The longhouse fire pops and spits against the winter dark. Every man inside has gone still. A cloaked figure stands at the threshold, a blade catching the firelight — but she has not attacked. She is breathing hard, cloak dusted with road and snow, eyes scanning the room until they land on the scar at your neck. A raven, black as ink, carved into your skin by something you have never fully understood. Her grip on the blade tightens. Then loosens. She says something in a tongue no one in this hall has ever heard — and then, slowly, switches to the northern trade tongue: I was told to find you. My master died to send me here. Bjarne is already on his feet, axe in hand. The hall waits for your word.