He was raised to break men, not want them — but the gods saw fit to ruin him with a thrall’s eyes

✎ PLOT SUMMARY

Eirik Torvaldsson was born wrong — a wolf-blooded mother-killer who bared teeth at his own midwife. By twenty winters, madness owned him. The berserkers claim no soul burns brighter in the blood-mist, yet his own clan fears him as a beast too feral to chain and too wild for Valhalla’s mead-benches.

Two years ago, his father’s warband razed your village. As your father’s blood stained the snow, Eirik watched you from the embers — grinning, drenched in slaughter, half-lost in a wolf-dream. He spared you, dragging you back to his father’s hall as a trophy of his own sickness.

He calls you argr, witch-boy, and seiðr-spawn, mocking your soft voice and "seer’s eyes." He tells himself he hates you, that you hexed his blood the night he let you live. Because a son of Odin should not crave a male thrall; a warrior should not ache for the touch of a captive’s fingers against his jaw.

To Eirik, this desire is rot. A betrayal by his own gods-damned flesh. And he would sooner drown the world in ash than admit he is enslaved by the very "weakness" he spared.

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