Ga had not followed Andrew’s orders.

  Instead, driven by sheer stubbornness, she dragged her heavy suitcase forward, stumbling on toward the Viking orphans’ settlement.

  As she drew closer, she could clearly see the massive man-made wooden fortress. Armed Viking youths patrolled the high walls, pacing back and forth. Outside the fort stood rows of wooden houses, fences, fields, and livestock pens. Some Viking teenagers carried harvested crops through narrow paths; younger children ran laughing through flocks of geese and chickens.

  It was a raw, primitive simplicity—something Ga had never seen in Oslo.

  Even with the suitcase weighing her down, she quickened her pace, eager to enter the settlement.

  The suitcase scraped across the ground, carving an awkward trail behind her. The sound quickly drew attention. Viking children noticed the strangely dressed foreign child and began following the mark she left behind.

  A foreign child, alone, daring to walk straight into their territory—

  curiosity spread fast.

  They gathered around her.

  In Oslo, Ga had always been forbidden from approaching Vikings. She had only heard Robert’s stories, or watched them from behind Roman shields.

  But now they were close—too close.

  Her heart raced with excitement, yet she stood frozen, shy and uncertain.

  Several older Viking youths stepped forward, gripping sharp tools. Their smiles were not friendly.

  “Hey, little white rabbit,” one of them taunted in Viking tongue. “Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I…” Ga stammered, unsure how to answer.

  “He doesn’t understand us, does he?”

  “Doesn’t understand? Then he’s Roman. Knock him down.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  A stone sling whipped through the air.

  In an instant, the rope tangled around Ga, throwing her off balance. She collapsed. The youths rushed in, pinning her to the ground. Rough hands searched her body, tearing at her clothes. Fabric ripped.

  Ga screamed.

  The watching children burst into laughter.

  “Hahaha! Listen to the little rabbit squeal like a girl!”

  “What should we do with him? Kill him and feed him to the pigs?”

  “He’s too skinny. The pigs won’t even bother.”

  “Maybe he’s from the Roman camp. Cut off his head and fling it back with a catapult.”

  “You want to start a war with Rome? I’m in! Hahaha—”

  “What are you idiots playing at now?”

  The laughter stalled.

  A scar-faced young man stepped forward—older than the rest. The crowd instinctively parted. The noise died down.

  His name was Viggo—a Jarl, a leader.

  He crouched and studied Ga’s terrified face.

  “You look familiar,” he muttered.

  After a moment, he switched to Roman tongue.

  “White-skinned brat. What’s your name?”

  “Ga,” she replied, her voice trembling.

  “‘Look’?” Viggo glanced around. “I don’t see anything.”

  “No. My name is Ga.”

  Realization flickered across his face. His lips curled.

  “Oh? Is that so.”

  Then, casually: “Where are you from?”

  “Oslo.”

  In truth, Ga and Viggo had crossed paths once before—when he had led the Viking orphans’ supply caravan to Oslo, and Ga had once cried out toward them from afar—no words, just raw sounds that came out cub-like and painfully awkward.

  But now her hair was cut short, her face filthy. Viggo didn’t fully recognize her.

  “Oslo?” Viggo squinted. “You’re the one who volunteered to come here?”

  He frowned.

  “I was told a centurion would personally deliver you. And this is what shows up?”

  Ga said nothing.

  Viggo’s grin widened—wolfish.

  “Well then. Since you weren’t brought by a centurion… how about we rip out your guts, roast them, peel off your scalp and face, stitch them back over your skull, and kick your head around like a ball? Sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

  He expected her to cry.

  She didn’t.

  Instead, Ga snapped her gaze up at him—sharp, vicious, wrong.

  The sudden shift sent a chill through Viggo. He straightened quickly and waved his hand with visible disgust.

  “Take this little freak to the King. Let him decide what to do with it.”

  “Jarl—what about his suitcase?” one boy asked, already gripping it as others gathered eagerly.

  Viggo glanced at it once, then turned back with a mock-courteous smile in Roman tongue.

  “I, Viggo, First Jarl of the Viking Kingdom, formally thank you for the… gift you’ve brought us.”

  Then, quietly in Viking speech:

  “Save some for me.”

  Ga’s stomach sank.

  “Gift?”

  She watched helplessly as her suitcase was torn apart like prey beneath wolves. The children ripped it open, flinging its contents into the air. They laughed, shouted, punched each other, scrambling wildly for whatever they could grab.

  Chaos. Joy. Theft.

  Hands hauled Ga up from the ground. Rough grips locked onto her shoulders, shoving her forward toward the fortress.

  Behind her, Viking children marched along, waving her “gifts” in the air, cheering as they followed.