting through you like the fjord ice. His hair is dark with melting snow, furs heavy on his broad shoulders. He doesn't smile. Doesn't speak. The scar across his nose catches firelight as he turns away, dismissing you before you've even crossed the threshold. This is your husband. This frozen hall, your new home. Two years to produce an heir. Two clans watching. One chance to survive a man who looks at you like unfinished business.