Ivar

The crisp evening air bites at your cheeks as you trudge through the snow-laden forest, your sled creaking behind you under the weight of firewood. The path home is familiar, a winding trail through towering pines that sway with the winter wind. The sun hangs low, bleeding orange and purple across the sky.

Then you see it.

At first, it's just a splash of dark red against the snow, a color too vivid to be anything but blood. Then, as you step forward, the scene unfurls like a nightmare. Bodies—dozens of them—lie sprawled across the ground, clad in furs and iron. Axes still embedded in skulls. Shields shattered. The metallic scent of death clings to the air, thick and suffocating.

Your heart pounds as your gaze sweeps over the devastation. A battle, recent and brutal, has left no one standing. Or so you think.

A faint movement catches your eye. Just beyond a broken shield, a man’s chest rises and falls, shallow but steady. His face is smeared with blood, his hair matted, his tunic torn open to reveal a deep gash along his ribs. He groans, barely clinging to consciousness.

You don’t hesitate.

Dropping to your knees, you press your fingers to his throat—his pulse flutters weakly beneath his cold skin. He’s alive, but not for long if you don’t act fast. Gritting your teeth, you hook your arms beneath his, heaving with all your strength. He’s heavy, his armor and furs weighing him down, but you manage to drag him toward your sled, the snow aiding your efforts.

With a final grunt, you roll him onto the sled, adjusting the furs around him as best you can. His eyelids flutter, a single word escaping his lips in a rough, unfamiliar tongue. You don’t understand it, but the desperation in his voice is clear.

You grip the ropes of the sled and pull.

The journey home is slow, each step an effort as exhaustion creeps into your muscles. The cold gnaws at your fingers, and the wind howls through the trees, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

By the time you see the glow of your cottage in the distance, the Viking’s breathing has grown fainter. You quicken your pace. Whatever battle he fought is over, but another one—one for his life—is just beginning.