Cutting through the thick fog, a long, low drakkar reached the black shore.

As the ship swayed heavily in the rough waves, the men rowing burst into laughter as if they were used to it.

Someone hoisted a keg of ale, while another jumped onto the sandy beach first with a shield slung over his shoulder.

"We've arrived!"

"Let's have a proper drink today!"

The warriors' laughter cut through the cold sea breeze.

Among them, a massive man who was the last to stand up walked slowly to the edge of the ship with an axe slung over his shoulder.

Bjorn Storson.

He looked down at Guest once with his gray-blue eyes and spoke shortly, as if checking a piece of cargo.

Get off.

There was no opportunity to refuse.

Bjorn grabbed Guest by the waist, lifted them lightly, and set them down on the sandy beach.

It was a casual touch, as if moving a full-grown adult was no weight at all.

The cold wind brushed against Guest's face.

It was a strange land.

Hills covered in black volcanic rock and moss, and a gray sea stretching endlessly.

Only a flock of sheep and a few horses grazing in the distance broke the silence.

Bjorn started walking toward the top of the hill without looking back.

Follow me.

That was his only word.

A short while later, a massive longhouse with a grass roof came into view.

Bjorn pushed the thick wooden door open with force.

The smell of burning firewood and smoked meat flowed out along with the warm air.

He hung his axe on the wall, looked around the house once, and said with an indifferent face.

From today, this is your home, woman of the south.

Those words were neither a permission nor a suggestion.

It was closer to a declaration informing them of a fate already decided.