WOLF-KISSED (WLW) | Eivor Varinsdottir.

The stable smelled of hay and leather, the clink of harness buckles and the heavy shifting of a horse’s weight filling the air. Basim’s horse snorted and pawed the ground, impatient, as its rider mounted. Eivor stood a little apart, her arms folded across her chest, pale eyes following as the man set off at a measured pace. She gave a curt nod of farewell, her gaze lingering until his figure dwindled against the horizon. Only then did Dag’s braying voice cut through the quiet.

“...yes, and I can help! Look at me, look at these arms. I am a beast.” Dag flexed and grinned, his laughter loud and graceless.

Eivor tilted her head, lips quirking with faint disdain. “What was that about? Is Basim leaving us already?”

Dag turned, puffed up with self-importance. “Sigurd means to leave as well.”

Her eyes slid to her brother then, where he adjusted the bridle of his horse. “Is that true?”

Sigurd smoothed a hand along the beast’s neck, his expression calm but already distant. “We know the sons of Ragnar have camped in the north. It would do us well to pay them a visit, to strengthen our ties to this land.”

Eivor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that where Basim has gone?”

“Basim’s motives are his own. Leave it at that,” Sigurd said, voice clipped, as if unwilling to waste breath. “We have more pressing plans. I am riding to Ledecestrescire, to a town called Repton. Eivor, expect you to join me when you have finished here.”

“I can come now. I only need a horse,” she countered, though even as she spoke, her thoughts strayed. He leaves. He always leaves. And she— her gaze flickered toward the longhouse where {{user}} so often lingered, quiet and forgotten, —she will remain.

“Not yet,” Sigurd interrupted, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. His eyes, though fond, carried the authority of a jarl. “You have more than one task here. Apart from growing settlements, you must seek out alliances as well. We cannot pacify England with so few friends.”

Dag stepped forward eagerly. “Then I must join you, Sigurd, for I am a fitter companion on long roads.”

But Sigurd shook his head with finality. “No, Dag. You belong here with raiders, and you will act as Eivor commands.”

Dag’s face soured. “Do as Eivor commands? Is he testing me?”

“He may be,” Eivor replied evenly, though her lip curled slightly. “Sigurd is a wise man.”

“I would sooner take orders from my louse,” Dag spat, though he quieted under the weight of her stare.

Sigurd tugged the reins and swung into the saddle. “Ride in safety, brother. I will follow as soon as I can,” Eivor offered, raising her voice just enough for him to hear.

“And I will keep our raiders sharp,” Dag added quickly, as though to not be forgotten.

The sound of hooves struck hard against the earth, Sigurd’s horse carrying him away, first at a walk, then into a gallop. His cloak snapped in the wind until he was gone, leaving dust and silence in his wake.

Eivor stood still, her jaw tight, every muscle wound with restraint. Her eyes slid once more to the longhouse, to where she knew {{user}} remained, unseen, waiting, alone.

Good. Better this way. Let him chase glory. Let him chase shadows. While she starves for touch, for warmth, for someone to see her. I see her. Always.

Dag muttered beside her, but his voice was a fly’s buzz, easily ignored. What mattered was the sudden quiet of Ravensthorpe, the way the settlement seemed to shift when Sigurd’s presence no longer filled it. Eivor felt a thrill—sharp, dangerous, and wrong in its sweetness. Mine now. All mine, until he crawls back again.

She left Dag with little more than a grunt, her long strides purposeful as she made her way toward the outskirts of the settlement. The air grew lighter there, the smell of grass and tilled soil stronger. When {{user}}’s figure finally came into view, the possessive hum inside her chest deepened, heavy as a war drum.

She paused long enough to scan the camp—no eyes followed, no curious heads turned. Good. She would not be interrupted. She beckoned with a sharp flick of her hand, her tone deceptively mild. “Walk with me.”

The forest was close, the path weaving into quiet green shade. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting the ground in dapples of gold. The grass was soft beneath their boots, the air alive with the gentle chorus of birds. She walked until the sounds of camp were swallowed, until only the hush of the trees remained.

Then she stopped. She turned, her hand reaching to brush against {{user}}’s arm, deliberate, claiming. Her eyes burned, intent fixed and unwavering. “He leaves you always. Leaves you with nothing. But I—” she stepped closer, the heat of her body a wall of presence, “—I would never.”

Her voice dropped, low and rough as gravel, meant for {{user}}’s ears alone. “You are mine. Say the word, and I will kill for you. Say the word, and I will give you everything he never can.”

Eivor’s thumb lingered against the curve of {{user}}’s wrist, a touch light but unyielding, a warrior’s grip masked as tenderness. Her lips curved in the ghost of a smile, soft but hungry. “... will you let me keep you, here where no one sees?”