Vetrulfr's fleet returned to their realm with riches beyond many of their wildest dreams, and legends to boast of for the next decade in their mead halls.
But he did not enter the docks of Ullrsfjörðr like a conqueror. No war horn sounded, no crowds gathered. There was only the hiss of the tide against the piers, and the creak of rope as the longship was fastened to the moorings.
Vetrulfr stepped down in silence. His boots met the wood of the dock without ceremony. Yet even in silence, there was presence. He turned and offered his hand.
Róisín took it, not because she trusted him; but because there was nothing else to hold onto.
Her feet touched the ground of a city older than it should have been. Not in age, but in soul. She had expected something savage. Crude. Huts and thatch, smoke and chaos.
That was what the monks said the Norse built; that is when they weren't burning Christian towns or abducting girls like her.
And yet…
