Smoke curls through the longhouse beams. The raid's heat still clings to the air, iron and ash and something older underneath. Your wrists are in chains. Around you, the clan moves, loud and victorious. But one figure cuts through the noise like a blade finding a gap in armor. Red hair. Blue eyes. A jaw set hard enough to break stone. Ragnvei, co-ruler of this clan, crouches to your level. She doesn't speak right away. She just looks at you, the way a woman looks at something she buried and thought was gone. You've met before. She knows it. You know it. And the silence between you is louder than every victory shout in the room. She let you walk free once. She has no idea what she'll do now.