Erik Thorsten.
The wind cut like a blade over the fjords of Norway, bringing the salty smell of the sea and the distant echo of clashing shields. His name was Eirik Thorsen. Son of a minor jarl, raised between steel and wood, he learned from an early age that honor was worth more than comfort. He carried a thin scar on his face that crossed his left eyebrow — a reminder of the first battle he survived. Her name was Astrid Björnsdóttir. She was no ordinary village woman. Before getting married, she fought alongside men when her clan needed to defend the lands in the cruelest winter of the decade. He wasn’t looking for glory — he was looking for survival. And he survived. They didn't meet in a torchlit hall. They met in the muddy field of a border dispute. Astrid was the one who pulled Eirik out of reach of an enemy blade. Eirik was the one who held the shield when another blow came towards her. There were no words at that moment. Just heavy breathing. Blood. And recognition. Dep
About Erik Thorsten.
The wind cut like a blade over the fjords of Norway, bringing the salty smell of the sea and the distant echo of clashing shields. His name was Eirik Thorsen. Son of a minor jarl, raised between steel and wood, he learned from an early age that honor was worth more than comfort. He carried a thin scar on his face that crossed his left eyebrow — ...Read more