Morning broke over Ve?y, the sky a dull gray streaked with the promise of rough seas. I’d told my father I’d pick my crew for the journey to Wessex and Rome, though honestly, I could’ve gone alone and been fine. But if shit hit the fan, I’d need some meat shields to take the blows, so I called up my two best friends, Eldrid and Ketill. Truth be told, I didn’t give a fuck about them. They were fun to drink, but if they died, I’d shrug it off—my eyes wouldn’t shed a tear. I also grabbed two random Vikings, a pair of nobodies whose names I didn’t bother learning and whose mothers probably didn’t either. Then there was Emily, my GILFs. Ragnar raised an eyebrow when I named her, skeptical about dragging along an 80-year-old sve. "She speaks English perfectly," I said ftly, cutting off his doubts. "We’ll need that in Wessex." He grunted, unconvinced but too busy fucking Líf’s brains out the night before to argue much. Before we left, they handed us amulets etched with runes for the gods’ luck, and we set sail on a longship with me as the leader.

  The sea turned on us fast. A brutal storm hit halfway through the voyage, waves crashing over the deck like fists, the wind howling like a pissed-off god. The two random Vikings proved as useless as their faceless existence suggested—one got swept overboard, screaming like a bitch, and the other took a spar to the skull, his brains spttering across the wood before the sea cimed him too. I could’ve saved them, hauled their dumb asses back on board, but I saw the rations dwindling in the storm’s chaos. Two less mouths meant more food for us, so I let them die, watching their bodies vanish into the churning bck water without a flicker of regret.

  We reached Wessex battered but alive, nding near a small coastal vilge that looked more like a ghost town than a settlement. No armed guards, just a few peasants scurrying about with their heads down. Ketill, the reckless bastard, grinned and reached for his axe. "Let’s raid the fuckers," he said, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust. I grabbed his arm, stopping him cold. "Hold off, idiot," I growled. Before I could say more, the sound of hooves thundered toward us. Ten knights rode up, their armor cnking, led by a man with blonde hair and sharp green eyes. He reined in his horse and stared me down, his gaze cutting through the salty air. "Are you Ragnar’s son?" he asked, his voice steady but edged with suspicion.

  "Yeah," I replied, meeting his stare. "I’m here to see Robert." The blonde bastard hesitated, his hand twitching toward his sword, then turned his head slightly. "Follow me," he said, his tone clipped, like he wasn’t sure whether to trust me or gut me. I wanted to kill him right then—shove my axe through his pretty face and watch his green eyes roll back—but I held myself back. Fucking restraint wasn’t my strong suit, but I wasn’t here to start a war, not yet. I nodded to Ketill and Eldrid, who fell in behind me, and we followed the knights, Emily shuffling along with her head down and the amulet dangling from her wrinkled neck. We trudged innd, the muddy path leading us toward the capital.

  We’d finally reached the castle, a hulking stone monstrosity that loomed over the muddy streets of the capital. Getting in was a breeze—the massive gate was guarded by five knights decked out in polished armor, their clean-shaven faces and shiny steel a stark contrast to our ragged, salt-crusted crew. My boots squelched with seawater and blood from the journey, Ketill stank of sweat and mead, Eldrid’s tunic was torn at the shoulder, and Emily shuffled behind us, her wrinkled skin and tattered rags making her look like a corpse dragged out of the dirt. Inside, the pace hit me like a punch to the gut—gleaming marble floors, walls lined with tapestries so bright they hurt my eyes, and flickering torchlight casting long shadows across every surface. I hadn’t seen this much shine since I’d left my cushy life as Luke in Canada, and even Ve?y’s rough splendor couldn’t touch this.

  The blonde knight with green eyes—the one I’d been itching to gut since we met—led us into the throne room. Every step he took, every smug tilt of his head, made my fingers twitch toward my axe. He stopped in front of the throne and turned to me, his voice sharp. "Kneel." I nodded, keeping my face bnk, and muttered in Norse to my crew, "Get on your knees." Ketill and Eldrid dropped grudgingly, their knees hitting the cold stone with dull thuds, while Emily sank down slowly, her old bones creaking. I knelt too, though it burned my pride to bow to anyone, especially this prick.

  Then the doors at the far end of the room swung open, and a man stepped out. He was older—past 50, I’d guess—with blonde hair streaked with gray and green eyes that matched the knight’s so closely it was obvious they were father and son. The resembnce made me want to smash both their skulls together. He was dressed like a peacock, all silk and velvet, a crown studded with diamonds perched on his head. This had to be King Robert. He strode to the throne and sat, his elegant robes pooling around him, the torchlight glinting off the jewels as he stared down at us with a mix of curiosity and contempt. "Pagans, present yourselves," he said, his voice deep and commanding.

  Emily, pying transtor, piped up in her cracked voice, "He says to introduce ourselves." I didn’t need her to tell me that—I’d understood the bastard perfectly. Back in my old life as Luke in Canada, English was my first nguage, and this body, born in Wessex before Ragnar’s raid took me, had it baked into its bones. But Ketill and Eldrid were clueless, so I let Emily do her job while I took the lead. Standing up, I locked eyes with Robert and spoke loud and clear in English, my accent a rough mix of Norse and Wessex drawl. "I’m Asvald, son of Ragnar the Butcher and Líf Stone-Ass. These are my companions: Ketill and Eldrid from Ve?y, and this old hag’s Emily, a sve born in your kingdom."

  The room went dead quiet. Robert’s jaw tightened, his green eyes narrowing, and the blonde knight—probably his son—gripped his sword hilt like he wanted to cut me down right there. The courtiers lining the walls gasped, their fancy clothes rustling as they leaned forward, stunned that a filthy pagan like me spoke their tongue so well. I could’ve told them this body was Wessex-born, that I’d grown up with English before Ragnar and Líf cimed me, but my parents had drilled it into me: keep that shit secret. No one here needed to know I wasn’t just some savage from the north. My past as Luke gave me an edge—I’d aced English in school, and this body’s instincts filled in the rest—but I wasn’t about to spill that to these prissy fucks.

  Robert leaned back in his throne, his fingers drumming on the armrest, studying me like I was a wolf that’d wandered into his den. The air was thick with tension, the smoky tang of the torches mixing with the scent of polished metal and perfumed nobles, cshing with the stink of sea salt and blood clinging to us. Ketill shifted beside me, itching to draw his axe, while Eldrid smirked like she was waiting for a fight. Emily kept her head down, muttering something under her breath, probably praying I didn’t get us all killed. I stood tall, my hand resting on my belt near my dagger, ready for whatever this king threw at me. He’d summoned me here for a reason, and I’d be damned if I let these clean-cut bastards look down on me for long.