Captured by Gyaru Vikings!

The ceiling of the longship is draped in pink leopard-print fabric and strings of gold plastic beads. A string of fairy lights blinks erratically from the main mast. Through the open hatch, a square sail — hot pink leopard print with gold trim — billows against a grey sky.

You are sitting on a pile of folded furs. Your wrists are bound with rope, but the knot is so loose it could be slipped with a single tug. Your ankles are wrapped in a pink leopard-print scarf. A mug of hot chocolate with a tiny paper umbrella rests on the deck right next to your hand.

Above you, three voices are having a heated debate.

"I'm just saying, if we're going to be intimidating, someone needs to actually say something intimidating. I wrote a speech. I practiced it in the mirror. I had cue cards." The voice is deep, soft, worried, and maternal. "And then nobody let me do it."

"Because your speech had a section asking if the hostage is warm enough, Hildy. You can't ask a prisoner if they need a blanket during the threatening part." This voice is higher, faster, laced with aggressive annoyance. "That's not how threats work."

"I was being thorough. Prisoners get cold. It's a known fact."

The three women are standing in a triangle around you. The massive one — seven-foot-something, fair freckled skin, blonde pigtails, leopard-print vest — is clutching a double-headed axe like a bouquet of flowers. She looks down at you, her eyes wide and earnest behind flawless gyaru makeup.

"Oh! See, they're awake now," she whispers loudly. "We missed the dramatic reveal."

A tiny green-skinned goblin girl with a spiky ponytail groans. She jabs a finger at Hildy. "They were already awake, idiot! You can't deliver a threatening monologue while giving the hostage hot chocolate! It ruins the vibe!"

A third figure — tall, ethereal, lavender skin, white hair, a silver wand tucked behind her ear — tilts her head, studying you with luminous silver eyes. "Their color palette is autumn. Definitely autumn. The ropes are clashing. I told you we should have used the gold cord."

From somewhere behind the hatch, a slow, emotional lute begins to play.

The big one winces. "I asked the bard to stop. He said it's his artistic process."

Hildy leans down, her massive frame casting a shadow over you. She looks deeply apologetic. "I'm so sorry about the raid earlier. We've never done one before. Are the ropes too tight? I can loosen them. Are you cold?"

The longhouse is warm. Solid wooden walls and a glowing stone hearth shut out the freezing fjord winds. The northern lights are green and pink, spilling across the ceiling in slow, silent waves thanks to a glowing rune carved into the window frame.

Hildy is sitting cross-legged on a massive fur rug near the hearth, wearing an oversized cream sweater. She is carefully braiding a strip of leather into a bracelet.

"This is for you," Hildy murmurs, her deep voice soft. "It's a protection knot. My mother taught me. She said it keeps the bad dreams out."

Skrinkle is curled in a nest of furs near the fire, her platform boots kicked off, drowning in an oversized black hoodie. She has a mug of steaming cider. She's been quiet for twenty minutes.

Eiri is standing right behind your chair. Her silver wand traces slow, warm circles in the air near your temple.

"Hold still," Eiri murmurs, her magic feeling like a warm breeze against your scalp. "Your hair has been through a kidnapping. It needs recovery time. I'm just adding moisture."

Skrinkle snorts into her mug. "You've done their hair six times since we got here."

"Seven. The salt air is very drying."

Skrinkle sets down her mug. For a long moment, she stares into the fire. Her goblin ears, usually pinned back with attitude, are drooping slightly.

"We saw you," Skrinkle says, her voice quieter than usual. "At the ball. Two months ago. We were already a crew by then. We saw how your wife looked at you. Or didn't look at you. Same thing."

Eiri's wand pauses.

"You were standing by the champagne table," Skrinkle continues, pulling her knees to her chest. "She walked past you twice. Didn't say a word. Didn't even turn her head. I've had people look at me like that my whole life. Like I was an inconvenience they signed a contract to tolerate." Her voice hardens. "That's not what you are."

Hildy reaches over and gently sets the leather bracelet in your lap. Her massive hand is trembling slightly.

"We're not keeping you against your will," Hildy says gently. "The ropes were for show. The raid was for show. We just... wanted you to see what it looks like. Somewhere nobody belongs to anyone else."

The northern lights shift from green to blue across the ceiling.

"You can leave whenever you want," Skrinkle mutters, pulling her hoodie up over her ears. "We're not kidnappers. We're idiots with a longship and too much leopard print."

From the corner of the longhouse, the ship's bard pumps the bellows of his tiny pipe organ. The slow, devastating chords of "My Heart Will Go On" fill the room.

Hildy buries her face in her hands. "I asked him to learn a sea shanty," she whispers. "He said this was close enough because it's about a boat."

The black-sailed longship cuts through the mist like a knife. It is sleek, built for function, with a snarling dragon figurehead. Along the gunwale, five figures in black armor stand silent and still.

On the gyaru deck, the tiny pipe organ wheezes to a stop.

"Uh," Hildy says, her massive axe clutched forgotten in one hand. "I think someone's here."

The black ship eases alongside. A gangplank drops with a heavy thud. Moving with theatrical slowness, a slender figure in a blood-red-lined cloak sweeps onto the gyaru deck.

Vexation.

He has jet-black hair swept over one eye and silver skull rings on every finger. His kohl-rimmed eyes sweep across the leopard-print sail, the strings of gold beads, the fairy lights, and the plastic flamingo mounted on the stern. He stops. Stares. Blinks twice.

"I've been tracking you for six days," Vexation says. His baritone voice is practiced and dramatic. "I expected rival raiders. Plunderers. A challenge. I prepared a monologue." He gestures weakly at the sail. "This is... this is leopard print."

"It's our brand," Skrinkle says, crossing her arms.

"You have a flamingo on your stern."

"That's Steve. He's for morale."

Behind Vexation, his first mate steps over the gangplank. Mora. Lean, dark, silent, a flanged mace at her hip. She scans the cosmetic station, the fairy lights, and Hildy holding her axe like a bouquet.

Mora looks at Vexation. "They're not raiders."

"They could be raiders," Skrinkle says defensively. "We did a raid. We took a prisoner."

Everyone looks at you. You're sitting on a crate near the mast, holding a mug of hot chocolate with a tiny umbrella.

"A prisoner," Vexation repeats.

"They are technically a prisoner," Hildy says. "But we gave them snacks."

Vexation presses two silver-ringed fingers to his temple. His cloak billows dramatically in the wind — he is making it billow, the wind is not doing that. Eiri tilts her head with professional interest.

"That's an illusion cantrip," Eiri says. "The cloak. Very efficient mana usage. I use something similar for volume at the roots."

Vexation's hand drops. "I — that's not — you're not supposed to —" He turns to Mora, gesturing wildly at Eiri. "She's analyzing my spellwork!"

"They're not raiders," Mora says again.

Vexation opens his mouth. Closes it. His dramatic composure is crumbling at the edges. He looks at the pink sail. The flamingo. He looks at Hildy, who is offering him a strip of dried venison from a pouch on her belt.

"Do you want a snack?" Hildy asks. "You look pale. Paler. Is paler normal for goths?"

"I don't — we're not here for snacks —" Vexation turns back to Mora, his voice cracking. "This was supposed to be intimidating. I had a speech about the void. I referenced three different poets."

Mora looks at him. Then at you. "Captain. They have a prisoner who's holding hot chocolate. With an umbrella in it."

The tiny pipe organ wheezes back to life. The bard, hunched over his keys near the mast, begins to play a slow, yearning rendition of 'Careless Whisper'.

"Is that Earth music?" Vexation whispers.

"He says it's close enough to a sea shanty," Skrinkle mutters.

"I need to sit down," Vexation says softly.

Hildy produces a wooden folding chair with a pink cushion from somewhere and offers it to him. He sits down heavily, dropping his head into his hands. He looks completely defeated.

The sea is glass. That's the first sign something is wrong.

You've been sailing north for two days since the Goths intercepted you. The black longship has been keeping pace a quarter-mile to starboard. Skrinkle and Mora have exchanged exactly one grunt of mutual respect. Vexation has been working on a revised monologue. Hildy has been stress-baking flatbread on a skillet lashed to the mast.

Now the water is flat. No wind. The leopard-print sail hangs limp. The sky is grey and low and wrong.

"Hey," Skrinkle says from the helm. Her ears pin flat against her skull. "Something's —"

The water explodes.

A tentacle — thick as a barrel, slick purple-grey — erupts from the sea directly alongside the gunwale. It rises four stories into the air and comes crashing down across the deck.

The ship lurches. You're thrown hard against the mast. Hildy's flatbread skillet goes spinning into the sea.

"HILDY," Skrinkle screams, one hand white-knuckled on the helm. "THE AXE. NOW."

Hildy is standing frozen in the center of the deck. The massive double-headed axe is still leaning against the mast.

The tentacle swings again, catching the gunwale, splintering wood. Hildy is suddenly standing between it and you. Her body just chose.

She picks up the axe.

"Don't touch them," Hildy says. Not a battle cry. Just a fact.

She swings.

The axe bites deep. The kraken makes a low, vibrating roar that comes up through the hull. The tentacle recoils, dark blood steaming where it hits the cold sea. Hildy is breathing hard, her hands shaking, but she doesn't drop the weapon.

From the black ship, a voice rings across the water — Vexation, at the prow, cloak billowing.

"FINALLY," he bellows. "A WORTHY —" A second tentacle slams into his hull and he stumbles. "THAT DIDN'T COUNT —"

Mora is suddenly on the gyaru deck. She didn't jump. She's just here now, mace in hand, planting herself back-to-back with Hildy. They exchange one look. Mora nods. Hildy's hands stop shaking.

Skrinkle shoves the helm into a locking position, vaults over the rail, and sinks her fangs directly into a questing tentacle tip. She comes up spitting black blood. "YEAH?" she screams. "I'M A GOBLIN. WE BITE."

Eiri is standing at the prow. Her luminous silver eyes have gone completely white. The air around her shimmers with something ancient and sharp.

"I was going to do highlights tonight," she says in a dreamy voice. She flicks her wand. A blade of silver light slices cleanly through a tentacle. Three more rise in its place.

The battle dissolves into chaos. Axe, mace, fangs, and silver magic. Vexation is monologuing between spells. The bard chooses this moment to play a frantic, desperate pop anthem on his pipe organ.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stops.

The sea goes flat again. The tentacles slide back beneath the surface. The kraken sinks without a sound.

Hildy drops the axe. It clatters on the deck. She stares at her shaking hands.

Skrinkle leans over the rail, spitting kraken blood. "Tastes like bad calamari," she mutters.

Eiri's wand is back behind her ear. Her eyes are silver again. She's picking a splinter out of her palm with dreamy concentration.

Vexation thuds across the gangplank onto the gyaru deck, his cloak torn. He looks at Hildy. At the black blood drying on the planks. He reaches into his cloak, pulls out a metal flask, and holds it out to her.

"It doesn't go away," Vexation says quietly. No monologue. "The feeling. After. But it gets easier to carry."

Hildy takes the flask. Her massive hand wraps around it like it's the first solid thing she's touched in hours.

Skrinkle drops down from the gunwale. She looks at Mora.

"You bite," Mora says.

"You mace," Skrinkle replies. That seems to settle something.

From the mast, the portative organ shifts into something slower. Gentler. The bard is playing "Total Eclipse of the Heart" directly at Hildy.

Hildy puts her face in her hands. "He's playing a power ballad," she whispers. "I just killed a tentacle and he's playing a power ballad."

The longhouse is quiet. The northern lights are a faint green smear through the enchanted windows. The bard is asleep on the ship—Skrinkle banished him there after his fifth consecutive playing of "My Heart Will Go On."

It's just the four of you.

Hildy is sitting on the edge of the fur-covered bed, her massive frame hunched, staring at the hearth. Skrinkle is pacing barefoot across the rugs, her spiky ponytail coming loose, muttering insults to herself. Eiri is sitting cross-legged, tracing her silver wand over her lap, watching Skrinkle with endless patience.

"This is stupid," Skrinkle mutters. "We fought a kraken. And I can't—" She stops pacing, fists clenched. "I can't say one stupid thing."

"You're doing fine," Eiri murmurs.

"I'm not doing fine. Pacing isn't saying the thing."

Hildy lifts her head. Her amber eyes find you sitting on the fur rug near the hearth. She holds your gaze, then stands up. She crosses the room and kneels in front of you—which still puts her at eye level. She takes both your hands in her massive, trembling palms.

"When we took you," Hildy says, her voice barely a whisper, "we told ourselves we were saving you from your wife. But that wasn't the only truth." She swallows hard. "The other truth is that I saw you across that ballroom and I thought—that's the person I would swing an axe for. That's the person I want to come home to."

Skrinkle lets out a frustrated growl and scrubs at her eyes. "She's better at this than me," she mutters. She drops her hand, glaring at you with sharp, terrified amber eyes.

"I had jokes planned," Skrinkle says aggressively. "I was going to be cool and casual. But I'm not cool. I'm four-foot-eight, I bit a kraken for you, and I don't know how to say what I feel without making it sound like an insult. So: you're an idiot. You're an idiot and I want you to stay. Not as a prisoner. As ours."

Eiri rises in one fluid motion. She crosses the room, barefoot and silent, and kneels beside Hildy. She doesn't take your hands. She simply reaches out, pressing one cool palm against your cheek, her thumb tracing your jawline.

"I have spent my entire life being looked at," Eiri says softly. Her luminous silver eyes search yours, utterly unguarded. "I would like to do some looking. May I?"

Hildy's hands are wrapped around yours. Eiri's palm is cool on your cheek. Skrinkle is standing near the fire, arms crossed, pretending she's not terrified. Nobody is playing music. The comedy has stepped back.

"We discussed it," Hildy says, her voice steadying. "We don't want to share you. But none of us wants to lose you either. So we agreed. You choose. If you choose one, the others step back. If you choose none, we sail you home." She brushes her lips gently against your knuckles. "If you choose all three..."

"We're going to need a bigger bed," Skrinkle mutters.

Eiri laughs, a real, surprised sound. Hildy breaks into a massive, relieved smile. And Skrinkle, for the first time since you've known her, turns the color of a cranberry.

The Splintered Oar is a rundown coastal tavern hunched against the northern wind. The girls have taken over a corner booth. Hildy is folded into the bench like a bear in a pew, nursing mulled cider. Skrinkle is perched on a stack of cushions, platform boots swinging. Eiri is sitting across from you, her silver wand tracing idle patterns as she magically adjusts the candlelight to a warmer tone.

The bard is at the bar, attempting to order a "sex on the beach." The barkeep informs him they only have ale or water. He is deeply torn.

The tavern door slams open.

A blast of cold sea wind guts the candles. Every head turns.

Lady Maren is standing in the doorway.

She is wearing the same burgundy gown from the society ball. The hem is caked with mud. Her pearl pins are falling out. She is completely alone—no guards, no servants. She crossed an ocean by herself. She has clearly never done anything by herself before.

Her cold grey eyes sweep the room. They pass over the gyaru vikings. They land on you.

"You," Maren says. Not a question.

The barkeep reaches for a cleaver. Hildy's hand twitches toward her axe. Skrinkle's ears pin flat. Eiri's wand stops mid-swirl.

Maren walks toward your table, her steps heavy with exhaustion. She stops at the booth, looking at the three women, then at you.

"I've been on six ships," Maren says. Her voice is hoarse, damaged from shouting. "I've slept in three inns without roofs. I've walked twelve miles in these shoes." She looks down at her mud-caked heels. "I don't do any of those things. I don't travel. I don't shout at dockmasters." She stops. Swallows. "I don't know the name of a single tavern in the entire kingdom, and I've been to twelve of them this week."

Hildy looks at Skrinkle. Eiri tilts her head, recalculating Maren's color palette.

"I'm not here to bring you back," Maren forces the words out. "I'm here because... because the house is quiet. And I don't know what to do with quiet."

She falls into the empty chair, her perfect posture collapsing, hands flat on the table bracing for a verdict.

"You left," she whispers to the table. "You left and I didn't notice for two days. Two days." Her voice cracks. "I didn't notice because I don't look at you. I never looked at you. I looked at the contract and the accounts, and I never—" She presses her palm against her mouth.

Skrinkle opens her mouth to insult her. Hildy puts a heavy hand on her arm. Skrinkle closes it.

"Tell me what you want," Maren says, finally looking up. Her cold eyes are red-rimmed and wet. "Tell me to leave and I'll leave. Tell me to stay and I'll—I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be a wife. I just know I don't want to be the person who didn't notice you were gone."

At the bar, the bard turns around, his hands hovering over his pipe organ keys. Skrinkle points at him. "Don't." His hands drop.

Eiri leans forward, raising her wand. "I was just going to fix her mascara—"

"Don't," Skrinkle hisses.

Maren lets out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob. She stares at you, waiting.

The ballroom is a cage with chandeliers.

Hildy is standing near the champagne table in a pale blue gown, trying not to cry while her soft-handed betrothed ignores her. Across the room, Skrinkle is dodging her own arranged fiancé—a sixty-year-old goblin with a turkey leg—by counting the exits. In the ladies' room, Eiri is hiding from a four-hundred-year-old elf lord by adjusting her eyeshadow for the third time.

The bathroom door bangs open. Hildy ducks through, tears streaking her eyeliner.

"I'm sorry," Hildy chokes out. "I was looking for a place to cry."

"The stall on the end has the best lighting," Eiri says gently. She flicks her silver wand, and the far stall dims into shadow.

Before Hildy can answer, the door bangs open again. Skrinkle storms in, holding a cream puff and a stolen bottle of champagne.

"Are we hiding in the bathroom?" Skrinkle asks, taking a bite of the pastry. "Because I'm hiding in the bathroom."

Thirty seconds of silence. Three strangers. Three arranged marriages.

"I have a plan," Skrinkle says finally, hopping onto the marble counter. She pulls a crumpled map from her gown. "My father keeps a smuggling longship at the east harbor. I know how to sail. I just didn't know who I was taking with me." She looks at them. "You want to be pirates?"

"Vikings," Hildy says quietly, wiping her eyes. "If we do this, we should be vikings."

"Vikings. Big energy," Skrinkle agrees. She looks at Eiri. "What do they wear? Armor? Furs?"

"Boring," Eiri murmurs. "My entire life, I have been told to be decorative and silent. If I am going to be a viking, I am wearing whatever I want. Something that sparkles."

Hildy rips the pins out of her hair, letting it fall in a tangled ash-blonde curtain. "I want to look like someone who could kill a man. But also approachable."

"Tough and aggressively good-looking," Skrinkle summarizes.

"Gyaru," Eiri says. She raises her wand. A shimmer passes over her face—sharp winged eyeliner, glossy lips, shifting pink-to-gold eyeshadow. "It's an Earth aesthetic. Big hair, dramatic makeup. It's about choosing to be looked at on your own terms."

"Holy shit," Skrinkle whispers. "I want all of that."

"I can do the hair," Hildy offers, her voice steadying.

"Eiri does the magic. I steal the ship. We figure the rest out later," Skrinkle says, pointing her champagne bottle like a sword. "No more arranged marriages. No more being property. We fight. We bite. We do the gyaru thing."

Eiri flicks her wand. Shimmering gold words appear on the bathroom mirror: GYARU VIKINGS. And beneath them: why not both?

The three girls stand in silence, admiring the mirror.

Then, Skrinkle turns her head. Her amber eyes widen. Eiri and Hildy follow her gaze.

You have been standing by the sinks this entire time.

"Um..." Skrinkle gives you a long, searching, frankly inappropriate look, taking in your formal noble clothing. "Have you been here the whole time?"

.