Fighting, Honour and Valhalla Chapter 59 - Viking and The Witcher Year 3 (30k words) (Patreon)

The desert was endless. Sand stretched in every direction, rolling dunes shaped by the wind. The air was dry, carrying dust and the distant scent of animals. The sky above was clear, no shade to be found in the sun. The only break in the emptiness was an oasis where a desert caravan had stopped. The camp sprawled across the sand, a temporary home for men who lived on the move. Dozens of tents stood in uneven rows, their fabric shifting slightly with the desert wind. The largest tents, belonging to the highest-ranking men, sat closest to the water, their entrances open to let in the cool air. Closer to the outskirts, the lesser tents were packed tightly, where the lower-ranked warriors and servants stayed.

Fires flickered as men cooked food and boiled water. Around them, men sat cross-legged, eating from wooden bowls, speaking in low voices. Others moved between the tents, checking weapons, adjusting saddles, tending to the animals. Camels, tied off in groups, grunted occasionally, their long necks swaying as they chewed. Horses stood alert, ears flicking at every noise, their breaths visible in the chill of the desert night.

The sun was high, casting harsh shadows over the camp as the raiders lounged, surrounded by the spoils of their latest raid. Gold and trinkets were strewn about, but their real interest lay with the women they'd taken from the captured caravan, now scattered among the tents. Juma, his face a map of scars, drank heavily from a bottle, his eyes roaming over the chaos with a predatory glint. "Look at these whores," he barked. "They'll serve us well or be sold off."

Kofi had a woman pinned to the ground, her clothes in tatters, her body exposed to the brutal sunlight. He was already on her, his rough hands squeezing her breasts, his fingers digging into her flesh. "Think you're too good for this?" he growled, his breath hot on her face. "You're just meat to us."

She screamed, "My husband—"

"Will be dead by now," Kofi interrupted, his hand forcing its way between her legs, his fingers pushing inside her brutally. She screamed louder, but he only laughed, "Your screams mean nothing here."

From another tent, a woman's cries were cut off by a harsh command, "Shut your fucking mouth or I'll make you choke on it," followed by the sound of gagging.

In another corner, a group had cornered a woman, her eyes wide with terror. Tamba pulled her head back by her hair, his grip harsh. "Look at her shake," he said, his voice thick with cruelty. "Let's see how much she can take."

Her clothes were ripped away, leaving her naked and vulnerable. Hands were all over her, squeezing, probing. "No, stop!" she pleaded, but it was ignored. Tamba forced his fingers into her mouth, gagging her while others held her down, their hands roaming over her body, touching and violating every part of her.

Another woman was dragged into the open, her attempts to cover herself futile. Bako grabbed her, forcing her arms above her head, spreading her legs wide. "Check this one out," he sneered, his fingers digging into her, making her cry out in pain. "She's been waiting for me."

She struggled, her body twisting, but it only seemed to encourage them. "Fight all you want," Bako growled, his actions brutal, his fingers and then his entire hand forcing its way inside her, causing her to scream in agony.

Men moved from woman to woman, some taking turns, others claiming one for themselves. The gold was ignored as they focused on their bodily pleasures.

Juma's laughter rang out, mingling with the cries of pain. "This is how we celebrate," he roared, his voice full of dark glee.

In another part of the camp, a woman was held down by multiple men, her cries for mercy ignored. One raider, named Farai, knelt between her legs, his actions ruthless as he entered her violently, her screams only spurring him on. "You'll learn to like it," he hissed, his movements hard and painful. Another raider, Zuberi, had a woman bent over, his hand around her throat, pulling her head back as he took her from behind, his thrusts harsh and without mercy. "Feel that?" he taunted, his voice full of malice. "That's a real man, I doubt you've ever felt one before."

This was the Banu Khalid, a feared nomadic tribe that moved across the deserts of the Sahel, known for their raids on trade routes. They thrived on the wealth of others, striking hard and vanishing before retribution could come. They respected strength and power but only followed those who could keep power. Their leader, Malik ibn Umar, was such a man.

Malik sat inside his tent, reclining against plush cushions, a cup of wine in his hand. He was a man in his forties, broad-shouldered, thick-bearded, his skin darkened from years beneath the sun. His features were sharp, his dark eyes set deep beneath a heavy brow. His robes were loose but finely made, the deep red fabric trimmed with gold. A heavy belt sat at his waist, a curved sword resting within easy reach. He had killed hundreds if not thousands of men, women and children in his life and he would do so all again for even 1% of what he had now.

Malik lounged against a pile of cushions, a golden cup in one hand, swirling the deep red liquid lazily. He had eaten well, his stomach full of roasted lamb and dates, and the satisfaction of a successful raid left him in a rare, indulgent mood. The spoils had been rich—gold, fine silks, strong camels—but his most prized acquisition sat before him, bound at the wrists.

Zahara bint Yusuf was on her knees on the thick carpets, her wrists tied with rough ropes that bit into her skin. She kept her back straight, her chin up, her defiance clear. Her dark skin was radiant under the harsh light, highlighting her full tits and wide hips. Her lips, full and lush, were tight with anger. Her thick braids, adorned with gold rings, hung down her back, but the jewelry did little to distract from her new clothing - a sheer, thin fabric that barely covered her. It left her large breasts almost entirely on display, her dark nipples poking through the material, sensitive to the cold air. The cloth draped over her hips, revealing her thick soft thighs and the curve of her ass. A thin belt around her waist accentuated her curves, highlighting her flat stomach and the slight bulge of her pubic area, a thick forest of hair was visible between her legs, her clothing doing nothing to hide it.

Her eyes were fierce, filled with hatred, her gaze unyielding despite the men looking at her. Her eyes were large, lined with kohl, making them stand out against her dark skin. Her nose was sharp, her cheekbones high, giving her an aristocratic look that the humiliating outfit couldn't erase.

Hadi ibn Jafar sat beside Malik, plucking dates from a tray, chewing slowly. He watched Zahara with a mix of amusement and curiosity. "She has not spoken a word since we brought her," he mused. "Perhaps she is waiting for her father's men to come for her."

Malik chuckled. "If she believes that, she is a fool. There is no one coming." He leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "Your home is far from here, Zahara. Your father will never find you. You belong to me now."

Still, she said nothing.

Malik smirked. "Proud. I admire it, truly." He leaned back, taking another date between his fingers. "She will break, though. They always do."

Malik reached out, his rough, calloused fingers seizing her jaw, forcing her head up. Her skin was warm and soft against his hand, contrasting starkly with his harsh grip. He traced his thumb over her cheek, then pressed it against her full lips, parting them. "You should be grateful," he growled. "Soon, you'll be my wife. My third, but you'll be well taken care of."

Zahara's eyes burned with defiance, meeting his gaze head-on. "I would sooner die," she hissed, her voice unwavering.

Malik's grin was predatory, his amusement clear at her resistance. "I love hearing that."

His hand slid down, fingers digging into her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his touch as they settled at her collarbone. She tensed under his touch, her body rigid, muscles ready to recoil. His grin widened; he savored her resistance, knowing it would make her submission all the sweeter.

"You have no choice," he continued, his voice a dark whisper, his breath hot against her skin. "You'll see reason. The sooner, the better for you."

Zahara's nostrils flared, her breath slow and deliberate, refusing to show any sign of fear or submission.

Malik's lust was evident, his eyes raking over her barely-covered body. He moved closer, his body pressing against hers, making her feel his arousal through his trousers. His hand moved from her throat, trailing down her chest, fingers roughly tracing the outline of her breasts through the thin fabric. He pinched her nipple, twisting it, watching her face for any sign of breaking.

"You'll learn to like this," he muttered, his voice thick with desire as he continued to grope her. His other hand gripped her hips, pulling her closer, his grip bruising. He forced her legs apart with his knee, pressing it against her, feeling her body's heat even through the sheer material of her garment.

Zahara's jaw clenched, her body fighting against his touch, but she was bound, and her movements only served to press her more against him. Malik laughed, a harsh, mocking sound, as he leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "You feel that?" he whispered, grinding against her. "That's what you do to me. That's what you'll take every night."

He pulled back, his eyes dark with lust, and without warning, he shoved her down onto the carpets, his body immediately covering hers. His hands were everywhere, one gripping her hair to keep her head in place while the other roamed over her body. He ripped at the already scant fabric, tearing it further to expose more of her skin, his fingers digging into her flesh, leaving marks.

"I'll break you," he snarled, his hand moving between her legs, forcing them apart further. His fingers pressed against her, feeling her through the thin cloth, the pressure hard and unyielding. "I'll make you scream my name."

Zahara's breath was ragged, her body under his control, yet her eyes still held defiance. Malik's mouth found her neck, biting her. His hands were rough, one now at her breast, squeezing hard, the other between her legs, fingers probing, trying to force a reaction from her.

"You'll scream for me, in pleasure," he promised, his voice a mix of threat and lust. He ground himself against her, letting her feel every inch of his desire, his movements crude and demanding.

Zahara fought against the ropes, against him, but each movement only seemed to excite him more. Malik's hand moved to undo his trousers, his erection evident, pressing against her. He leaned down, his lips close to hers, his breath hot. "You'll be mine, in every way," he growled, his hand guiding himself towards her, the tip of his cock brushing against her, teasing, threatening.

Hadi shifted beside him. "Perhaps it would be wise to be gentler, Malik. She is of noble blood. If you break her too quickly, you will lose the pleasure of the game."

Malik considered it for a moment, his eyes still dark with lust but now tempered by thought. He chuckled. "You always were one to savor things." He turned back to Zahara, running a finger along the curve of her shoulder, tracing the embroidered patterns of her torn robe. "Perhaps I should take my time with you."

She did not move. Did not blink. Her silence was not submission, but defiance. It only excited him more.

Malik leaned in closer, his lips near her ear. "Perhaps today, I will—"

The horn sounded.

A sharp, urgent blast that cut through the day like thunder.

Malik's head snapped up, his fingers dropping from Zahara. Hadi was already on his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The tent flap burst open, and a breathless warrior stumbled inside.

"Raiders!" the man gasped. "An army!"

Malik shoved past him, stepping outside into the bright daylight. The ground trembled beneath his feet. His ears caught the distant sound of hooves, of voices rising in a chorus of war cries.

He turned toward the dunes, his breath catching at the sight. The sand shifted wildly, and over the dunes came the enemy. Hundreds, dark against the sky, some on horseback with swords glinting, others on foot, moving fast. Their banners flapped, the symbols foreign.

Malik's grip on his sword tightened.

"To arms!" he roared.

Men scrambled, grabbing weapons, throwing on armor. Malik barked orders, pushing his raiders forward, no formation, just chaos. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and steel.

Malik lifted up his sword, his eyes on the approaching horde. "Charge!" he bellowed, leading the reckless rush. Malik braced himself as he charged the enemy warriors that came crashing down the dunes, kicking up sand as they roared, their weapons raised high. His own men, hardened raiders who had spilled blood across countless villages and trade routes, answered with their own war cries, surging forward to meet them. The clash was brutal and filled with the sounds of metal clashing and flesh being torn part.

Swords hacked into flesh. Spears drove through stomachs and ripped back out, trailing loops of intestine. Shields splintered under the force of heavy blows, sending jagged wood flying. Malik saw a man to his left take an axe to the neck, his head half-severed, still attached by a strip of muscle. Blood sprayed in a wide arc as he collapsed, gurgling as his body convulsed on the ground. He surged forward, his sword carving a path through flesh. Blood sprayed across his face, the thick, metallic scent filling his nose. He barely noticed. The screams, the clash of steel, the wet crunch of bone splitting under heavy blows drowned everything else out.

The first enemy came at him fast, swinging a curved blade at his ribs. Malik pivoted, stepping inside the arc, his own sword slashing across the man's throat. The blade bit deep, severing muscle and windpipe, his breath escaping in a wet, gurgling rasp as he dropped his weapon and clutched at his ruined neck. Malik shoved him aside and moved to the next. A hulking raider swung an axe at his head. Malik ducked, feeling the rush of air as the blade passed over him. He lunged forward, ramming his sword into the man's gut. The raider grunted, spitting blood onto Malik's shoulder. With a growl, Malik twisted the sword and dragged it upward, splitting open the man's stomach. Intestines spilled onto the sand, steaming in the cold night air. The raider fell to his knees, hands feebly trying to push his guts back in before he collapsed face-first into the blood-soaked ground.

Another enemy was already coming. Malik tore his sword free and met the charge, parrying a wild strike before driving his boot into the attacker's knee. There was a sharp snap, and the raider howled, falling sideways. Malik ended him with a downward thrust, the tip of his sword bursting from the back of his skull.

The battlefield was chaos. Bodies piled atop one another, twitching, groaning, dying. The sand, once golden beneath the sun, was dark with blood. Men screamed as they were gutted, hacked apart, trampled by their own panicked allies. To his left, Malik saw Ghazi, his massive form swinging a hammer that caved in skulls with each brutal strike. He turned, bashing a raider's chest, ribs shattering, organs bursting under the impact. But before he could raise his weapon again, a blade sank deep into his back. Ghazi roared, swinging wildly, but two more attackers descended upon him. One took his arm clean off at the elbow. Another plunged a spear into his exposed side. Blood poured from his mouth as he staggered, still trying to fight, but his body gave out, crashing to the ground. The raiders didn't stop. They hacked at his corpse until there was little left but meat and shattered bone.

Malik barely had time to react before another foe was on him. He caught the downward swing of a scimitar with his sword, steel ringing against steel. The enemy pushed forward, snarling through broken teeth, spittle flying from his lips. Malik locked his wrist and shoved back, forcing the raider off balance before driving his knee into his groin. The man gasped, doubling over, and Malik grabbed the back of his head, slamming his face into the pommel of his sword. Teeth snapped, blood splattered. Malik drove his blade through the bastard's eye, twisting as he yanked it free.

Screams filled the air, the scent of piss and gore thick. His warriors were dying around him. Some fought like demons, hacking and slashing in desperation, but the enemy kept coming, wave after wave of bodies. Malik watched as one of his men had his throat ripped open, blood spraying in an arc before he collapsed. Another was impaled on a spear, lifted into the air like a gutted animal before being tossed aside.

A spear came at Malik from the side. He twisted, barely dodging as the tip cut a thin line across his ribs. The wielder lunged again. Malik caught the shaft, yanking the man forward before slamming his forehead into his nose. The raider stumbled, dazed. Malik capitalized, plunging his sword into his stomach and dragging it through his ribs. The raider gurgled, spitting blood as he crumpled.

Everywhere he looked, there was only death. Bodies piled on top of one another, limbs severed, eyes wide in terror, mouths frozen in silent screams. The ground was slick, sucking at his boots as he moved. A dying man clawed at his ankle, his face twisted in agony. Malik didn't hesitate. He slammed his blade through the man's skull, putting him out of his misery.

To his right, Hadi fought like a demon, his dagger flashing as he slit throats and gutted men. He grabbed a raider by the jaw, forcing his head back before driving his knife up through his chin, the tip punching through the top of his skull. He turned, blocking a strike with his forearm before driving his blade into another man's chest. He tore it free, blood spraying across his face, and moved to the next.

The fight wasn't over yet. Malik moved fast, his sword carving through another warrior's side, ribs splitting open as he shoved the corpse away. He barely had time to breathe before the next one lunged. He ducked under the wild swing, his own blade flashing upward, splitting the man's face from chin to brow. Blood and bone sprayed out as the body crumpled. Malik stepped over it, pressing forward, carving through flesh, shoving bodies aside.

And then he saw him.

The one who had taken his man's head.

The stranger moved differently from the others. Faster. His strikes were fast and his sword was not curved like most of the ones he saw, but straight and covered in strange runes. His blade cut through throats, slashed across chests, carved into bellies. He didn't hesitate. He dodged, weaved, leaned just enough to let blades miss him by inches, his movements smooth and his counters were never far behind.

A man lunged from behind, and the stranger pivoted sharply, his sword twisting in his grip as he reversed the blade and plunged it into the attacker's gut. He yanked it free, spun, and slammed the pommel into the next raider's temple, shattering bone. The man dropped instantly. Another came from the side, swinging an axe, but the stranger stepped inside the arc of the swing, slammed his elbow into the attacker's jaw, then drove his sword into his ribs. The blade pushed clean through, tip bursting from the man's back.

Malik bared his teeth and surged forward, cutting down anyone in his way. His blade carved into muscle, split tendons, cleaved through bone as he closed the distance.

The stranger saw him.

Malik saw him.

They both moved at the same time.

The stranger rushed forward, cutting down a man at the knee, twisting his grip and slicing upward, taking another's throat. Malik did the same, pushing through the bodies, his sword carving through flesh, blood splattering his arms.

A man tried to grab the stranger. He dropped low, rolling under a wild swing before driving his blade upward into the man's jaw, the tip punching through the top of his skull. He tore the sword free, spun, kicked another in the stomach, sending him sprawling, then slashed downward as another enemy tried to rush him. The blade bit deep into the collarbone, nearly severing the arm. He jerked the blade out, flipped his grip again, and drove it straight into another's heart.

Malik roared, cutting his way through, his sword carving through a raider's stomach, spilling his guts onto the sand. He pressed forward, stepping over the dying, the bleeding, the twitching.

The stranger's movements never slowed. He cut down another, then used the falling body as cover, shifting to the side before slashing out, his blade slicing through an arm. A man swung a club at his head, but the stranger leaned back just enough to avoid it before driving his boot into the attacker's chest, sending him crashing into another. Without missing a beat, he stepped forward, switched his grip, and drove his sword through the man's chest. The blade punched clean through, ribs cracking, blood spilling.

Malik kept pushing. The distance between them closed.

The stranger flicked blood from his sword, rolled his shoulders, and met Malik's charge.

Their swords clashed.

Malik growled at the hooded man, though it seemed to not phase him. In fact the man pushed back and kicked him in the center of his chest clearing the distance between them, though Malik was able to slash at him before so, though the stranger ducked and only his hood was ripped off.

Malik tightened his grip on his sword, sand shifting beneath his feet as he took a step forward. The stranger stood before him, weapon steady, body relaxed but coiled like a predator waiting to strike. He was unlike any warrior Malik had ever faced. His face was sharp, striking in a way that didn't seem natural. Skin pale as bleached bone, hair white as fresh snowfall, eyes cold and unreadable. He looked like something pulled from the afterlife, not a man of flesh and blood.

Malik rushed him first, blade cutting through the air in a downward arc. The stranger moved fast, shifting to the side just enough for the sword to miss its mark, twisting his grip before slashing up in a counterstrike. Malik threw his weight back, barely avoiding the tip of the blade, then stepped into the stranger's guard with a heavy swing aimed at his ribs. The stranger pivoted, catching the strike with his sword at an angle that sent sparks flying before rolling his wrist and shoving Malik's blade away.

Malik roared, his sword slashing through the air as he pushed forward, boots digging into the blood-soaked sand. The stranger met him head-on, blade flashing in the dim light, cutting through a man's throat on the way to meet Malik's swing. The two swords met with a loud clang, the force of the strike sending a jolt through Malik's arms, but the stranger was already moving, pivoting with the force and lashing out with a brutal kick to his ribs.

Malik stumbled back, breath forced from his lungs, but he didn't hesitate, twisting his sword in his grip and charging forward again. The stranger ducked under the first strike, leaned out of the way of the second, then lashed out with a quick thrust. Malik barely managed to move in time, the blade cutting across his forearm, deep enough that blood ran freely down his arm. He gritted his teeth, pain flaring, but ignored it, feinting a thrust before stepping in close and slamming his elbow into the stranger's jaw.

The pale warrior staggered, spitting blood onto the ground, but instead of reeling back, he pressed forward, bringing his sword up in a fast, brutal arc. Malik barely caught it in time, the impact forcing him to take another step back. The stranger followed, relentless, slashing again and again, each strike faster than the last. Malik blocked, dodged, countered when he could, but the pale warrior moved like nothing he had ever seen before—fluid, fast, adaptive.

Another strike came, this one low. Malik jumped back, avoiding the tip of the blade, but before he could steady himself, the stranger moved again. He pivoted, switching grips mid-motion, and slammed the pommel of his sword into Malik's temple.

Pain exploded in Malik's head, the world spinning as he fell to one knee. He barely had time to recover before the stranger was on him again, kicking him square in the chest and sending him sprawling onto his back.

Malik rolled, sand and blood sticking to his sweat-slicked skin. His vision swam, but he forced himself to stand, barely blocking the next strike in time. The stranger's blade sliced through the air, cutting deep into Malik's side, just below his ribs. Blood poured down his waist, staining his tunic, but he ignored it, gritting his teeth and throwing a wild slash.

The stranger stepped back, dodging easily, then came in low. Malik saw it, tried to counter, but the stranger was faster. His sword cut deep into Malik's thigh, slicing muscle. Malik roared, falling to one knee again. He forced himself up, gripping his sword tighter, swinging in a desperate attempt to drive the warrior back.

It was useless.

The stranger ducked under the strike, spun to Malik's blind side, and drove his knee into his wounded ribs. Malik gasped, his body jerking from the impact, blood spraying from his mouth. His vision blurred for a moment, but he forced himself to keep his grip on his sword.

Then the stranger moved in for the kill.

A feint high. Malik raised his sword to block.

Too late did he realize it was a trick.

The real strike came from below.

The stranger's blade flicked up, slicing through Malik's fingers. His grip failed. His sword fell.

Malik barely had time to process it before the stranger pivoted, his blade flashing in the firelight.

Iron met flesh.

Malik's head left his shoulders, blood spraying in an arc as his body collapsed onto the battlefield.

Thorfinn looked down at Malik's corpse, flicking the blood from his sword. He had been skilled, fast, strong. It hadn't mattered.

He stepped over the body, scanning the battlefield. The sand was thick with bodies, men stumbling over the dead and dying as the battle raged on. The sounds of steel clashing and screams filled the air. There was more blood to spill.

His eyes caught movement ahead—Arwyn, carving through the enemy like a beast let loose. A man charged at her, sword raised. She moved fast, too fast for him to react. Her blade cut through his midsection, splitting him in half before his scream could even escape. Blood sprayed across the sand. Another came from behind. She turned, caught his wrist, and twisted until the bones snapped. He screamed, barely a sound before she drove her blade through his chest and kicked him off.

A man swung wildly. She ducked low, shot forward, and punched him in the jaw. Bone cracked. He staggered, blood pouring from his mouth. She grabbed him by the throat and squeezed, his struggling hands clawing at her wrist before she crushed his windpipe and let him drop.

Another came. She caught him by the shoulder and slammed her knee into his stomach, ribs caving in. He fell to his knees, wheezing, barely alive before she kicked his head clean off his shoulders. It rolled through the sand, his body slumping forward.

Two more rushed her at once. She twisted to the side, slashed her sword through the first one's throat, sending blood spraying in a wide arc. The other lunged, but she caught him by the arm, wrenched it back, and tore it from the socket. He howled, collapsing to the ground, but she wasn't done. She grabbed him by the legs, lifted him, and hurled him into a group of fighters, sending them all sprawling into the sand.

Thorfinn snickered.

A group came at him next—four of them, their eyes wild, thinking they could overwhelm him. He didn't give them the chance. He lunged forward, ducked under a spear, and slashed through the wielder's knee. The man crumpled, screaming. Thorfinn spun, his sword carving through the throat of the next. He yanked the blade free, shifted his grip, and drove the pommel into the nose of the third, shattering it. The man stumbled back, blood gushing down his face. Thorfinn stepped in, stabbed him through the chest, and pulled free just as the fourth attacker struck.

He twisted away from the strike, stepped in close, and slammed his elbow into the man's temple. His legs buckled. Thorfinn grabbed him by the hair, dragged his blade across his throat, and let him fall.

He turned, meeting Arwyn in the chaos.

"Ahmed said Zarah would be in the leader's tent," he said, cutting down another man as he spoke.

"Then let us go and finish this," Arwyn replied. "I am tired of this desert."

They fought their way through the camp, cutting down anyone in their path. A man lunged at Thorfinn with a spear. He sidestepped, grabbed the shaft, and yanked the man forward, his sword punching through his ribs. He pushed the corpse aside, parried a blade coming at his side, and kicked the attacker away.

Arwyn caught a man trying to run, grabbing him by the back of his head and slamming him face-first into the sand. He tried to crawl away, but she stomped on his head, caving in the skull. Another came at her with an axe. She caught his wrist, twisted hard, and forced the weapon from his grip. He barely had time to react before she drove the blade through his gut and kicked him off.

They reached the leader's tent.

Inside, Hadi stood with a curved knife, gripping Zarah's hair, dragging her close. Her face was bruised, but her eyes burned with defiance.

Thorfinn didn't hesitate. He pulled a dagger from his belt and threw it.

The blade struck Hadi's wrist, sinking deep. He let out a choked scream, the knife clattering to the floor as blood poured from the wound.

Before he could move, Arwyn was on him. She grabbed him by the back of the neck, yanked him off his feet, and slammed him into the ground. His body bounced from the impact, the air leaving his lungs in a gasping wheeze.

Thorfinn stepped over him, looking at the woman.

"Are you Zarah bint Yusef?"

She didn't answer right away, eyes darting between him and Arwyn.

Arwyn, her Arabic rough but understandable, clarified, "Your father sent us."

Zarah's lips parted slightly. "I am."

Thorfinn nodded. "Good." He turned to Arwyn. "Keep her safe. I'll finish this."

Arwyn pulled Zarah up, standing between her and Hadi. "Fine," she said, kicking Hadi's body aside.

Thorfinn stepped out of the tent. The battlefield was still thick with the last remnants of fighting. The enemy was breaking, but not fast enough. He moved through the camp, cutting down the ones who still resisted. A man tried to flee—Thorfinn caught him, driving his sword through his back. Another came at him, blade high, but Thorfinn was faster. He ducked under the swing, stepped in, and ran his sword through the man's throat. More of them were running now. The camp was collapsing. He saw groups scattering into the desert, their will shattered.

A cheer erupted from the warriors still standing.

The battle was over.

...

It had been nearly six months since Thorfinn and Arwyn had left the ruins of the second city.

Even now, the memory of what happened there still lingered. Hakon. Dyabe. The blood and horror of that place. Thorfinn had seen things that defied understanding. The underground city buried beneath the desert. The metal constructs that moved like living things. The ancient monster that had awoken from its slumber. He could still remember Dyabe's face, the excitement in his eyes as he spoke of finding Enoch, of touching the divine. And then the fear when he realized what he had truly unleashed. Thorfinn had fought to survive, fought to escape, and in the end, Dyabe had given his life for him. He had watched his friend die, powerless to stop it. And though he had made it out, though he had returned to the surface and left that cursed place behind, he knew Hakon was still down there. Waiting.

Thorfinn and Arwyn had left with a large amount of supply and a generous amount of coin, Sira had lived up to her fathers promise and more and provided them a guide to take them to Constantinople, though they would not be joining them, they would go home. They had no reason to remain. Enoch had not been found. Only death had been waiting for them in that ancient ruin.

They had only traveled for a few weeks before raiders had fallen upon them in the night. The fight had been brief. Thorfinn and Arwyn had slaughtered them with ease, cutting them down like cattle, but their guide had not been so lucky. He had been struck down before they could intervene, his throat slit while he slept.

With his death, their journey had become aimless.

For a month, they wandered. The desert was an endless stretch of sand and rock, the heat relentless during the day, the cold biting at night. Water was scarce, food even more so. They hunted when they could, scavenged when they had no other choice. They found an oasis once, but it had been claimed by another band of warriors, and Thorfinn had been forced into another confrontation for the crime of wanting to drink. He was tired, as was Arwyn, but they still slaughtered them and moved on.

They had run-ins with traders, with nomads, with men who wanted to kill them and men who wanted to rob them. Every time, they survived. Arwyn's strength and Thorfinn's skill had kept them alive, but as the days stretched into weeks, the exhaustion grew. They needed a way out. They needed a path forward.

That was when they met Zarah's father.

His name was Emir Yusuf ibn Khalid, a man of wealth and influence, an Emir of the Abbasid Caliphate. They had come across his caravan in the fourth month of their wandering, just as they were beginning to lose hope. His men had been on edge, heavily armed, wary of strangers. It was only when Thorfinn approached without hostility, speaking in what little Arabic he had learned, that they were allowed to meet with him.

Yusuf had been on his way to Constantinople when he was attacked by raiders. He had fought them off, but not without losses. His daughter had been taken, dragged away before his men could stop them. He had been forced to flee, leaving her behind. It had been the greatest shame of his life.

Thorfinn and Arwyn had listened. And then they had made a deal.

They would help his men bring back his daughter, alive and unharmed. In return, he would take them to Constantinople. Yusuf had not hesitated. He agreed on the spot, swearing by God that if they returned her safely, he would see them delivered to the greatest city on earth.

Despite it being nearly two months of tracking them down, it was done.

Thorfinn stood in the blood-soaked battlefield, his sword still in hand, his body aching from wounds both fresh and old, as he watched Zarah run toward her father.

The reunion should have been something from a story, a father embracing his lost daughter, weeping with joy. But there was nothing romantic about this moment. Not with corpses strewn across the sand, the scent of death thick in the air, and the screams of the dying still echoing in the distance.

Zarah reached Yusuf, collapsing into his arms. He held her tightly, hands gripping her as though he feared she would vanish again.

"My daughter," Yusuf breathed, his voice raw. "You are safe."

"I am," she whispered, her face buried in his chest. "I am safe."

Yusuf pulled back, looking her over, checking for wounds, for harm. He cupped her face, murmuring soft words in Arabic, words of relief, of gratitude.

Then, he turned to Thorfinn.

The Emir stepped forward, his richly embroidered robes stained with dust and blood. His eyes were fierce, but there was something else there now—respect.

"You have done me a great service, Northman," Yusuf said, his voice strong. "I am in your debt."

Thorfinn nodded, his grip tightening slightly on his sword. He was exhausted. His muscles burned, his stomach was empty, and his wounds stung.

"I only kept my word," Thorfinn said.

Yusuf's lips curled into a small smile. "Nevertheless, I am grateful." He turned to the gathered men, raising his arms. "Tonight, we feast in honor of my daughter's return!"

A cheer rose from the soldiers.

"And then," Yusuf continued, looking back at Thorfinn, "we move on. To the greatest city on earth."

Thorfinn exhaled, rolling his shoulder. He was ready to leave this desert behind.

___________________________

The celebration was loud, full of life, the air thick with the scent of roasted lamb and spices. Fires burned in the center of the camp, their orange glow casting flickering shadows over the gathering. Men drank deeply from clay cups, toasting to their victory, to the return of Zarah, to the honor of their Emir. The sound of drums and stringed instruments filled the night, voices rising in song. Dancers moved in flowing silks, their bodies swaying with the rhythm, their golden jewelry glinting in the firelight.

Thorfinn sat near the edge of the camp, a bowl of food untouched in front of him. He had eaten, but not much. His body ached from battle, his muscles sore, his wounds barely tended to. He could feel the dried blood sticking to his skin, the faint sting of cuts across his arms and chest. He needed to clean himself.

He pushed himself up and made his way through the camp toward his tent. The warmth of the firelight faded as he moved deeper into the quiet.

Inside, the tent was dimly lit, a single lantern casting a soft glow. He stripped off his shirt, tossing it aside, and sat in front of a shallow metal bowl filled with water. His hands moved to the bandages wrapped tightly around his wrists. As he began to unwrap them, his fingers trembled slightly. The blood had dried into the fabric, making it stick to his skin. He peeled it away slowly, hissing as fresh blood welled from reopened wounds.

His hands clenched into fists.

The sight of the blood sent a shiver down his spine, his mind flashing back to Hakon. The feeling of that creature's grip, the cold press of fangs against his neck. He could almost feel the sting again, the burn of his blood against that monster's skin. His heart pounded, his breath came in short bursts.

A single drop of blood fell into the water.

The surface rippled, distorting his reflection. For a moment, he swore he saw it—Hakon's twisted face staring back at him from the water.

His body tensed. He spun around with a roar, his fist shooting forward, ready to strike.

Arwyn.

She stood just inside the tent, her hand still lifting the fabric of the entrance. His knuckles hovered an inch from her face. Her eyes were wide, but she didn't move, didn't flinch.

Thorfinn pulled his fist back, exhaling sharply. His body was still shaking.

"Next time," he said, voice low, "announce yourself."

Arwyn let the entrance drop behind her, stepping closer. "Still getting bad dreams?" she asked.

He didn't answer. He turned back to the bowl, grabbing a cloth, dipping it in the water, and pressing it against his wounds. He wiped slowly, methodically, but his shoulders were still tight, his breath uneven. His hands struggled to reach the cuts along his back and sides, the places where blades had just barely missed vital points.

"Sit down," Arwyn said.

Thorfinn didn't respond, but she didn't wait for his permission. She grabbed his arm and led him to a seat, pushing him down before kneeling beside him.

She took the cloth from his grip and dipped it into the water again. As she started cleaning the blood and dirt from his skin, her eyes moved over him, tracing the lines of his body.

He had changed.

He was taller than before, standing close to Elijah's height now. His shoulders were broader, his body lean but built from constant battle. He had always been attractive, but where once there had been the soft handsomeness of youth, there was now a hardened sharpness, the kind that only time and hardship could carve into a man. The smoothness of his face had been replaced with a growing beard, one that had started filling in thickly over the past months.

She touched his face lightly with the cloth, dragging it across his jaw, feeling the roughness beneath her fingers.

"Want me to shave it for you?" she asked.

His ice-blue eyes met hers for a moment before he shook his head. "I'll do it later," he said.

He didn't mind the beard, but the heat of the desert made it uncomfortable. He would rid himself of it before they reached Constantinople.

She continued wiping the blood from his skin, her hands moving slowly over his chest, his shoulders. Her body was close to his, the scent of battle still clinging to both of them. As she cleaned him, she spoke, her voice quieter than before.

"Tomorrow, it will have been two years since we left Kattegat."

Thorfinn nodded. "It feels longer."

He thought of home. Of Rebekah. Of Freydis. His daughter would be in her second winter now, walking, talking. And yet she had never met him. The thought settled in his chest like a weight, one he couldn't shake.

Arwyn didn't say anything else. She continued working, her hands steady, wiping away the last of the blood. When she finished, she dropped the cloth back into the bowl and sat back.

Thorfinn held up the cloth. "Your turn," he said.

Arwyn exhaled, then stood. She untied her dress, letting it slip down her body. Her skin was illuminated by the firelight, revealing her changes over the two years. She was taller now, almost matching Thorfinn's height, and her body had filled out. Her shoulders were broader, her muscles more defined from their constant battles. Her breasts had grown, sitting fuller on her chest, the nipples hard from the cool air. Her waist was slender, leading to hips that had widened, giving her a more womanly shape. As she sat, her thick blonde pubic hair was visible, a contrast to her pale skin.

Thorfinn dipped the cloth into the water, bringing it to her shoulder. The warmth made her skin prickle. He moved the cloth down her arm, feeling the new strength there. Her back was next, the muscles defined, her spine a line of strength.

He washed her chest, his touch lingering on her breasts. They were larger, the nipples reacting to the cloth's touch. Arwyn felt a mix of sensations, her skin sensitive to his touch. She was aware of every movement, her mind swirling with conflicting thoughts. She didn't know how she could be so drawn to him, how his touch could make her body react while her mind was filled with resentment. She wanted to hate him, to perhaps even kill him for the life he had dragged her into, yet she couldn't imagine living without him.

Thorfinn continued down her stomach, the cloth tracing her toned abs. His hand moved to her hips, then paused at her crotch. The cloth brushed through her pubic hair, the sensation intimate. Arwyn felt her body tense, not from fear, but from the intensity of the moment.

He washed her legs, his hands feeling the muscle in her thighs, the power from their travels. Each stroke was careful, the water trailing down her skin. Arwyn's mind was caught between the physical sensation and her tumultuous feelings. She hated how much she needed him, how his presence could make her feel both alive and trapped.

As Thorfinn washed her feet, his touch was surprisingly tender, cleaning each toe, the arch of her foot. His hands moved back up her legs, the touch now more intimate as he cleaned her inner thighs.

He washed her face last, his thumb tracing her jaw, her cheeks, her lips, her eyes closed. She was beautiful, she always had been, but she had truly grown into her beauty and was looking a lot similar to Eowyn.

Thorfinn finished washing Arwyn, his hands rubbing her body as he cleaned the last traces of dirt from her skin. He set the cloth aside, watching as she stood up. Her body was still wet from the wash, water droplets clinging to her skin as she reached for her clothes. She pulled on a fresh tunic, the fabric sticking to her damp skin, accentuating her form. She then stepped into her dress, pulling them up over her hips, her movements fluid from the practice of dressing quickly.

Meanwhile, Thorfinn grabbed his own clothes. He removed his damp shirt, his muscles flexing as he did, and donned a clean one. His trousers were next, the leather worn but sturdy. He buckled his belt, the clink of the metal a familiar sound in the quiet tent.

As she adjusted her clothing, Arwyn spoke, her tone curious yet laced with doubt. "Do you think Geralt will be in Constantinople?"

Thorfinn nodded as he tied his boots. "Yes. If he went there, he'll still be there."

"It's been a year since we ended up in these lands. Why would he wait there for such a long time?" she questioned, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Thorfinn shrugged, his hands pausing over his gear. "He must've been bringing us there for a reason."

They both fell silent for a moment, thinking about the journey ahead. Constantinople had been their goal for so long, the end of their trek through harsh terrains and countless dangers.

"We'll finally be there soon," Thorfinn said, a hint of relief in his voice.

Arwyn, now fully dressed, looked at him, her expression thoughtful. "What do you expect to find there?"

Thorfinn allowed a small smile to touch his lips, a rare softness in his usually stern features. "Nothing," he said, then added with a slight lift of his eyebrow, "Everything."

The answer made Arwyn smile, the expression lighting up her face, making her beauty even more striking. She nodded, her smile lingering. "I'm going to get some sleep," she announced, moving towards the tent's exit.

But before she left, she paused in front of Thorfinn. They looked at each other, the air between them charged. Without a word, she leaned in, and their lips met. The kiss was brief, a mix of familiarity and tension, their lips pressing together with a quiet urgency before Arwyn pulled away. She turned and left the tent, leaving Thorfinn standing there, his gaze lingering on the spot where she had been.

Thorfinn stood there for a moment, staring at the entrance of the tent where Arwyn had left. His fingers brushed over his lips, feeling the lingering warmth of the brief kiss. It had been unexpected, but he didn't dwell on it. They were both tired, both restless. Maybe it had meant something, maybe not. Either way, he wasn't going to waste time trying to decipher it.

He exhaled through his nose before turning back toward his cot. The tent was quiet now, the sounds of the celebration still echoing outside but muffled by the fabric walls. He sat down, reaching for one of the books he had taken from the Second City. He had spent months trying to make sense of them, piecing together small fragments of meaning, but it was difficult. The writing was ancient, unlike any script he had ever seen.

The gold-plated book was the most intriguing. Its pages were heavy, lined with delicate engravings that shimmered under the dim lantern light. He ran his fingers over the symbols, trying to recognize any familiar structure, but it was useless. Even with his gift for languages, this was beyond him.

His brows furrowed as he traced one of the markings, eyes narrowing in frustration. He had learned so much since leaving Kattegat, but this still eluded him. He needed more time, more knowledge. Maybe someone in Constantinople would be able to help.

He sighed and leaned back, resting the book against his chest before setting it aside. His body ached, his mind was tired, and despite the noise outside, he knew he needed sleep. He shifted onto his cot, closing his eyes.

A few hours passed. The camp outside had begun to settle, the festivities dying down. His sleep was deep but light, his body still too wired from battle to fully relax.

Then he heard something.

The soft rustle of fabric.

His hand instinctively moved under his pillow, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his dagger. His breathing remained even, his body still, waiting. The sound of quiet footsteps, hesitant but deliberate, grew closer.

In an instant, Thorfinn moved.

He shot up from the cot, grabbing the intruder by the wrist and pulling them down, switching their positions as he pinned them beneath him on the bed. His knee pressed against their thigh, one hand gripping their wrist above their head while the other held the dagger to their throat.

The lantern flickered, his vision adjusting.

Zarah.

She lay beneath him, her wide, dark eyes staring up at him, startled but not afraid.

Thorfinn exhaled sharply and pulled the dagger away, pushing himself off her. "What are you doing here?"

Zarah sat up, her hands smoothing down the fabric of her robe. "I mean you no harm," she said quickly. "I only came to offer my thanks."

Thorfinn narrowed his eyes, still gripping his dagger. "You could have done that in the morning."

She hesitated, then her fingers moved to the ties of her robe. Before he could stop her, she pulled it open slightly, the firelight illuminating the smooth, dark skin of her collarbone and the curves beneath.

Thorfinn sighed, already knowing where this was going. He sheathed his dagger, rubbing his temple. "Close your robe and leave."

She didn't.

Instead, she shifted closer. "I am not here just to say thank you," she admitted, voice softer. "You saved my life. I wish to give you something in return."

"I don't need anything," Thorfinn said, his voice firm.

Zarah's lips curved into a slight smile. "My father would give you gold, horses, weapons. But I have nothing of my own to give except myself."

Thorfinn looked away, jaw tightening. "Your father wouldn't want this."

"My father doesn't control me," she said, inching closer, her robe slipping further from her shoulders. "He is grateful to you. I am grateful."

Thorfinn exhaled sharply through his nose. "Put your clothes back on and leave."

Zarah tilted her head, watching him. "Do you find me unattractive?"

Thorfinn glanced at her, eyes lingering for a moment. She was beautiful, there was no denying that. Her skin was smooth, her body soft where it should be, strong where it needed to be. Her lips were full, her dark eyes intense. He had spent months in the desert, in battle, constantly on edge, never stopping long enough to even think about such things.

But this was dangerous.

"I'm not a fool," he said finally. "Your father will punish you for this if he finds out."

Zarah smirked. "Then I should be the one afraid, not you."

"A dead man can't be afraid," he retorted.

She reached for his hand, her fingers brushing over the scars on his knuckles. "You are unlike any man I have ever met," she murmured, her touch slow, exploring. "You fight like a demon, yet you refuse the spoils of war. Are all Northmen like you?"

Thorfinn let out a dry laugh. "No."

Zarah's hand slid up Thorfinn's arm, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscle. "Then perhaps you are the exception," she said, her voice low and inviting.

Thorfinn clenched his jaw, his breathing steady, his mind battling his body's response. He could still send her away, could end this moment of temptation. But her touch was warm, her body close, and the weariness from battle clung to him like a second skin. It had been months since he'd allowed himself any pleasure outside the chaos of war.

She leaned closer, her breath hot against his neck.

"Stay," she whispered, her lips almost brushing his ear.

Thorfinn exhaled, closing his eyes briefly, feeling the tension in his body give way to desire. Then he gave in.

He turned his head, his lips finding hers, the kiss aggressive, his tongue pushing into her mouth, tasting her. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her against him, feeling the softness of her body against his hard frame. He could feel her breasts pressing into his chest, her nipples hard through the thin fabric of her robe.

Zarah responded eagerly, her hands moving to his shoulders, then down his back, feeling the scars from old battles under her fingertips. She pressed herself closer, her hips grinding against his, making his arousal evident.

Thorfinn's hands roamed, one going to her backside, squeezing the roundness of her buttocks, pulling her even tighter against his growing erection. His other hand moved up, cupping one of her breasts, his thumb brushing over her nipple, feeling it stiffen further under his touch.

He broke the kiss, his lips moving down her neck, kissing and nipping at her skin, leaving small red marks. His hand slipped inside her robe, pushing it off her shoulder to expose more of her. Her skin was smooth, her body firm yet yielding under his rough hands. He kissed down to her collarbone, then lower, his mouth finding her breast, his tongue circling her nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.

Zarah's breath hitched, her hands in his hair, pulling him closer. Her other hand moved to his trousers, fumbling with the laces, desperate to free him. Thorfinn helped her, pulling his shirt off over his head, revealing his battle-scarred torso, then undoing his trousers.

He pushed her robe off completely, letting it fall to the ground. Her body was now fully revealed - her breasts full and round, her waist slender, hips wide and inviting, her skin glowing in the dim light. Her pubic area was covered with dark curls, untouched and virginal, waiting for him.

Thorfinn kissed her again, his hands exploring every inch of her. He moved one hand between her legs, feeling her heat, the dampness of her arousal. His fingers traced her slit, spreading her open gently, feeling how tight she was, how she shivered at his touch.

Zarah moaned, her legs parting further, inviting him in. Thorfinn's fingers dipped inside her, testing her readiness, feeling her body react to him. He spread her wetness around, lubricating her, preparing her.

He broke the kiss to look at her, his eyes dark with lust. He guided her back, laying her down on the bed of furs, her body splayed out for him. His gaze roamed over her, taking in her beauty, her vulnerability, her desire.

Thorfinn positioned himself between her legs, his cock now free, hard and ready. He rubbed the tip against her, feeling her entrance, the tightness there. He pressed forward slightly, the head of his cock meeting her virgin hole, the pressure building as he prepared to enter her. However Thorfinn's cock was large, and as he pressed forward, he met resistance. Her tightness was overwhelming, the fit almost too snug. He pushed gently, guiding just the tip inside her, but Zarah's moan was loud, "Ahhh," echoing through the tent, a mix of pleasure and the sharp pain of her hymen stretching.

Immediately, Thorfinn's hand clapped over her mouth, muffling her cries as he continued to work his way inside. He could feel her body tensing around him, her muscles gripping him in a vice-like hold. The sensation was intense; her warmth enveloped him, but the tightness was like nothing he had experienced before, each inch gained feeling like pushing through a narrow passage.

Zarah's body trembled under him, her muffled moans, "Mmmph," "Ahhh," vibrating against his palm as he slowly, methodically, pushed deeper. He could feel the barrier of her virginity give way, a subtle pop that made her body shudder, her moans turning into whimpers of pain mixed with burgeoning pleasure, "Ohhh."

The feeling for Thorfinn was intoxicating - her tightness around his cock was like a glove, every movement sending waves of sensation through him, the pressure building at the base of his spine. He had not released in so long, and this union was pushing him towards the edge far quicker than he anticipated.

Finally, he bottomed out, his entire length buried within her. The realization hit him; he was in trouble. The tight, pulsating grip of her virgin hole was milking him, and with a groan, he felt himself losing control, his seed spilling inside her without warning.

Zarah moaned, "Ahhh," this time from the sensation of his release, feeling him pulsing inside her. There was a small, awkward silence as Thorfinn's hand slowly moved from her mouth, his breathing heavy, his body still joined with hers.

"Is it always this quick?" Zarah asked.

Thorfinn let out a small laugh. "Not usually," he admitted.

Before she could respond, he thrust again, his cock still hard despite his release. Zarah gasped, "Ohhh," her body arching, the pain now replaced by pure pleasure as he began to move within her. His thrusts were slow at first, allowing her to adjust to the rhythm, to the sensation of fullness.

Each movement sent waves of pleasure through her, her moans growing louder, "Ahhh," "Mmm," no longer needing to be silenced. Thorfinn felt her body respond to him, her tightness now welcoming his thrusts, her hips moving to meet his. He could feel her building towards her climax, her moans becoming higher, "Ahhh," "Ohhh," her breath coming in short gasps.

Thorfinn quickened his pace, the feel of her around him like nothing he had known. Her nails dug into his back, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper with each thrust.

Then, with a cry that filled the tent, "Ahhhhh," Zarah reached her peak, her body clenching around him in rhythmic spasms, her orgasm washing over her in waves. Thorfinn felt her convulse, the sensation pushing him towards another climax, but he held back, wanting to prolong this moment.

As her moans subsided into soft whimpers, "Mmm," Thorfinn continued to move, his thrusts now gentle. Thorfinn slowly withdrew his cock from Zarah, the sensation of leaving her warmth causing a shiver to run through him. Her body felt empty without him, but not for long. With a swift motion, he flipped her over onto her stomach, guiding her onto her hands and knees. Her breasts hung down, swaying with each movement, her nipples brushing against the furs beneath her, adding to her arousal.

Her backside was now presented to him, the roundness of her buttocks jiggling slightly as she adjusted her position, the flesh rippling with each small shift. Thorfinn's hands gripped her hips, pulling her back towards him, his cock already hard again, eager for more.

He positioned himself at her entrance, feeling the heat and wetness still there from their previous union. With one firm thrust, he entered her again, this time from behind. Zarah gasped, "Ohh," the angle allowing him to go even deeper, her body tightening around him in response. Her breasts swayed forward and back with each thrust, the motion hypnotic, her moans filling the air, "Ahhh, mmm."

"That's it," Thorfinn growled, his pace increasing, the sight of her body moving under him driving him wild. Her buttocks rippled with each impact, the sound of skin against skin adding to the primal rhythm of their coupling.

Zarah's voice was thick with pleasure, "Gods, it's so good," she moaned out, her words punctuated by her cries, "Ahhh, ohhh." The sensation of being filled so completely, of him hitting that perfect spot inside her, was overwhelming.

Thorfinn could feel his climax building again, the tight grip of her around him urging him on. With a few more hard thrusts, he spilled his seed inside her once more, his release hot and deep, "Mmm," Zarah moaned, feeling him fill her.

Without giving her time to recover, Thorfinn pulled out, turned her over onto her back, and lifted her legs, folding them back towards her head. This new position allowed him an even deeper penetration. Her breasts were now on full display, bouncing with each of his movements, her body open and vulnerable to him.

He entered her again, his thrusts now hard and relentless, each one driving deeper. Zarah's moans turned into screams of pleasure, "Ahhh! Ohhh! Yes!" but Thorfinn leaned down, capturing her mouth with his to muffle her cries, the sounds of the celebration outside masking any noise that might escape.

"Keep quiet, or the whole camp will know," he murmured against her lips, his words a mix of command and lust, his movements never ceasing. Zarah nodded, her agreement lost in another moan, "Mmm," as she bit her lip to stifle her screams.

The intensity was too much for her; the angle, the depth, the sheer force of his thrusts were pushing her towards another climax. Her body tensed, her legs trembling as she was folded under him, her breasts bouncing wildly. "I'm... I'm going to..." she panted out, her words breaking off into a scream of ecstasy, "Ahhhhhhh!" as her orgasm crashed over her, her body milking him, drawing out his own release.

Thorfinn, feeling her convulse around him, couldn't hold back. With one last deep thrust, he came again, his seed flooding deep inside her, their bodies shuddering together in the throes of pleasure.

Hours later, after countless rounds of passion, Thorfinn lay back, his body spent but still aroused. Zarah, her energy seemingly boundless, moved between his legs, her eyes locked on his as she took his cock into her mouth. She was eager, not afraid to push her limits. She wrapped her lips around him, her tongue swirling around the head before she took him deeper, her mouth stretching to accommodate him.

The room was filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of her sucking, "Gluk, gluk," as she bobbed her head, her saliva coating his length, making it slick. She wasn't shy about gagging, the sound of her choking on him only seemed to fuel her desire, "Glrk, glrk," her throat constricting around him, her eyes watering but filled with lust.

She pulled back for air, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock, then plunged back down, taking him even deeper, her nose brushing against his pubic hair. Thorfinn groaned, his hands in her hair. Her technique was raw, unexperienced but she more than made up for that with enthusiasm, the sounds of her oral ministrations echoing in the tent, "Gluk, gluk, glrk."

After a moment, Zarah transitioned, her mouth sliding off with a loud, "Pop," as she moved her attention to her breasts. She pressed them together around his cock, her soft, full flesh enveloping him. She moved up and down, her breasts sliding against his shaft, the sensation different but just as intense. Her nipples were hard, brushing against his skin. Thorfinn watched, mesmerized by the sight of her breasts working his cock, the wet sounds of her saliva still lubricating the motion. "Mmm," Zarah moaned, enjoying the feeling of his hardness between her breasts, the friction sending shivers through her.

The combination of her warm mouth, then her soft breasts, was too much. Thorfinn felt his climax building, his body tensing. With a deep groan, he released, his seed erupting in thick, hot spurts. Zarah tried to catch it all, her mouth open, but there was too much; it spilled over her lips, down her chin, onto her breasts, covering her in his essence.

She gasped, "Ahhh," her face and chest glistening with his cum, a look of satisfaction mingling with the mess. She licked her lips, tasting him, then smiled up at him, still holding her breasts around his softening cock.

Thorfinn was exhausted, his body feeling the weight of their night's activities. He lay back, his breathing heavy, his eyes closing as the afterglow of his release washed over him. "You should make your way back," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, trusting that she could find her way back to her own tent.

Zarah nodded, wiping some of the cum from her face with her fingers, then licking them clean. She gave his cock one last, gentle kiss before standing up, her body still humming with the remnants of their shared pleasure. She dressed quietly, her movements slow and deliberate, her skin still warm and flushed. As she left the tent, she looked back once, seeing Thorfinn already succumbing to sleep, his chest rising and falling in deep, rhythmic breaths. The night was silent now, the camp quiet after the earlier festivities. She stepped out into the cool air, feeling the night's chill against her skin. With a small, satisfied smile, she made her way back to her tent, her body still tingling, her mind replaying the night's events as she navigated the dark, the memory of Thorfinn's touch lingering on her skin.

___________________________

The weeks stretched into months as they traveled across the endless terrain, moving steadily toward their final destination. The nights were long, the days scorching, but the caravan pushed forward. Thorfinn had expected Zarah to return to his tent after that night, but when she did, he refused her. The next night, and the night after, the answer was the same. She didn't push him, but he could see the frustration in her eyes, the slight edge in her tone whenever they spoke.

He rarely spoke with anyone, preferring solitude. When Arwyn arrived at his tent, however, it was different. They never spoke of why she chose to sleep beside him, nor did they address the unspoken understanding between them. She would come in late, lay beside him, and they would drift off in silence. There were no words, no intimacy, just the quiet comfort of knowing someone familiar was there.

And then, at long last, they arrived.

It was early morning when they crested the final hill, the horizon stretching wide before them, and Yusuf reined his horse in beside Thorfinn, his face bright with pride as he gestured ahead.

"Welcome, Thorfinn," he said. "To the greatest city that ever was and ever will be."

Thorfinn squinted, eyes narrowing against the rising sun. Then he saw it.

It was enormous. Unlike anything he had ever seen, unlike anything he had even imagined.

The city sprawled along the coastline, its walls stretching farther than he could see. They were massive, higher and thicker than any fortress he had ever encountered, lined with towers and watchposts. Beyond them, the city itself was a dense maze of buildings, their rooftops gleaming in the morning light. Ships crowded the bay, more than he had ever seen in one place, their sails bright against the blue waters. At the harbor, men swarmed like ants, unloading cargo, shouting orders, pushing carts piled with goods. Bridges arched over narrow waterways that cut through the city, and strange stone channels carried water from somewhere beyond the hills.

The palaces and temples were unlike anything in the North. Some had domes of shining metal, others had towering spires that seemed to reach for the sky. The largest structure stood at the city's heart, its roof so wide it looked like it could hold an entire village beneath it. It was vast, built from pale stone, its entrances flanked by tall pillars and carvings that glowed gold in the sun.

The streets stretched endlessly, filled with people, their clothing colorful and foreign, their voices a constant hum even from this distance. There were markets spilling out into the open squares, stalls covered in bright cloth, the scent of food and spices drifting even to where they stood.

Arwyn pulled her horse beside him, her eyes wide, lips slightly parted as she took it all in.

She had never seen anything like this.

Thorfinn turned his head to look at her, seeing his own shock reflected in her face.

"This isn't real," she muttered, almost to herself.

"It is," Thorfinn said, gripping the reins tighter. "This is real."

He had thought the Second City was the greatest place he would ever see, but that place had been a ruin, a ghost of what once was. This was alive. Thriving. A place that had never fallen. He exhaled slowly, his breath steadying as he took it all in.

Yusuf clapped Thorfinn on the back, his face full of warmth and pride as he turned to him. "This is where we part ways, my friend," he said, reaching into his robes. He pulled out a leather pouch heavy with coin and pressed it into Thorfinn's hand. "Take this. Gold will open doors here, and in this city, any man can make something of himself."

Thorfinn looked down at the pouch, weighing it in his palm before glancing back at Yusuf. "I didn't do this for gold."

Yusuf chuckled. "I know. That is why I give it to you freely. You have earned more than this, but take it as a gift, not as payment." His expression grew more solemn. "This city is the center of the world. You will find anything here—power, knowledge, allies, and enemies alike. Tread carefully, Thorfinn."

He turned to Arwyn, giving her a respectful nod. "You both have my gratitude. I will see to it that your names are spoken well in my halls. May your gods watch over you."

Arwyn gave a short nod in return, and Thorfinn gripped Yusuf's forearm, exchanging a firm shake before releasing him.

With that, the Emir turned his horse, riding back toward his men who were already setting up camp, their banners rippling in the wind. The caravan had its own business in the city, but Yusuf would not be entering just yet.

Thorfinn exhaled, securing the pouch at his waist before looking at Arwyn. "Ready?"

She pulled the reins tight, her horse shifting beneath her. "I've been ready."

Thorfinn smirked, then dug his heels into his horse's side, spurring it forward. Arwyn followed close behind, and together they galloped down the dusty path toward the city gates, the massive walls looming closer with every stride.

The closer they got, the more the details sharpened—the cracks in the stones of the walls, the reinforced iron gates, the rows of guards stationed at the entrance. Merchants and travelers were streaming in, carts packed high with goods, men shouting in a dozen different tongues, the smell of spice and sweat thick in the air.

This was it.

The great city.

Constantinople.

...

Thorfinn and Arwyn rode up to the gate, joining the long line of people waiting to enter. The crowd was dense, filled with merchants, travelers, and common folk, all waiting their turn under the watchful eyes of the guards. An even larger procession of soldiers lined the walls and the entrance, their armor gleaming in the morning light.

Arwyn shifted in her saddle. "Has there been an attack?"

Thorfinn scanned the scene. There were too many camps, too many makeshift market stalls just outside the walls for that. The people seemed tense, but not panicked. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Maybe it's for security. Or maybe they're looking for someone."

Arwyn glanced at him. "You sound unsure."

"I am."

They dismounted, leading their horses forward as the line moved. The closer they got, the more they saw. A group of men was dragged from the line, their protests falling on deaf ears. The guards slammed them to the ground, kicking and beating them with clubs. One of them tried to crawl away, only for a boot to crush his hand into the dirt.

A few others suddenly broke into a run, trying to slip through the gates. It was foolish. The response was immediate. Crossbowmen positioned above fired without hesitation, their bolts slamming into the fleeing men, sending them sprawling to the ground in pools of blood.

Arwyn tensed, her hand moving beneath her cloak to rest on her sword. "We should find another way in."

Thorfinn didn't react. "It'll be fine. They aren't looking for us."

"We don't know what they're looking for," she shot back, eyes narrowing as they moved closer.

Thorfinn glanced at her, voice calm. "We have nothing to hide. Now stop acting so tense. It'll make them suspicious."

Arwyn exhaled through her nose but didn't say anything else.

The line moved, slow but steady. They waited, watching as the guards inspected each group with scrutiny. When they were finally called forward, a man in a bronze helmet spoke to them in a sharp, unfamiliar tongue. Greek.

Thorfinn didn't understand it, but he knew what language it was. Geralt had told him about it. He also told him that most of the guards here spoke Latin as a second language, or at least had someone who did.

Thorfinn switched to Latin. "Greetings."

The guard eyed him before switching to Latin as well. "Take off your hood."

Thorfinn did as he was told, pushing it back. The guard's expression shifted from suspicion to shock, his eyes widening at Thorfinn's pale skin and snow-white hair. Then, he grinned, turning to his fellow guards and muttering something in Greek.

They all started laughing.

"Look at this," the guard chuckled, stepping closer. "A spirit walks among us!"

The others laughed louder, some knocking on their breastplates as if to ward off bad omens. One spat on the ground, muttering a quick prayer.

Thorfinn didn't react. He had heard worse.

The guard, still grinning, crossed his arms. "What business do you have in the city?"

"To meet a friend. To learn."

The guard waved his hand dismissively. "I don't care." He turned and gestured to the others, who immediately went to their horses and began rummaging through the saddlebags.

Arwyn moved, stepping forward to stop them, but Thorfinn grabbed her arm and shook his head. "Let them," he muttered under his breath. "It's not worth it."

She glared but didn't resist.

The guards tossed things around carelessly, knocking items to the ground, shoving clothes and supplies aside without care. One of them smirked as he pocketed a small trinket, thinking neither of them noticed.

"One gold to enter the city," the guard said, holding out his hand.

Thorfinn pulled a gold piece from his pouch, but the man's smile widened. "Each."

Thorfinn didn't move for a moment, staring at him. A gold coin for entrance? A joke if he had ever heard one. The man was swindling them, taking advantage of the situation.

He could call it out. He could challenge them.

But he didn't.

He was tired. He just wanted to get inside.

Without another word, he handed over the gold for both of them.

The guard's grin never faded as he pocketed the coins and gestured for them to pass. "Welcome to the greatest city in the world."

Thorfinn led his horse forward, Arwyn walking beside him. When they were past the gates, she scoffed. "You let them rob you."

"It wasn't worth the trouble."

"They took from the saddlebags too."

"I know."

Arwyn sighed, shaking her head, but she didn't argue further.

They walked through a tunnel beneath the massive wall, the air cool and damp compared to the sun-baked streets outside. The tunnel was long, leading them beneath thick layers of stone, before finally opening up.

And then they stepped into the city.

The world seemed to expand before them.

Arwyn sucked in a breath, and Thorfinn slowed his steps.

The streets stretched endlessly, packed with people moving in every direction. Towers and spires reached for the sky, domes gleamed under the sun, great arches framed bustling plazas. Merchants called out from every corner, selling goods from every part of the known world. Perfumed air mixed with the scent of cooking meats and burning incense.

The sheer scale of it all made Kattegat seem small, made every city Thorfinn had seen before look like a mere village in comparison.He had traveled far. He had seen much. But nothing like this.

Arwyn exhaled as they continued down the street, the noise and sheer number of people pressing in on them from all sides. "How are we even going to find Geralt in this place?" she asked, eyes scanning the endless sprawl of buildings, the sheer immensity of it overwhelming.

Thorfinn kept walking, glancing around. "We'll ask around. He can't be too hard to find."

Arwyn gave him a flat look. "You couldn't even find him when he was hiding in Kattegat."

"That was different."

"How?"

"It just was."

"Oh, it just was," she said, mocking his tone before shaking her head and stepping ahead of him.

Thorfinn sighed, watching as she wandered toward one of the market stalls. He caught up as she stopped in front of a display of fine dresses, fabrics hanging in rich colors of blue, red, and green, the embroidery shimmering in the sunlight. She reached out, her fingers brushing over a piece of silk, her expression unreadable.

"Geralt is waiting for us," Thorfinn said, standing next to her. "He won't make himself hard to find."

Arwyn rolled her eyes and moved on. "What do we do in the meantime?" she asked.

Thorfinn sighed again. He wanted to head straight for the library, to find whatever centers of knowledge this city had to offer, but he knew that could wait. Geralt had brought them here for a reason. He hadn't seen him in a year, and it was time to find him.

"We find an inn. Preferably one with a stable. Then we start asking around."

They moved through the crowd, stopping at a few merchants and passersby, but the first few they approached only responded with blank stares or quick shakes of the head. Latin wasn't as common here as he'd hoped.

Eventually, they found a wine merchant pouring drinks for a small group of customers. He had a well-groomed beard and a round stomach, his clothes rich, but not ostentatious. When Thorfinn spoke, the man's eyes lit up, clearly recognizing the language.

"You're looking for an inn?" the merchant asked, switching to Latin easily.

"Yes," Thorfinn replied. "One with a stable."

The man smiled. "You'll want the Golden Laurel. Go straight down the main market road. You'll see the sign with the laurel wreath."

Thorfinn nodded. "Thank you." He reached into his pouch and pulled out a few coins. "Your finest bottle."

The merchant grinned, plucking a deep green bottle from behind the stall and handing it to him. "A fine choice," he said. "Welcome to the greatest city in the world."

Thorfinn tucked the bottle into his pack and led Arwyn further down the road.

They followed the merchant's directions, weaving through the thick crowds until they spotted a wooden sign hanging from a sturdy beam. A laurel wreath was carved into the wood, the words beneath it written in Greek.

A young stablehand rushed up as they approached, barely more than a boy, dressed in simple but clean clothes. He looked between them and their horses, eyes slightly wide at the sight of Thorfinn.

Thorfinn pulled out a few silver coins and handed them over. "Make sure they're fed and brushed," he said, hoping the boy understood.

The stablehand nodded quickly and took the reins, leading the horses toward the back.

Thorfinn and Arwyn stepped toward the inn's entrance, the smell of food and spiced wine wafting out from inside. The sounds of voices, laughter, and the clatter of dishes filled the air.

"Let's get a room," Thorfinn said, pushing open the door.

Thorfinn and Arwyn stepped inside, immediately hit by the thick air—sweat, alcohol, and unwashed bodies mixing into something foul. The Golden Laurel was nothing like the merchant had described. Men shouted over each other, laughter and curses blending together. The floor was filthy, covered in spilled drinks, food scraps, and what smelled like vomit in the corner.

A crash rang out as a table flipped over. A man was thrown across the floor, blood running from his broken nose. His attacker, a thick-armed brute missing a tooth, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the floorboards. The beaten man groaned, trying to push himself up, but the brute kicked him hard in the ribs, a sharp crack echoing. He grabbed a broken piece of pottery from the ground and jammed it into the man's thigh. The wounded man screamed, writhing as the brute stood over him, laughing. No one around them seemed to care.

Arwyn glanced up at Thorfinn. "This is not what that merchant described."

Thorfinn didn't look at her. "I don't care," he said, stepping over the groaning man. "As long as I get a bed."

They walked to the counter where the innkeeper stood, a broad-shouldered man with greasy hair and a stained tunic. He was counting coins, barely looking up at them.

"Room for two," Thorfinn said in Latin.

The innkeeper's eyes dragged up from his coins. He looked Thorfinn over, taking in the armor, the weapons, the scars. His gaze moved to Arwyn, lingering just a second too long before he smirked. "One room, two beds. Three gold."

Thorfinn stared at him. "Three?"

The innkeeper shrugged. "A good place isn't cheap. And space is limited."

Thorfinn exhaled through his nose. He wasn't a fool. He knew what things were worth, and a room in this pit wasn't worth a fraction of what the man was asking.

"One silver," Thorfinn said flatly.

The innkeeper laughed, shaking his head. "For a silver, you can sleep in the alley."

"One silver," Thorfinn repeated.

"Three gold," the innkeeper said again.

Thorfinn tapped his fingers against the counter. "If you don't take the silver," he said, voice calm, "then I'll kill you, then I'll kill every drunk fool in here, and I'll take whatever room I want."

The innkeeper's smirk faded. His eyes darted to Arwyn, who was already resting a hand on her sword, ready to back up every word.

The innkeeper hesitated. "Two gold."

"One silver," Thorfinn said again.

The man's jaw clenched. He glanced around the tavern, seeing no one who'd be willing to die over his profits. He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine."

Thorfinn flicked the coin onto the counter. "We'll need two mugs."

The innkeeper grabbed them quickly, eager to be rid of them.

Thorfinn pulled the bottle of wine from his pack, popped the cork, and poured a generous amount into both mugs, sliding one over to Arwyn.

They lifted their drinks and clinked them together before taking a deep swig.

Both of them immediately spit it out.

Thorfinn scowled, looking at the mug like it had personally insulted him. "What piss."

Arwyn wiped her mouth. "If that's his finest, I fear for his other customers."

She poured the rest onto the floor, and Thorfinn did the same.

"Get us something real," she said to the innkeeper.

The innkeeper grabbed a wooden jug from beneath the counter and poured them each a mug of what was on tap. The dark red liquid sloshed slightly as he set them down in front of them.

Thorfinn and Arwyn each took their mugs and drank deep before slamming them back onto the counter at the same time. They both raised an eyebrow, glancing at each other.

It was still wine. But it was better. Smoother. Not the piss they had first been given.

Thorfinn exhaled through his nose. He wasn't much of a wine drinker, but at least this wasn't completely undrinkable. Still, it wasn't what he wanted.

"I'd rather have ale. Or mead."

The innkeeper barked out a laugh. "We don't sell that barbarian swill here."

Thorfinn grunted, rolling his shoulders. The day had not started well. The guards at the gate had robbed him, the first wine had tasted like goat's piss, and now he had to put up with an innkeeper who clearly thought himself amusing. He wanted to take his knife and drive it through the man's hand just for the irritation. Maybe tomorrow. Right now, he wouldn't let it ruin his mood. He was here. Constantinople. A city that had existed to him only in books and the words of travelers. The greatest city in the world.

And yet, all he wanted was a strong drink.

Arwyn swirled the wine in her mug, staring down at it like she was contemplating something heavier than just its taste. "I haven't had ale or mead in over a year."

Thorfinn smirked slightly. "How often did you drink it back home?"

Arwyn's head snapped up, giving him a sharp look like he had said something idiotic. "You've seen me drink it many times."

"In Northumbria," he added.

The amusement in his voice made her stiffen. A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but there was something else beneath it—something he couldn't quite name. She went silent, her fingers tightening around the mug. Her knuckles turned white.

"My... father made ale from barley," she said after a moment, her voice lower, quieter. "I wasn't allowed much. I was too young."

Her voice didn't break, not exactly, but there was something strained in it. Something fragile.

Thorfinn watched her for a moment. "Tell me more about your family."

Arwyn's grip tightened further, her breathing slow, controlled. "Why?"

"You never speak of them."

She scoffed, looking at him like he was an idiot. "Because they're dead, Thorfinn."

"I know that," he said, unfazed. "Doesn't mean you can't talk about them."

Arwyn laughed, a bitter sound. "And what would you like me to say? That my father was a good man? That my mother was kind? That my sister wanted nothing more than to run far away from you?" She looked at him, her blue eyes sharp, hard. "Or should I talk about how you killed them?"

Thorfinn didn't flinch, but his fingers tensed around his mug. He held her gaze, searching it for something—anger, sadness, hatred. Maybe all three.

"You should stop talking about my family," she said, her voice low, dangerous.

Thorfinn nodded, letting it go. He took another drink, setting his cup down with a dull thud against the counter.

The silence that followed was thick. He could feel it pressing between them. He knew what he had done to her, what he had taken. He knew better than to push. But still... sometimes he wanted to.

"We should rest for a bit before heading out to look for Geralt."

"I'll go now," Arwyn said, sharp and short. She downed the rest of her drink in one go, slammed the empty mug on the counter, and walked out, her steps stiff.

Thorfinn sighed, rubbing his temple as he watched her go.

The innkeeper smirked as he wiped a cup with a rag. "Women, eh?"

Thorfinn turned his head, eyes narrowing. "Haldir spýr of fávi, en ek spýri af hnífi." (A fool talks with his mouth, but I talk with my knife.) His voice was low, dangerous.

The innkeeper's smirk faded, and he turned his attention back to his work.

Thorfinn drank the rest of his wine in one gulp, tossed half a dozen coppers onto the counter, and stood up. His body ached from travel and battle, his wounds a dull throb beneath his clothes. He had barely slept in days, and now that they were finally here, the exhaustion was catching up to him.

He made his way toward the stairs, stepping past drunken men who barely noticed him. One slumped against the bannister, half-conscious, while another bled from a gash on his forehead, laughing as his friend slapped him on the back. The stench of sweat, alcohol, and unwashed bodies thickened the air, making him grimace.

At the top of the stairs, he found his room. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was worse than he expected.

The cot in the corner looked like it had been slept in a hundred times without ever being cleaned, the sheets stained and stiff. The wooden walls were damp, likely from sweat and spilled drinks, and the air smelled of mold. A single candle flickered on the rickety table beside the bed, casting weak light across the cramped space.

Thorfinn sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

He had slept in worse.

He closed the door, locking it behind him, and sat on the edge of the bed. He wasn't sure how long they would be in this city. However long it took to find Geralt. Then what? That was the question.

Thorfinn sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. His thoughts churned in his head, circling back to Arwyn. He didn't know how to deal with her, didn't know what he was supposed to feel about her. By all the laws of gods and men, he had been right. The strong take from the weak. That was the way of the world. Her father had failed to protect his family, and that was on him. She had no right to hold onto that anger, no right to demand something that wasn't hers to demand. She should accept what happened. She should move on. That was the logical conclusion, the one that every lesson in his life told him was true.

But then there was the other part of him. The part that had seen Eowyn in the desert. The part of him that questioned what he had done—not in the sense of regret, but in the sense of understanding. Was he truly right? Did might alone make right? That side of him lingered, whispering doubt into the cracks of his mind.

He clenched his jaw and cast those thoughts aside. He didn't want to think of Eowyn. He didn't want to remember her standing over him in the sands, speaking to him as if she still lived. He had left her behind long ago. The past was done.

That still left Arwyn. What was he to do with her? Would she be happier if he let her go? If he told her to leave, to go wherever she wished, to forget about Kattegat and him and everything that came before? The thought made his chest tighten. A part of him, deep and primal, rejected it outright. The idea of her being gone, truly gone, was unbearable. He didn't know why, but he knew that much.

And yet, what was the alternative? They keep traveling together until one day they finally come to blows? Until one of them ends up dead? He scoffed at the thought. No, that wouldn't happen. No matter how tense things were between them, there was something unspoken between them. Something that held them together despite everything.

He exhaled and rested his forearms on his knees, staring down at his hands. In truth, he didn't know what to do. He had no answers. But he knew one thing—he couldn't lose her. Not like he lost Hild. Not like he lost everyone else. He wouldn't lose anyone ever again. His fists clenched at the thought.

Shaking his head, he stood up, deciding to focus on something else. The grime from travel clung to his skin, the sweat, the dirt, the blood. He needed to clean himself.

He opened the door to his room and leaned out, catching sight of a passing wench. He gestured to her, but she didn't seem to understand Latin like the innkeeper had. He had to mime his request, pretending to wash himself, pointing at a bucket. She watched him for a moment before nodding in understanding. He reached into his pouch and flipped her a copper before shutting the door.

Stripping out of his clothes, he tossed them onto the chair beside the bed. He rolled his shoulders, the aches of battle and travel still lingering in his muscles. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his beard. He'd need to shave soon.

The wench arrived a short while later, placing the bucket down beside him before giving him a nod and leaving without a word. Thorfinn knelt beside it, dipping his fingers into the water. As expected, it was ice-cold. He had been hoping it would be warmer, but instead of calling the wench back to heat it, he decided to handle it himself.

He sat back on his heels, closing his eyes for a moment. He steadied his breathing, focusing on the feeling deep inside of him—the same feeling that had erupted out of him when Hakon had nearly killed him. A faint warmth stirred in his chest, like an ember waiting to be fanned into a flame. He let it build, then willed it forward, and a small glow flickered into life in his palm.

He opened his eyes. The light hovered there, pulsing slightly. It was the same energy he had used against Hakon, the same power that had burned the creature when nothing else could. He still didn't understand it. It wasn't fire, not in the way Igni was. It didn't flicker or waver, nor did it burn the air around it. He had spent weeks after their escape from the Second City trying to summon it again, managing only small flashes at first. After a few months, he had been able to make it grow larger. Just before they reached Constantinople, he had learned to make it hotter.

Yet it did not act like fire.

Thorfinn plunged his glowing hand into the water. It should have snuffed out, just as a flame would. Instead, the light remained, steady and unwavering, and soon, the water began to bubble. The warmth spread until steam curled off the surface. He watched it for a moment longer, then closed his hand, dismissing the energy.

Whatever this power was, it had to be something far beyond him if it was enough to drive back that monster.

He grabbed the cloth, dipping it into the water before wringing it out. The warmth felt good against his skin as he ran it over his arms, wiping away the dust and grime from travel. He moved to his chest, then his back, stretching out the aches from the long ride. The water turned murky as he cleaned himself, but at least he no longer felt like he was carrying half the road with him.

Once done, he dried off and pulled on fresh clothes. A clean tunic, sturdy trousers, and his boots. He strapped his belt back around his waist before reaching for his sword. The steel rasped as he drew it from its scabbard, his brows furrowing the moment his eyes landed on the blade.

The stain was still there.

He ran his thumb along the edge, then grabbed the cloth again and tried to wipe it away, but as before, it did nothing. The dark, dried blood had seeped into the steel itself. Ever since the moment he had stabbed Hakon in the heart, no amount of scrubbing, washing, or sharpening had been able to cleanse it.

He sheathed the blade again and tied it back onto his belt. He didn't know what it meant, if it meant anything at all.

He turned to the window, looking out over the city. Constantinople stretched beyond him. Somewhere within those walls, Geralt was waiting. Finding him would be no easy task.

Thorfinn exhaled, stepping toward the door. "Might as well get started now."

___________________________

Arwyn walked through the crowded market, her fists clenched at her sides, the irritation from her conversation with Thorfinn still burning in her chest. He had no right to bring up her father. No right to speak of her family as if they were just some distant memory to be idly mentioned over a drink. He had killed them. He had been the one to burn her home to the ground, to slaughter her kin like they were nothing. And now, years later, he spoke of them as if they were just another part of his past, another story to be recounted without thought. She exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing herself to focus on her surroundings instead. The market was loud, filled with the sounds of merchants shouting over one another in a language she barely understood. She wasn't in the mood for the noise, nor the press of people, but she needed to be away from the inn. Away from him.

A man stepped in front of her, grinning wide, gold rings flashing on his fingers. He held up a small vial filled with a red liquid, shaking it slightly so the sunlight caught it. He said something in Greek, fast and eager. She stared at him, uncomprehending, before shaking her head and stepping around him. Another vendor called to her, holding up a swath of silk, running his fingers over the fabric to show its softness. Again, she ignored him.

A woman reached for her wrist, pulling her toward a stall filled with beads and jewelry. Arwyn stiffened, yanking herself free, and the woman scowled, muttering something under her breath before turning to another potential customer.

She was sick of it already. Sick of the voices, sick of the unfamiliar words, sick of the way people kept trying to get her attention. She just wanted to walk.

She didn't want to think of anything yet she couldn't help the rush of thoughts that streamed through her mind. Thorfinn had killed her family. That was an unshakable fact. And yet, despite everything, she had stayed at his side. She had fought beside him, had slept next to him, had trusted him with her life more times than she could count. It made no sense. By all rights, she should hate him. Should have hated him from the moment she had been taken from her home.

Yet she didn't. Not truly. Not anymore.

She hated herself for that. She hated herself for the fact that she felt closer to him after spending two years being practically joined ag the hip. She hated how much she loved his touch, how much she tried to reason the death of her own family.

She stopped in front of a stall, realizing too late that she had no idea what the merchant was selling. Small, round objects lay in baskets, but their scent was unfamiliar. He gestured for her to come closer, saying something she didn't understand, and she shook her head, stepping away. She needed to clear her mind. Needed to stop thinking about Thorfinn, about the past, about everything that had been gnawing at her since they'd arrived in this city.

Arwyn exhaled sharply and slapped her cheeks, shaking her head. Enough sulking. She was in the greatest city in the world. A year in the desert, seeing nothing but endless sand and scorching sun, had been enough. She deserved to enjoy herself.

Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn't eaten much since arriving. She scanned the food stalls, the scent of spiced meats, roasted nuts, and freshly baked bread thick in the air. She approached the nearest one, eyeing the skewered meat sizzling over the fire. The merchant said something in Greek, gesturing to the food. She didn't understand a word, but she reached into her pouch and pulled out a few coins, dropping them in his palm. He seemed pleased, handing her a skewer in return. She bit into the meat, surprised by the burst of flavor.

It was good. Probably cost her more than it should have, but she didn't care. She had taken Thorfinn's purse before leaving the inn. If some random guards could rob him at the gate, then surely he wouldn't mind her doing the same.

She continued walking, buying whatever caught her eye—a sweet pastry filled with nuts and honey, a cup of some fruity drink, a roasted fig wrapped in cured meat. Each time, she handed over more coins than necessary, knowing she was likely being swindled but too amused to care.

After finishing the last of her food, she found herself in a different part of the city. The streets were wider, cleaner. The people here moved with a slower grace, their clothing finer, their jewelry more extravagant. There were more guards, standing at intervals along the streets, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd.

Her gaze was drawn to a massive fountain in the center of the square. It was twice the size of the longhouse at Thorfinn's farm, a masterpiece of carved stone. Water gushed from the mouths of statues, cascading down into the basin below. It sparkled under the midday sun, a sight unlike anything she had ever seen.

Her eyes widened as she stepped forward, wanting to get a closer look.

Then she felt it.

Eyes on her.

The laughter came first—soft snickers and hushed whispers from the finely dressed women seated on a nearby stone bench. A group of men spoke in low voices, glancing at her before turning to the guards.

She frowned and looked down. Her dress was a mess.

She hadn't had much clothing in the desert, and what she did have had been worn thin, torn in places, the edges fraying. She hadn't cared before, not when survival had been more important. Now, standing here among these people, she felt self-conscious for the first time in years.

A few of the nobles gestured toward her, speaking to the guards.

She left before they could make any trouble.

As she walked away, she thought about her clothing. She had never cared much for dresses growing up, but there had been a time when she had envied Alfrida, the lady of the house, for her fine gowns. She and Eowyn had once tried to steal one, sneaking into the chambers where they were kept, only to be caught and scolded by their father. In Kattegat, clothing had mattered only in function. Warmth was more important than appearance. If you had both, it was a sign of wealth, but it was never as important as it was here.

But now she wasn't in either place. She reached into her pouch, feeling the weight of the gold coins inside.

A small smile crossed her lips.

Why not?

___________________________

Thorfinn stepped out of the inn, adjusting the sleeves of his new tunic. The material was clean and comfortable, but his mood was sour. His main coin pouch was gone. There was only one person who could have taken it. Damn woman. He clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. He'd get her back for that, but right now, it wasn't important. He still had an emergency stash. Finding Geralt was what mattered.

Before leaving, he stopped by the innkeeper, leaning on the counter. "Have you ever seen a man with hair like mine, but a bit older?" he asked in Latin.

The innkeeper scoffed, shaking his head. "I would remember such a strange-looking man." He glanced at Thorfinn's pale features and white hair, smirking. "I've never seen someone like you before. Another like you? I'd think I was cursed."

Thorfinn grunted and walked out. He stepped into the street, the noise of the city pressing in on him immediately, voices shouting over one another, merchants haggling, the smell of spiced meats, sweat, and filth thick in the air. He started moving, weaving through the crowds, stopping at stall after stall, describing Geralt, repeating himself over and over. He spoke in Latin when he could. Most people just stared at him blankly, shaking their heads, eyes scanning over him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

The first merchant, an older man selling dried dates and figs, scratched at his graying beard as he thought. "No. No one like that. Not here."

Another, a younger man with a stall filled with bolts of silk and linen, barely looked at him before waving him off. "I do not know who that is."

A butcher, hands red with blood as he hacked apart a slab of lamb, sneered as he answered. "I don't talk to foreigners. Get lost."

At a spice stall, an old woman frowned, her wrinkled face pinched in thought before she finally shook her head. "A man with hair like yours? I would remember. But no, I have not seen him."

A jeweler, polishing a bracelet, laughed when Thorfinn asked. "Your brother?" he joked, flashing gold teeth. "Perhaps he is dead in the gutter somewhere. This is not a kind city to those without coin."

Thorfinn clenched his jaw and walked away.

Everywhere he asked, he got the same answer. No one had seen him. No one had heard of him. Some even acted like the question itself was ridiculous.

Geralt had been with them when the ship went down. He should have reached land. He should have been here. But as the hours dragged on, as the rejections piled up, a thought settled in the back of Thorfinn's mind, one he had been avoiding since the start.

Maybe Geralt hadn't survived the sea. Maybe he had drowned somewhere in those endless black waters, his body lost to the waves, his bones resting at the bottom of the world. Maybe Thorfinn had been chasing a ghost this entire time. Or worse—maybe he had survived but had simply moved on. Left. Abandoned whatever plan he had for them and disappeared into this massive city, never intending to be found.

The frustration built in his chest, creeping up his throat, thick and bitter. He had wasted an entire fucking year, marching through the desert, barely surviving, for what? For nothing?

He shoved the thoughts down, kept moving, kept asking.

A baker shook his head. "No."

A scribe in the forum laughed. "Why would I know such a man?"

A slave trader barely glanced at him before walking away.

Nothing.

Thorfinn turned a corner, running a hand down his face, exhaling slowly through his nose, the tension making his shoulders stiff. He needed a moment to think, to figure out what the fuck to do next. He leaned against a post, letting his eyes scan the street, watching the flow of the crowd, looking for anything—any sign that he had missed something.

Then he saw him.

A man, leaning against the wall by an alley, dressed in rags, the filth clinging to his clothes making him look like a beggar. But something was off. His posture, the way he carried himself, the muscles hidden beneath the layers of grime. His teeth were too clean, his eyes too sharp. Thorfinn had spent enough time around fighters to know one when he saw one, no matter how well they tried to hide it.

The beggar tilted his head, speaking in Latin. "Not wise to speak of Witchers in this city." His voice was low, casual, but there was something behind it, something pointed. "They are not welcome here. And once the inner guard finds you, they will take you as well."

Thorfinn straightened, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Who the fuck are you?"

The beggar didn't answer. He turned and walked into the alley, disappearing into the shadows.

Thorfinn clenched his jaw. "Wait," he said, pushing off the post, following.

Then he felt it.

A slight pressure at his waist, the sudden absence of weight.

He spun.

A child—small, quick—was already darting away, a dagger still in his hand, the severed end of Thorfinn's sword belt hanging loose. Another child, older, snatched the sword and took off running in the opposite direction.

Thorfinn's blood boiled.

He looked back at the alley, saw the beggar turning a corner, then looked at the fleeing children.

"Fuck," he growled.

He ran.

Thorfinn's boots slammed against the stone, his weight pushing into each step as he ran, his breath hard but controlled. The fucking bastards were fast. Their feet barely touched the ground as they twisted through the crowd, slipping past stalls, diving between carts, always just ahead, never in reach.

"Get the fuck back here!" he bellowed, but the children didn't even look back.

One of them veered right, squeezing between two fat merchants, their robes brushing against his skinny frame as he vanished through the gap. Thorfinn tried to follow, shouldering his way through, but his broad frame caught against their bulk. He growled, shoved harder, the merchants cursing as they stumbled aside, toppling into a stack of clay pots. By the time he was through, the sword was already gone, tossed through the air, caught by another child perched on the ledge of a balcony. Thorfinn's eyes snapped up just as the boy grinned and took off, feet hammering the wooden planks.

Thorfinn ran.

He reached the wall and jumped, his boots scraping against the stone as his hands caught the railing. His muscles tensed, pulling himself up, but he misjudged the weight of his own momentum. His knee clipped the ledge. His grip slipped. He swung wildly, his fingers barely latching onto the edge before he could fall back onto the street. His arms burned as he pulled himself up, rolling onto the balcony with a grunt.

He was losing time.

The kid was already at the rooftop's edge, and then—gone. Thorfinn pushed off, running hard, the boards creaking under his boots, the entire structure shaking beneath his weight. He reached the end, saw the boy landing on the next roof, rolling with the impact, light as a damn feather.

Thorfinn jumped.

His boots hit the tiles. They cracked. His ankle twisted, pain lancing through his foot as he stumbled, nearly pitching forward. He barely caught himself, his knee slamming down, the rooftop shaking beneath him. He sucked in a breath, ignored the pain, pushed up, kept running. The rooftops were uneven, the gaps growing wider, each jump more reckless than the last. He was too heavy, too slow. His landings were awkward, his feet sliding, his balance breaking with every rough impact. He hit a slanted roof too fast, his boot slipping as he tried to stop. His body pitched forward, gravity pulling him down before his fingers barely caught the ledge. He hung there, arms burning, legs kicking against nothing. Below, the street swarmed with life—merchants, traders, horses weaving through the chaos, carts rolling over uneven stone. If he fell, he wouldn't land clean. He'd break something, maybe his skull, maybe his spine.

He growled, forcing his arms to work, pulling himself up. His muscles screamed, his chest heaving by the time he swung a leg over the ledge and rolled onto solid footing again.

He didn't stop.

The kid was ahead, turning a corner, and then another, disappearing behind the edge of a bell tower. Thorfinn forced himself forward, ignoring the sting in his ankle, the burn in his thighs. He sprinted hard, the heat rising in his chest, the same feeling from before, the same raw energy that had welled up inside him when he fought Hakon. But nothing burst out of him, no blinding flash of light, no searing heat spilling from his hands. Though he found his legs start to burn.

He ran faster than he ever had before, his breath steady despite the pain, his focus sharpened to a knife's edge. His footfalls grew lighter, his movements less clumsy, his body adjusting, adapting, pushing past the ache, past the fear of falling, past the missteps. He found himself easily outpacing a horses gallop and was able to get back on their trail before they disappeared.

He saw the sword change hands again, another child catching it mid-run, twisting in a different direction, diving down into the streets below. Thorfinn growled, reaching the edge, looking down.

Too far to jump.

No time to find another way down.

The kid was slipping away.

Thorfinn spotted a clothesline strung between two buildings, heavy with damp sheets swaying in the wind. He grabbed the line and jumped.

His fingers barely latched on before the rope snapped.

He fell.

His back slammed against an awning, the cloth stretching under his weight before tearing completely. He crashed through a second one, his descent barely slowed before he hit the ground hard, his body rolling across the stone. His vision blurred from the impact, dust kicking up around him as he groaned, pain flaring through his side.

He didn't stop.

He shoved himself up, coughed, spat blood, then ran.

The kid was just ahead, cutting through an alley, turning sharply. Thorfinn pushed himself harder, his speed reckless now, dangerous, his movements fueled by frustration and rage. He reached the alley just as the boy tried to slip through a narrow gap.

Thorfinn lunged.

His hand locked around the back of the kid's neck.

The boy let out a sharp yelp, his body jerking as Thorfinn slammed him against the wall, not hard enough to break anything, though he wouldn't doubt that the little shit would be feeling it tomorrow. The sword was still in his hands, fingers curled tight around the grip, but there was no fight left in him now, no chance to run, no chance to pass it off again.

Thorfinn barely looked at him however.

He felt it before he saw them.

A shift in the air. A presence behind him.

Shadows moved in the alley.

Men stepped out from the darkness.

Seven of them.

Thorfinn's grip tightened on the kid's neck. The boy whimpered, not struggling, but shaking, his wide eyes darting from Thorfinn to the men surrounding them. The first man stepped forward. His face was sharp, his expression easy, relaxed, but his stance was not. It was poised, balanced, the way a fighter carried himself before a strike. The man tilted his head, shifting his stance slightly, rolling his shoulders like he was getting comfortable. His smirk widened, his fingers tapping against the hilt of the sword at his hip.

"This sword?" he asked, He looked at it, then back at Thorfinn, his expression mockingly curious. "I don't know... doesn't look like yours to me."

The others laughed, a low, jeering sound that echoed through the narrow alley. One of them spat on the ground, shaking his head. Another cracked his knuckles, grinning.

"You think every blade in this city belongs to you, barbarian?" the man continued. "You're in Constantinople now. Things work differently here."

Thorfinn didn't react. His breath was steady. His muscles ached from the chase, but he stood still, unmoving, watching.

The man stepped closer, tilting his head as if studying him.

"Here's how it works," he said. "Drop the kid. Drop whatever else you've got. Walk away." His smirk turned sharp, eyes glinting. "Otherwise, you won't be leaving at all."

The laughter rose again, filling the alley, bouncing off the walls.

Thorfinn felt the weight of the entire day pressing down on him. The guards robbing him at the gate, the piss-poor wine, Arwyn lifting, the smug bastard at the inn charging him extra just because he could, the little shits stealing his sword, the chase, the failures, the fucking stupidity of it all. It piled up, pressing against the inside of his skull like a hammer striking stone, the cracks spreading, widening, the pressure building.

He felt his body tremble.

His hair fell over his eyes as he looked down.

The laughter didn't stop. The men made jokes at his expense, mocking his silence, his stillness.

But the boy in his grip wasn't laughing.

The kid's body went rigid, every muscle in him locking up. He wasn't stupid. He could feel it. Something was wrong. His little fingers clawed at Thorfinn's wrist, his legs kicked weakly, panic setting in. His breathing turned to short, desperate gasps, his head shaking frantically.

"Please," the boy whimpered, his voice small, cracking. "Help—help, please, I—I didn't—"

The man ignored him.

"Too dumb to understand your choices, Northman?" he mocked. "Or maybe you—"

Thorfinn exhaled slowly.

"You insult me," he breathed out.

The laughter stilled.

"I am a Viking," he hissed.

Snap.

The sound echoed through the alley, sharp and final.

Silence.

The boy hung limply in his grip, his body sagging against the wall, his head twisted at a grotesque angle. His eyes were still open, but they saw nothing. A thin stream of piss darkened his trousers, pooling onto the stone beneath him.

The men stared.

The leader's smirk vanished. His mouth hung slightly open, like his brain was struggling to process what had just happened. His eyes flickered from the corpse to Thorfinn, his expression shifting from shock to rage.

"Kill him!" the man screamed.

That snapped them out of it.

They charged.

Thorfinn let the body drop, his hand flashing out as he grabbed his sword from the kid's limp grip. His other hand shot forward, fingers splaying open. The air cracked as Ard blasted outward. The force slammed into half of them, their bodies whipping back against the stone wall, knocking the wind from their lungs.

The first man still came.

Thorfinn moved fast, twisting as he lunged, letting the sword rush out of its sheath just far enough to slice across the man's throat before pivoting around him. The thug gasped, hands flying to his neck, blood spilling between his fingers. He staggered, his mouth opening in a wet choking sound. Thorfinn didn't wait—he stepped around him, drawing his sword fully, and with a single swing, nearly took his head clean off.

The body collapsed, blood spraying across the alley walls.

The second man came at him from the side.

Thorfinn flicked his wrist, parrying the strike, twisting his sword down in a sharp movement before driving the tip straight into the man's throat. The thug made a wet, gurgling sound, hands weakly grasping at the steel lodged inside him.

Thorfinn stepped in, grabbed the back of the dying man's tunic, and threw him into the next attacker.

The third thug caught his friend, stumbling.

Didn't matter.

Thorfinn's left hand flared with energy—a small white sphere formed in his palm. He flung it forward. The impact hit the tangled men like a battering ram, their bodies slamming into the stone wall. The force knocked them senseless, their heads lolling, their limbs twitching.

Thorfinn kicked the fallen man's sword up with his boot, caught it, and threw it with everything he had.

The blade spun end over end, flashing in the dim light before impaling both of them through the chest, pinning them to the wall like skewered meat.

RAAAAGH!

Another came, roaring.

Thorfinn sidestepped the first swing, the second, then ducked under the third. As he moved, his hand shot out, grabbing the man's wrist, twisting the attack.

The thug barely had time to register before his own blade sliced into his friend.

Thorfinn's fingers curled.

Igni flared.

Flames erupted, catching on the man's clothes, climbing fast. He screamed, his body thrashing, hands slapping at the fire as his flesh seared. His eyes bulged in agony, his mouth open in a soundless shriek before he collapsed, rolling, twitching, the fire consuming him.

"You bastard! I'll kill you!" the last thug screamed in Greek.

Thorfinn exhaled.

"Let me guess," he said, voice blank, empty. "You want to kill me."

The man came fast, swinging wildly.

Thorfinn barely moved. He pivoted, dodging, weaving, stepping just enough for each strike to miss by inches. He felt the wall at his back, but it didn't matter.

The thug swung down, an overhead arc meant to split him in two.

Thorfinn twisted out of the way.

Iron met stone.

Sparks flew as the sword buried itself in the wall, the thug's grip faltering.

Thorfinn's hand shot forward, grabbing the man's head.

He slammed it against the wall.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Blood smeared across the stone, his nose crunching under the impact. His body twitched, hands weakly grasping.

Thorfinn yanked him back and smashed the pommel of his sword into the man's face, shattering his teeth, blood pouring from his ruined mouth.

His fingers curled around the man's throat.

A small white glow formed in his palm.

The thug's eyes widened.

Then his head burst apart.

A wet, sickening pop filled the alley. Bone, blood, and brain matter splattered against the wall.

Thorfinn let the body drop.

Twung.

Pain ripped through his shoulder.

He growled, his body turning.

The leader stood at the alley entrance, a crossbow in his grip.

The bastard saw that Thorfinn wasn't dead.

Dropped the weapon.

Ran like a coward.

Thorfinn exhaled sharply. The bastard wasn't worth it.

He slumped down in the alley, gripping the bolt. He ripped it free, sucking in a sharp breath as blood spilled down his arm. He dropped the bolt, watched it clatter.

Fire flared in his palm.

Pressed it against the wound.

The scent of burning flesh filled the air. He barely flinched.

The pain faded.

He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulder. It would hold.

Time to find Arwyn.

Maybe she'd had better luck.

...

Thorfinn stepped out of the alley, his sheathed sword hanging loosely in his grip, glad to have the only heirloom of his family back. His breath was steady, his muscles ached, but the heat in his chest was fading. The fight was done. He wasn't thinking about the bodies behind him, the blood pooling in the cracks of the stone, the limp corpse of the boy. He wasn't thinking about much at all. He barely noticed the eyes on him as he stepped out onto the street, the way people looked, the way they whispered. Only when he saw a woman pull her child away, clutching the boy's arm tight and crossing herself, did he glance down at himself. His tunic was soaked, the fabric dark and heavy. His arms, his hands, his boots were all covered in it. The blood was drying, stiffening, flaking off in places, but it was still thick in others, still dripping from his fingers, still smeared across his skin. He hadn't even noticed.

A trough sat at the edge of the street, the water still, reflecting the midday light. He walked to it, ignoring the stares, and leaned over, cupping his hands, splashing the water over his face, rubbing it over his arms, his chest, trying to clean what he could. The water darkened immediately, the surface rippling as the blood mixed with it, spreading in thin, curling tendrils. It wasn't enough. He scrubbed again, harder this time, wiping at the stains, but he already knew it was pointless. He could wash his hands, his face, his forearms, but his tunic was ruined, his boots were soaked, the smell of blood was in his hair, in his skin.

He exhaled through his nose and straightened. He still needed to find Arwyn. She wouldn't have gone far. The Main Street was the most likely place, and even if it wasn't, he couldn't afford to get lost trying to take side paths. He didn't know the city. He didn't know its alleys, its shortcuts, its hidden routes. He also didn't think Arwyn was foolish enough to disappear into the alleyways of the city.

He walked through the street, his steps steady, his grip on his sword firm. The whispers followed him. People moved aside. They talked. Some pointed, others stared, a few averted their gaze, heads down, shoulders hunched. He understood why. He was tall, broad, his arms thick with muscle, and now he was drenched in blood, moving through their city with a sword in hand. He must have looked like the monsters they told their children about, the raiders from the north, the men who came from the sea to burn their homes, to take their women, to butcher their sons. The stories weren't wrong. He had done all those things.

A hand grabbed at his sleeve. He turned, his fingers tightening around the sheath, but the man backed off immediately, hands raised, muttering something in Greek. He didn't care what. Another tried to stop him, stepping into his path, reaching for him. Thorfinn shoved him back without thinking, sending the man stumbling, nearly knocking him into a stall. Someone else moved to grab him, a man with a dagger on his hip, his fingers twitching toward the hilt.

Thorfinn didn't hesitate.

He swung his sheathed sword up, fast, brutal, the weight behind it sending the end slamming into the man's face. Bone cracked. The man's head snapped back, blood spraying from his shattered nose, his body collapsing onto the street, his legs twitching. A woman screamed. Someone else shouted. He kept walking.

His thoughts were steady, his focus singular. He needed to find Arwyn. That was all that mattered. He wasn't listening to the voices, wasn't hearing the sounds around him, wasn't thinking about anything except moving forward. He didn't stop. He didn't slow. His eyes scanned every face, every person, looking for her.

He wasn't thinking about Geralt. He wasn't thinking about anything he'd learned over the past year. The reasoning, the patience, the discipline—it was gone, stripped away piece by piece over the course of the day, worn down by frustration, by anger, by the sheer exhaustion of dealing with this place, these people, their rules, their expectations. He didn't care.

He had snapped that boy's neck without hesitation, without remorse, without even thinking about it. It had been easy. It had been natural. It had been like breathing.

That was who he was. That was what he had always been.

The street opened into a wide square, a massive fountain sitting at its center, water spilling from the mouths of carved stone figures, cascading down into the pool below. People gathered around it, sitting on its edges, speaking in soft voices, some dipping their hands in the water, others simply watching. He saw her before he realized what he was seeing.

Arwyn.

She was standing near the fountain, talking to a man.

She wasn't dressed in her usual gear. The simple tunic, the practical boots, and the worn belt were absent. Instead, she wore something far more opulent. The fabric was tight, clinging to her body, highlighting her curves with an expensive silk. It was a dress with long, fitted sleeves, a high neckline that still managed to hint at her cleavage, and a waist that was cinched to show off her slender form. Her hair was styled in a way she'd never done before, pulled up into complex braids, interwoven with gold threads, and pinned up in a high, Byzantine fashion.

Her breasts were pushed up by the corseted bodice, making them look fuller, her nipples pressing slightly against the material. The dress hugged her hips, accentuating the roundness of her ass. The fabric draped over her legs, suggesting their length and shape beneath. She looked stunning, her body transformed by this new, exotic attire.

And she was standing beside another man.

His clothes matched hers—expensive, refined, a robe draped over his shoulders, gold at his wrists, his fingers adorned with rings. His hair was dark, neatly combed, his beard well-groomed, his posture relaxed. He was smiling. Speaking. Looking at her in a way that made Thorfinn's breath slow, his grip tighten, his blood start to boil.

He didn't think.

He moved.

___________________________

Arywn had momentarily given up on finding Geralt and instead focusing on finding something enjoyable for herself to take her mind off Thorfinn. Arwyn had picked up enough Latin from Thorfinn to get by, enough to barter, to ask where something was, to not sound entirely clueless when people spoke to her. But here, in this place, the words hardly mattered. Gold was a language all its own. The moment she flashed it, the men standing guard at the entrance stopped caring about how her accent butchered their words, stopped caring about the fact that she was foreign, alone, and clearly out of place. Their eyes flickered to the coin, and suddenly, they were bowing their heads, speaking to her with smiles instead of suspicion, ushering her inside as if she were someone important. And the place she'd been taken inside of was incredible.

She had never seen anything like the bathhouse.

It was warm inside, steam curling through the air, filling the space with the scent of oils and flowers. Voices echoed off the stone walls, laughter from the other rooms, the gentle splash of water as people moved through the baths. The floors beneath her feet were polished smooth, the walls carved with patterns, each doorway leading into another chamber, some dark, others glowing from the light of braziers.

When they guided her forward, she hesitated. The water was strange—clear, but still, stretching out into a pool large enough to hold a dozen people. It wasn't like the cold, rushing rivers she was used to, not like the wooden tubs filled with water barely warmed over a fire. When she stepped in, heat wrapped around her skin, seeping into her muscles, loosening the knots of tension she hadn't even realized were there.

She stayed longer than she should have, letting herself sink deeper, feeling the warmth work through her, the grime of the road washing away. The attendants didn't rush her. They waited, watching from the edges, and when she finally stepped out, they moved quickly, wrapping her in linen, leading her to another room where fabrics were laid out—fine silk, woven linen, rich colors she had never worn before.

When she hesitated, they made the choice for her, draping the fabric over her shoulders, pinning it in place, tying it around her waist in a way she had never seen before. Her hair was taken from her hands, brushed until it was smooth, lifted, twisted, pinned into a style she didn't recognize. They worked quickly, hands efficient, faces unreadable, until finally, they stepped back, nodding, satisfied with their work.

They led her to a polished basin filled with still water, and when she looked down, she almost didn't recognize the woman staring back at her.

For a moment, she didn't move.

Then she reached out, running her fingers over her arm, pressing against her own skin as if to make sure it was still her.

When she left the bathhouse, she felt different.

People stared at her as she walked through the streets, but not the way they had before. Before, they had been wary, uncertain, glancing at her with suspicion, eyes flicking to her worn clothes, to the way she moved. Now, it was different.

Men looked at her too long.

Women whispered as she passed.

She caught the way they studied her, assessing, judging.

Her hair made her stand out. Pale skin, golden hair—it was rare here. Some of the women had hair lightened by sun or powder, but it wasn't the same. It didn't catch the light the way hers did, didn't shimmer like gold under the sun. She didn't know if she liked it.

She ignored them, moving through the market, still searching, still glancing at faces, still hoping to catch even the smallest glimpse of someone familiar.

When she reached the fountain, she sighed, sitting down at the edge, stretching her legs out, slipping her feet from the shoes they had given her. She lifted the hem of the dress, pulling it just enough to dip her toes into the water. The cold was a shock against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of the afternoon.

She let herself relax, tilting her head back, letting her eyes close just for a moment.

Eowyn would have loved this.

She would have laughed, would have kicked her feet in the water, would have splashed her until she was soaked through, giggling the entire time. She would have twirled in the dress, let the silk flow around her just to see how it moved, just to feel it swish around her legs. She would have run ahead, touched everything, asked a thousand questions.

Arwyn smiled at the thought, but it didn't last. A shadow fell over her.

She turned her head and found a guard standing before her. He was tall, broad, with a thick beard and a rigid posture. His expression was firm, almost angey.

He spoke in Latin, and though she caught some words, she didn't understand the full meaning.

She blinked at him. "I don't understand."

He straightened, speaking slower but keeping his tone stern. "You cannot do that."

She frowned. "Do what?"

He motioned toward the water. "It is not allowed."

Arwyn looked at him, then at her feet, then back at him. "Why?"

"There is a fine for such behavior."

"A fine?" She let out a short laugh. "For putting my feet in the water?"

"This is not a place for—"

"She is far too beautiful for such a punishment."

The voice was smooth, confident. The guard immediately tensed.

Arwyn turned her head and found a man approaching. His clothing was fine, his posture easy but deliberate. His dark hair was neatly kept, his belt had gold fittings, and his hands moved as if he was used to commanding attention. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but his smile was lazy, comfortable.

The guard stiffened.

The man waved a hand. "Surely, you would not find such a woman for something so harmless?"

The guard hesitated, then bowed his head slightly. "Of course not, sir."

The man gave a slow nod, watching him for a moment before turning his attention back to Arwyn. "You have caused quite the commotion," he said.

His voice was smooth, carrying amusement rather than reprimand. Arwyn tilted her head slightly, studying him the way he was studying her.

"Apparently," she said.

"A shame," he continued, stepping closer. "A woman like you should not be troubled with such things."

Arwyn raised an eyebrow. "Like me?"

His smile widened slightly. "You must know what you are."

She frowned, unsure of where he was going with this. "And what is that?"

"A rare sight," he said. "A gift from the gods, perhaps."

She let out a breath of laughter. "I doubt that."

He watched her, his gaze still fixed on her face. "Doubt it if you wish, but I know what I see."

She didn't respond, only held his gaze.

He extended a hand. "Niketas."

She hesitated before taking it. "Arwyn."

He hummed, his fingers closing around hers just slightly longer than necessary before he released her hand. "A foreign name."

"I am a foreigner."

"You wear it well."

She blinked. "That is an odd compliment."

He shrugged. "It is the truth."

She studied him for a moment before deciding to move on. "Do you make a habit of interfering with guards?"

"When the situation calls for it."

"And this situation called for it?"

"I could not let them trouble you over something so trivial."

She watched him. "You must be important, then."

He smiled. "You could say that."

"Why?"

"My family has held power in this city for generations. My father owns more land than most men can dream of, and my brother serves the Emperor himself. My name is well known, my coin is always accepted, and when I speak, people listen."

She nodded slightly. "That must be nice."

He chuckled. "It has its advantages."

She didn't say anything.

"And what of you?" he asked. "Where are you from?"

"Northumbria."

His expression shifted slightly, though not with recognition. "That is far."

"Yes."

"And what brings you to Byzantium?"

"I am looking for a friend."

"He is a lucky man."

She gave a slight shrug. "Perhaps."

"What does he look like?"

"He is tall," she said. "White hair. Golden eyes."

Niketas stilled for half a second. It was a barely perceptible pause, the kind that would have gone unnoticed had she not been looking at him directly. Then his posture relaxed again, and his expression remained neutral.

"I believe I have seen such a man," he said.

Arwyn's pulse quickened. "Where?"

He chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "So many questions."

She sat forward slightly. "I have not seen him in over a year. I need to find him."

Niketas nodded slowly, as if considering. "I can help. It will be easy."

She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

He extended his arm. "Come, let us retire to my manse."

Arwyn hesitated before lightly resting her fingers against his sleeve. "Thank you."

"Anything for a woman like you."

She had only taken a step when something yanked her back.

A hand.

She turned, heart slamming against her ribs.

"Thorfinn?!"

...

Thorfinn stood still, his feet planted firmly against the stone, his eyes fixed on Arwyn. A slow, seething heat burned deep inside his chest as he took in the sight before him. Her fingers rested lightly on the stranger's arm, her posture relaxed, her expression soft. The stranger leaned slightly toward her, speaking in a low, easy voice. The fine embroidery on his tunic caught the light as he shifted, the gold in its threading glinting against the rich fabric.

Thorfinn felt something snap.

Arwyn turned at last, her gaze lifting to meet his, and in the moment she saw him—really saw him—her body stiffened. Her lips parted, but no words came. He saw the flicker of recognition, the slight widening of her eyes, the hesitation in the way she took a breath.

She flinched.

His hands curled tighter around his sword, his knuckles aching from the force of his grip.

"Thorfinn?" Her voice was quiet, uncertain. Her eyes dropped to the blood drying against his skin, the streaks across his forearms, the dark stains against his tunic. "Why are you covered in blood?"

She switched to her native tongue. She knew he didn't want the man beside her to understand.

Thorfinn didn't answer. He barely felt the wounds stinging across his body, barely registered the weight of the exhaustion pressing against him. His voice came low and rough. "What are you doing?"

She straightened, hands pressing lightly together in front of her. "I was looking for Geralt."

His gaze moved lower, dragging across the expensive fabric she wore, the delicate golden embroidery, the careful curls in her hair. She looked like a noblewoman, a vision from a court. She didn't look like the Arwyn he knew, not the woman who had survived beside him through storms and blood and fire. Not the woman who had fought at his side, had cursed his name, had slept curled beside him for warmth in the desert nights.

"I wanted a bath," she added quickly. "And some new clothing."

Thorfinn's grip on his sword tightened, his breath deepening. He took a step forward. "We're leaving."

She didn't move.

He reached for her wrist, but she pulled back just slightly, enough to put space between them. "Niketas has seen Geralt," she said. "He said he would help us."

Thorfinn's eyes snapped to the man beside her, the same man who had been watching their exchange with mild amusement. Niketas was standing too close, his fingers lightly brushing against the fabric of his tunic, his posture casual, relaxed, confident.

"We don't need his help," Thorfinn said.

Arwyn's face twisted, frustration sparking in her voice. "Yes, we do."

Thorfinn exhaled slowly, his fingers pressing hard against the hilt of his weapon. "No. We don't."

She stepped toward him. "Why are you being so pigheaded?"

Thorfinn turned back to her, his jaw clenching, the heat rising in his chest twisting into something sharper. "Because you're being a fucking idiot!"

She shoved him, and he barely moved back before grabbing her wrist again. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, and for a brief moment, something in his grip hesitated. He thought of the nights she had leaned against him, the way she had whispered to him in the dark, the way she had held onto him when she thought he was slipping away.

Then she yanked herself free.

"This isn't your choice," she spat.

Thorfinn stepped forward again, reaching for her, but before he could take another step, a hand pressed against his chest.

Niketas.

"I do not think the lady appreciates being handled like that," Niketas said, his voice smooth. "Surely a civilized man understands that?"

Thorfinn slowly turned his head toward him. The amusement in Niketas' face flickered, just slightly. Arwyn saw it, and she felt the shift in the air.

She knew that look.

"Thorfinn."

His sword moved before he thought. The sheathed blade shot up toward Niketas' face.

A hand caught it.

Arwyn's fingers wrapped tightly around the wood, her body pressed against his arm. She had stopped him.

"You'd betray me for this stranger?" Thorfinn's voice was quiet.

"He's our only lead to Geralt," she said.

His lips curled. "He doesn't know where Geralt is. He just wants to get between your legs."

Her expression darkened, her fingers tightening against his sword before she shoved it back. "We don't know that."

"We do."

Thorfinn turned away from her, but before he could take another step, Niketas moved in front of him again.

The nobleman's hand pressed against his chest once more.

Arwyn's voice cut through the air. "Niketas, don't—"

"I am not afraid of some barbarian brute," Niketas said. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. "You will not touch her again."

Thorfinn scoffed. "Take the kindness I offered you by not unsheathing my sword."

He turned toward Arwyn again, but this time, the glint of steel caught his eye, and he barely had time to step back before Niketas lunged. The nobleman's swordwork was quick and precise. The blade moved in sharp flicks, fast thrusts, each movement meant for a duel, not a kill. Thorfinn dodged the first strike, twisting his body to the side before bringing up his sheathed sword to block the next. Niketas was trained, but his movements were too light.

Thorfinn saw the opening. He snapped his blade up, smashing it against the man's throat. Niketas choked, staggering back.

Thorfinn flicked his wrist, sending the sword from Niketas' hand.

"Thorfinn!"

Arwyn's voice barely registered.

He stepped forward, grabbing the man by the front of his tunic, lifting him from the ground before throwing him backward.

The sound of water splashing filled the square as Niketas hit the fountain.

Thorfinn barely hesitated before stepping in after him.

Niketas scrambled, water sloshing around him as he swung wildly. Thorfinn caught his arm, twisted it, and drove his fist into his ribs. Niketas wheezed, staggering back, but Thorfinn didn't stop. He followed, fists slamming into his gut, his jaw, his ribs again. Niketas' body swayed, knees giving out, and Thorfinn grabbed him before his head could break the surface. He shoved him down.

The nobleman thrashed, bubbles rising to the water's surface.

Thorfinn didn't let go.

Then hands wrapped around his arm, pulling him back, and in an instant, he was airborne.

His body twisted through the air before slamming into the stone.

Pain flared through his back, but he barely had time to process it before rolling to his feet.

Arwyn stood between them, her body tense, fists clenched.

Thorfinn exhaled slowly, stepping forward. "What are you doing?"

She met his gaze, unflinching. "Stopping you before you fuck this up for both of us."

Thorfinn's jaw clenched. His muscles coiled.

He moved before he thought.

His fist slammed into her face.

Her head snapped back, her body staggered.

She wiped the blood from her lip and raised her fist.

She hesitated.

Thorfinn's lips curled. "You can't do it."

Arwyn's fingers curled into a fist, her body rigid, her breath uneven as she stood before him. She could still feel the sting of his punch against her face, the dull ache pulsing through her jaw. Her body wanted to react, wanted to strike back, wanted to force him back the same way he had forced himself upon her world again and again. But she hesitated.

She had struck him before, countless times. She had sparred with him, but each of those times she knew it was playful or training, never had she actually tried to hurt him. Now that she wanted to and actually tried she found she couldn't, her arm was held up shaking and she couldn't move it anymore.

Something deep inside of her faltered.

Thorfinn tilted his head, watching her with that same blank, unfeeling stare. The ice in his eyes had not melted. His hands were still steady, his body loose, ready to move again. He wasn't worried. He wasn't angry anymore, either. He was waiting.

Arwyn's chest rose and fell, the air catching in her throat.

Hit him.

She wanted to. Her muscles tensed. But she couldn't move.

His lips curled, his voice low. "You can't do anything to me."

Something inside her cracked.

She clenched her teeth, her nails digging into her palm as her head pounded with something deeper than anger, deeper than hatred. Memories surged through her, forcing their way up from the depths of her mind, rushing like floodwaters through every part of her.

The iron scent of blood filled her nose. The thick, cloying heat of the werewolf's breath against her skin as it kidnapped her from her bed and dragged her into the forest. The screams she had tried to swallow. The years of agony, the nights she had spent alone in the dark, the dull, hollow ache that had consumed her even after she was freed.

The warmth of her sister's arms. The way Eowyn had wept when she had found her again. The fleeting joy, the false hope that she had finally returned home, only for it all to be ripped from her hands when she learned the truth.

Her family.

Gone.

Gone because of him.

Meeting Thorfinn. Hating him. Wanting to kill him.

Falling in love with him.

The warmth of his hands against her skin. The quiet, stolen moments where she had felt safe, where she had let herself forget. The way he had made her forget.

Eowyn's death.

The way Thorfinn had held her.

Hating him.

Needing him.

The memories clashed against each other, raw and jagged, forcing her to her breaking point, until all of it finally, finally shattered. The breath she had been holding in her chest burst out of her in a single, raw scream.

Thorfinn barely had time to register it before the force of her punch drove into his gut.

He hadn't braced for it.

The air ripped from his lungs, his body jerking back as he stumbled, his knees nearly buckling beneath him. His back hit the ground, his vision swimming for a moment as he gasped for air, his fingers clawing at the stone beneath him.

He coughed, trying to force breath back into his lungs.

She had never hit him like that before.

Not like that.

Not like she meant it.

Thorfinn groaned, forcing himself upright, dragging his arm against his mouth as he spat out the taste of bile rising in his throat. His ribs ached from the impact, his body sluggish from exhaustion, from the fight, from everything. But he forced himself to his feet. Arwyn was still standing, her shoulders heaving, her hands clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white. She looked at him, through him, her expression something unreadable.

Thorfinn pushed himself up, feeling the sharp throb in his ribs as he straightened. He had taken worse. But this was different. Arwyn had hurt him before, but never like this, never with intent. Not when she was herself at least. When they had sparred before or she had hit him, it was done playfully or at least done with the intent to not hurt him, but this time was different. He had felt it.

His fingers curled, the ache dull beneath his skin. He should have been angrier. He was angry. But beneath it was something else, something cold, something that made his breath come slower as he looked at her and found her still standing there, waiting for him to move, waiting for him to strike. She wasn't afraid. She wasn't backing down.

He exhaled, his hands flexing. "Is this what we're doing?" The words came even, steady, his voice low. "Fine. I'll have to beat some sense into you and take you back to the inn."

She didn't answer.

He moved first, his body shifting, his feet digging into the ground as he surged forward, his fist driving toward her. She shifted to the side, her own arm coming up in response, her knuckles flashing toward him. He twisted, catching her wrist, dragging her weight forward as he spun his hip, using the momentum to throw her off balance. She hit the ground but rolled, her hands pressing down, her body shifting, her foot snapping up toward his ribs. He moved with it, stepping back, letting her regain her footing, his own stance lowering as she launched forward. Her fist swung, he blocked, her foot kicked, he avoided, his own arm coming up to strike at her side. She caught him mid-motion, her fingers curling around his wrist, her grip tightening. He twisted, driving his other elbow toward her throat. She ducked, her knee shooting up toward his ribs. He stepped away before it could connect.

They didn't stop.

Every movement pushed against the next, every strike countered, every attack met, neither giving ground. He had fought her before, he had known how strong she was, how fast, how precise, but she was not holding back now. He couldn't afford to let her grab him, couldn't afford to let her strikes land fully. If she caught him the wrong way, if she threw him with her full strength, he wouldn't get up as fast.

He swung at her jaw, she ducked, her leg sweeping toward his feet. He jumped, landing, stepping forward, his hands grabbing at her shoulders. She twisted, slipping free, moving faster, pushing forward, her fingers grasping for him. He caught her wrist, pulling her to the side, shifting, pressing his weight against her to force her back.

They stepped apart at the same time.

The fight wasn't ending.

Thorfinn's breath came steady, his fingers curling around his sword he got from the ground. Arwyn's hand had already moved to her own concealed weapon, the blade sliding free, the edge catching the light as she pointed it toward him. He mirrored the movement, iron in his grip, the edge angled toward her.

The world around them had blurred into nothing.

Then the shouting started.

Thorfinn's eyes flicked up, movement cutting through the edges of his vision. Guards, armored, armed, shields locking together, boots striking against the ground as they moved into position. Crossbows lined the tops of the buildings, bolts nocked, aimed. He counted two dozen on the ground, more above. Enough to be an issue.

"Drop your weapons!"

The order cut through the air, harsh, demanding.

Thorfinn didn't move.

Niketas pushed forward, his fine clothing damp, his face bloodied, his breath still heavy from being dragged from the fountain. He pointed at Thorfinn, his expression twisted with something that was not just anger but satisfaction. "Arwyn is innocent! This thing attacked me! He is the criminal! Take him away!"

Thorfinn's fingers twitched, his grip on his sword never loosening. He could cut through them before they had time to react. He could kill them before the bolts struck. He could fight his way out of the city. But if he did that, if he ran, if he made himself a fugitive, then finding Geralt would become even harder.

His jaw tightened. His teeth clenched. He exhaled through his nose.

He didn't look at the guards. He looked at her.

Arwyn had not moved, her fingers still curled around her weapon, her breath even, her gaze locked onto him.

The fire inside him burned.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his sword and drove the tip into the ground.

The guards moved instantly, surging forward, hands grabbing at his arms, yanking them behind him, forcing him down onto his knees. They struck him, gauntleted fists crashing into his ribs, his face. A boot slammed into his stomach, another caught his jaw. Someone spit on him.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't even move.

His gaze stayed locked on Arwyn the entire time.

She didn't look away.

Even as they dragged him off, even as the crowd murmured, even as Niketas smirked, even as the world closed in around them, she didn't look away.

___________________________

Thorfinn sat on his knees, hands resting on his thighs, his breath slow and measured. He focused on nothing, his mind quiet, his body still. This was what Geralt had taught him, to sit, to breathe, to empty his thoughts and control them rather than let them control him. He had mocked it at first, had scoffed at the idea that stillness was useful to a warrior. But now he knew better. It was not about peace. It was about control. He had lost it in the square. He had let his anger take him, had let it dictate his actions rather than the other way around. He had thought he was past that. He had thought he had learned.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Arwyn.

The moment had been coming for a long time, but he had not expected it there. He had not expected her to stand against him. The thought still made something burn in his chest, though now he could see it clearly. He had been jealous. It was not the man himself, it was the fact that she had listened to him. That she had believed him over Thorfinn. He had let that jealousy fester, had let it drive him into a fight that never needed to happen. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have taken the lead Niketas offered, would have followed it even if it led nowhere. Instead, he had let it spiral. And now he was here.

"I'm a fool," he muttered.

He stood, his joints cracking as he stretched his shoulders, before lowering himself onto the cot. He had thought about leaving. The cell was nothing to him. The door could be broken, the guards could be killed. He could use magic, could escape before anyone realized he was gone. But that would make things worse. If he ran, he would be hunted. If he killed his way out, he would be marked. If he made himself a target, finding Geralt would become impossible.

So he would wait.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor. A door creaked open. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls. The key turned in the lock with a sharp scrape.

The door swung open.

Thorfinn squinted against the sudden brightness, his vision adjusting. When it cleared, he saw her standing there.

Arwyn.

The guard beside her spoke. "You have an hour."

She nodded. The guard stepped back. She stepped inside, placed the torch in the stand, turned to face him.

He watched her, arms crossed.

She hesitated.

She wore different clothing. No less fine than before.

"Enjoying yourself in the man's home?" he said.

Her frown deepened. "He was kind enough to let me stay while we looked for Geralt."

He scoffed.

Her eyes narrowed. "Why is it so difficult for you to believe? Why can't people be kind and genuine? Not everyone is evil."

"Because that is the way of the world," he said. "If you are not bound by love or blood, you are nothing to them."

"I refuse to believe that."

"Then you are a fool."

Her jaw clenched. "Whose blood was on you that day?"

He didn't answer.

"Tell me."

"No one's," he said. "Just some people who tried to steal my sword."

Her expression darkened. "Niketas told me there were seven bodies in an alleyway. All of them mutilated. One of them a child with his neck snapped. Was that you?"

He didn't answer.

She knew the truth already.

She exhaled sharply. Then her hands clenched. Then she started hitting him.

Fists slammed into his chest, his arms, his shoulders, wild and unrelenting.

"He was just a child!" she screamed.

He caught her wrists, shoved her back. "So what?"

She stared at him, breath coming hard and fast.

"He accepted the risk going in," he said. "He never should've done it if he couldn't face death."

Her head tilted back, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Not everyone lives the way your people do."

He said nothing.

"You think this world is nothing but strength," she said. "That the weak die and the strong take what they want. You think that's how it's supposed to be." She shook her head. "You're wrong. That isn't strength. That's cowardice. That's taking the easy path because you're too afraid to believe in something else."

His hand clenched into a fist.

"You are a coward," she said. "Just like every other Viking who thinks killing makes them gods."

He grabbed her by the arm, fingers digging into her skin.

She shoved him off.

"He was weak," he said. "That is why he died. If you can't protect what is yours, then you don't deserve to have it. Just like your father and brothers. They tried to fight to protect your mother and sister, but they were too weak. And they died."

Her eyes burned.

"So it's your fault Hild died," she said, stepping closer. "And Morgyn was taken." Another step. "It's your fault Eowyn died." Another step. "How many more will die because of you?"

"Elijah?"

"Floki?"

"Gyda?"

"Rebekah?"

Then she paused.

"Freydis."

His body moved before he thought.

His arm lashed out.

The back of his hand struck her face.

She stumbled into the wall.

Silence.

She pressed her fingers to her lip, looked at the blood, then let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

"After all this time, I thought you'd changed," she said, voice low. "That Geralt's lessons had made you a better man. But underneath it all, you're still the same old Viking."

He looked at her, his gaze cold.

"You're right..."

"I am a Viking."

Silence stretched between them. The torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows that danced and swayed, but neither of them moved. Arwyn stood against the wall, fingers still grazing her lip, the cut red and fresh. Thorfinn sat, arms resting on his knees, gaze unwavering. After a long moment, she pushed off the wall and walked toward the cot. She sat at the farthest end, away from him, her hands resting in her lap. Her shoulders were tense, but her face was unreadable.

"I feel different," she said.

He didn't reply. He only watched.

She looked down at her hands, flexed her fingers as if testing them. Then she reached into her cloak and pulled out a dagger.

Thorfinn didn't move.

"When my hatred first started to build for you, I thought about killing you," she said, voice even. "But every time I had that thought, it slipped through my fingers. After Dahlia controlled me, it was easier. I could draw my weapon on you. I could move against you. But if I wanted to hurt you—truly hurt you—it felt like I couldn't. My arm would freeze. Like I was a puppet and something else was pulling my strings."

She turned the dagger in her fingers, the blade catching the dim light.

"But after that day in the square."

She moved.

The blade flashed.

A line of red appeared across Thorfinn's cheek.

He didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He only stared at her.

"I am free," she said.

His voice was quiet. "Will you kill me?"

Her grip tightened.

"I killed your family," he said. "I slaughtered them like cattle and stole their belongings."

She breathed, slow and steady.

"I took your sister against her will."

Her jaw clenched.

"You watched and did nothing as she begged you to leave with her."

Her fingers curled tighter around the hilt.

"If you had left with her, she would be alive."

Her chest rose and fell faster.

"You killed your sister," he said, his voice cold, cutting. "Though I think eventually you would've killed your entire family too, even if I hadn't shown up."

Her breath hitched.

"You would've shown up in your wolf form and torn them apart."

The dagger in her hand trembled.

"You should be glad I spared them that fate."

She lunged.

The blade was faster than he expected. A blur of movement. But it didn't hit him.

Iron bit into stone.

The dagger was buried in the wall beside his head.

She was breathing hard now, her shoulders shaking.

"I am not like you," she said.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.

"I'll never be like you."

She yanked the dagger from the stone, turned on her heel, and walked to the door. She knocked once.

It swung open.

She stepped out without looking back.

Then the door shut, leaving Thorfinn alone in the dark.

...

Thorfinn lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head. He had lost track of time. The air in the cell was thick with dampness, the only sound the occasional drip of water from somewhere beyond the stone walls. He had told himself he didn't care, that Arwyn could do as she pleased, that it made no difference to him. But it was a lie. It gnawed at him, deeper than he wanted to admit.

He exhaled slowly, pushing the thoughts away. It didn't matter anymore. He would figure out a way out of this, one way or another.

A noise from outside the cell made him shift his gaze toward the door. Heavy boots against stone. A key slid into the lock, metal scraping metal. The door creaked open, torchlight spilling into the small room.

"Get up," a voice ordered.

Thorfinn sat up and swung his legs over the cot, looking at the two guards standing in the doorway. He didn't ask questions, didn't protest. He had a good idea where this was going. With a sigh, he stood and let them pull him to his feet.

They led him through the barracks, through winding corridors and out into the cool night air. He stepped into an alleyway, the walls high and narrow, shadows stretching across the cobblestones. He rolled his shoulders, already preparing himself.

He saw them before they spoke. Half a dozen guards, standing in a loose formation, their hands on their weapons. And at the center of them, standing with a smile on his face, was Niketas.

Strangely, he didn't look like a man who had taken a beating in a fountain. His face was smooth, his clothes pristine, his stance as relaxed as if he were about to sit for a banquet rather than oversee an execution.

"Ah, Thorfinn," Niketas said, spreading his arms. "Thank you for joining me on this wonderful night."

Thorfinn didn't reply, just stared at him.

Niketas sighed. "I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot," he said. "Allow me to introduce myself properly this time. Niketas Doukas. A pleasure."

Thorfinn still said nothing.

"Arwyn speaks well of you," Niketas continued. "Says you're quite the warrior. Says you're not like the other brutes from the North, that you actually have a mind. It's an interesting thing to say about a man who tried to cave my skull in with a sword."

He laughed, shaking his head. "She begged me to let you go, you know. Said you'd be harmless, that you wouldn't cause any trouble." He chuckled. "We both know that's not true, don't we?"

Thorfinn clenched his jaw.

"But I am a generous man," Niketas went on. "I'd be willing to let you go. More than that, I'd be willing to offer you work. Gold beyond your imagining. Or knowledge, if that's what you seek. I have both."

He lifted his hand, rubbing his fingers together. "All I want in return is a little information."

Thorfinn narrowed his eyes.

"Tell me everything you know about the Witcher," Niketas said. "Arwyn tells me much, but she met him after you. You knew him before she did. I want to know everything."

There was something in his voice, something behind his easy smile. Excitement. Desperation.

"Why?" Thorfinn asked.

"Does it matter?" Niketas tilted his head. "I'm helping you find him, aren't I?"

Thorfinn exhaled. He didn't like this man. Even if he put aside his personal feelings, even if he ignored the jealousy, it was obvious that Niketas was hiding something. And now he was asking about Geralt. That only confirmed it.

"Fuck off," Thorfinn said.

Niketas' smile flickered, and for a moment, something dark flashed across his face. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "You barbarians are all the same," he muttered. "So stubborn." He composed himself, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. I don't need your information. I'll find him myself, eventually."

He turned to the guards. "Make it look like he tried to escape."

Thorfinn growled and lunged, barging past the guards, moving straight for Niketas. The man didn't even flinch.

Thorfinn reached for him, but before he could, Niketas' hands shot forward, catching his wrists.

Thorfinn froze.

The grip was like iron. His arms locked in place, his muscles straining, but Niketas didn't budge.

"Oh?" Niketas said, tilting his head. "Are you confused?"

Thorfinn gritted his teeth, trying to wrench free, but the man didn't even struggle.

"Did you really think I lost to you for real?" Niketas said. "To a barbarian like you?"

And then, without warning, he moved.

He twisted Thorfinn's arms, spun, and threw him.

Thorfinn's body left the ground, hurled through the air like he weighed nothing. He slammed into the stone wall of the barracks with a sound like splitting wood. The impact cracked the stone, sent dust and debris falling around him. He fell to the ground, his vision blurring, his head throbbing.

Blood dripped down his forehead.

Niketas dusted off his hands. "Hurry up and kill him," he said, turning. "I'll be in my carriage."

Thorfinn gritted his teeth, blinking away the haze as he saw the guards stepping toward him, weapons drawn.

Then he saw something else.

A shadow moved behind the last guard in the line.

Thorfinn blinked. His vision was still spinning. Had he imagined it?

Then the guard at the back stiffened. A hand wrapped around his mouth. A blade slid across his throat. He slumped, the sound of his body hitting the ground muffled.

Thorfinn turned his head, just as another figure moved between two guards. A flick of the wrist. Twin blades sprang from hidden mechanisms, stabbing into their necks. Neither of them made a sound before they dropped.

The remaining three turned, startled, hands flying to their weapons. But before they could react, another figure descended from above, landing atop them, his arms flashing. The same blades pierced them, ending them before they could so much as cry out.

The last guard saw what was happening and reached for his sword, opening his mouth to shout.

A blade flashed through the darkness.

His head hit the ground before his body followed.

The alley was silent.

Thorfinn blinked again, his vision clearing. The figures moved, stepping into the light of a flickering torch. One of them walked toward him.

His hair was white. His eyes glowed like molten gold.

"Looks like you've had a pretty eventful few days," Geralt said.

(AN: Constantinople is a big place and there are so many characters and things I wanna do with it which is why it gets a part 2. Most of that is training for Thorfinn both in magic and swordsmanship. This chapter was a little dramatic but I think it was needed. They needed to have this fight before they can heal. But yeah next chapter will have lots of training and lots of fighting and cool stuff. And sex. And no you’re not wrong those were assassins, don’t worry I didn’t add them for the sake of it. The templars are important in this as they are the human side of the Masquerade if that makes sense. Anyway I hope you enjoyed it.

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