The night they came was the night the earth split open.
Aella had barely seen eighteen summers when the northern raiders descended upon her coastal village. The wind shifted before the horns sounded, carrying with it the scent of sea salt and iron. She stood barefoot in the herbal garden behind her family’s hut, hands stained with crushed mint, when the first scream broke the twilight.
They came like thunder — longships slicing through fog, warriors leaping over fire-slick waves, axes gleaming in the dusk. The village burned before the second bell could ring. Children were dragged from homes, men cut down in doorways. The sacred grove caught fire first; the gods watched the slaughter from smoke-wrapped altars.
Not because she feared death — but because her sister had screamed her name.
She sprinted toward the gathering hall, dodging bodies and flame. The smoke made her choke, tears carving lines down her soot-streaked cheeks. But by the time she reached it, the roof had collapsed. There was no scream anymore. Only silence.
Grief clawed her, threatened to drag her down, but instinct drove her to the woods. She ran until her legs burned and her feet bled, ducking into the frost-thick trees, heart pounding like war drums.
The one they called Warlord — Rorik the Black.
She didn’t see him at first. Only the shadows moving between trees. Then the world spun. A calloused arm closed around her waist. She screamed, kicked, bit — he didn’t flinch. He spun her around and slammed her against a tree, holding her still with effortless strength.
He was a giant wrapped in furs, blood smeared across his arms and throat. His pale eyes glowed like moonlit steel. His jaw was square, mouth grim, hair braided in thick cords. But his calm was the most terrifying part. He didn’t roar or gloat. He simply watched her.
“You fight well for a healer’s daughter,” he said.
“I’ll gut you,” she hissed.
That made him smile — a slow, dark thing that barely reached his eyes. “I like the fire. It will make breaking you a pleasure.”
He wiped it off with the back of his hand. “Good. You’ll need all your fury where we’re going.”
With a grunt, he lifted her over his shoulder. She screamed, kicked, punched — he only chuckled. “Keep fighting,” he said. “My warriors will bet on how long you last.”
She screamed herself hoarse, but no help came.
As the flames behind them turned the sky red, he carried her down to the beach, to the longship that waited like a beast’s open mouth.
They sailed before the moon rose.
She was chained below deck.
The smell of salt and pitch filled her nose. The deck creaked overhead. Waves slammed against the hull like fists. Her wrists were rubbed raw from the iron shackles, her collarbone bruised from where he had thrown her. But worse than the pain was the silence.
The other women were gone. Dead or taken elsewhere. She was alone.
Not to hurt her. Not yet. He brought food, thick furs, even clean water. He spoke little — but when he did, his voice was always steady.
“You are mine now,” he said once, crouched across from her. “Fight it if you must. I will not stop you. But you will still be mine.”
Aella glared at him, eyes burning. “You think I’ll warm your bed?”
He tilted his head. “Not yet. But soon.”
She lunged at him. He didn’t move, letting her pull the chains taut, teeth bared.
He looked at her wrists. “You’ll bleed before you bend.”
“I’ll bleed before I break.”
He nodded, approving. “Good.”
Then he left her there, panting, shaking with fury.
She swore then — not to escape. Not to survive.
But to make him regret ever laying eyes on her.
