An Alfar woman, pale-skinned and sharp-eared, paused before a Roman merchant’s stall. She lifted a finely crafted robe between slender fingers—the fabric rippled in the autumn breeze, catching the light with a gentle sheen.

  “How much does this cost?”

  The merchant instantly broke into an eager grin and raised his voice above the market noise:

  “Oh! You have quite the eye! That piece blends Roman craft with Alfar weaving—excellent material, exquisite work. You would shine in it! Official price: three thousand denarii!”

  The Alfar woman hesitated, brows pinching slightly as she traced the cloth with her fingertips.

  “Well… might I ask—could the price come down a little?”

  The merchant’s heart leapt. Interest was hooked. He leaned closer—not whispering, but speaking just loud enough for those nearby to hear.

  “Hehe! Honestly, I’ve never seen someone suit this robe as perfectly as you. I truly wish you’d take it home. You have a travel license, yes? Under imperial trade regulations, that qualifies you for the city’s discount rate!”

  “Oh? You mean this?”

  She withdrew a small silver pass from her pouch, stamped with an official seal.

  “That’s the one!” The merchant clapped his palms. “Congratulations! You qualify for a discount!”

  Shoppers who had only been watching suddenly surged forward like fish smelling bait—hands dove into piles of robes and fabrics.

  Cries burst through the air:

  “There are pure wool shawls here!”

  “What’s this set in the leather? It glitters!”

  “These boots feel amazing!”

  Some even clutched items against their chests in fear of losing them.

  Late autumn of the year 2321 of the Divine Era—

  North of Akershus Castle sprawled a vast commercial avenue, the core of Roman–Alfar trade. Merchants and buyers swarmed; stalls lined both sides. Every storefront displayed glittering goods: Roman metalwork; northern furs; Alfar-woven veils and cloth; spices and wine.

  Warm perfume and steam mingled with the cold wind.

  The boulevard seethed with crowds. Carts rolled endlessly by.

  Hawkers shouted into the air:

  “Fresh honey bread! Just baked!”

  “Ironwork, silver, gold—quality guaranteed!”

  Patrolling Roman guards marched in formation, armor and spears flashing under the sun, bringing a sense of safety.

  Children darted through gaps in the masses, and street musicians played lilting flute tunes, drifting with a wandering sorrow.

  Even at the edge of winter chill, trade kept the street warm—lively as a spring festival.

  “Hey! Ga! Looking for something? Ga? Aren’t you cold? Hey—!"

  The merchant called toward a barefoot girl—Ga—standing alone in the middle of the street.

  She wore only a sleeveless short dress and stood motionless as the cold afternoon breeze swept over her, making her stand out starkly among the flowing crowd.

  It took several calls before Ga blinked back to awareness.

  “Hm? What?”

  Ga’s features were striking—finely shaped, youthful skin pale even by Alfar standards; her dark brown hair streamed in the wind. But her greatest feature was her eyes: large, liquid emeralds glimmering faintly, unnervingly bright.

  Her beauty bore a resemblance to the Alfar—yet something about her was unmistakably human.

  “You’ll get run over standing there like that! Come on, look at these trinkets I just got in—perfect for someone cute like you! Bring the director; I can give a discount!”

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  Ga leaned in, expressionless, spared the jewelry a glance, then shook her head and wandered off barefoot through the market.

  People noticed her for more than her looks—she had a will of her own. Tiny and young, she slipped through crowds with ease. Sometimes she tried helping merchants, only to make a bigger mess: insisting on moving crates too heavy for her, collapsing under their weight, spilling goods everywhere—earning both laughter and headaches.

  Other times, after roaming the market, she drifted to the inns beyond the street, swiping keys when clerks weren’t looking and bursting into random guest rooms. Shrieks and confusion followed, and Ga vanished before anyone could react.

  Because she was the adopted daughter of the respected hospital director—and because she was impossible not to like—the innkeepers paid damages to guests rather than demand punishment.

  “They’re here! Shields up!”

  Out beyond Oslo’s harbor mist, a Viking warship cut toward the docks: the children of Oslo’s fallen clans—survivors of the “Storm That Ended the Vikings” five years prior.

  Those who refused to bow to Rome had been relocated westward to Sánvika, fifteen nautical miles away. Today, aboard a ship they had built themselves, they returned.

  The vessel was called the Skí—Old Norse for “that which rides the wind”—a narrow yet resilient warship rowed by thirty hands. The prow bore the Roman eagle, granting it permission to land; thus, no alarm sounded. Roman guards merely gripped their weapons and waited.

  Beep—!

  A sharp signal whistle pierce the air.

  Roman guards shifted, lining the dock road—spears forward, shields linked, opening a passage for the orphans from the sea.

  Oslo, being a military frontier, held no schools.

  Yet travelers often lodged here with children Ga’s age—children Ga never cared to notice. Their laughter and speech felt distant from her world.

  But the first time she saw the Viking orphans, her gaze was chained in place—as if by an invisible hand.

  Since then, whenever she heard that whistle, she ran to the harbor first, even slipping past Roman shields just to see them up close.

  Rome allowed these children ashore under imperial decree—compensation for seizing their homeland. They formed their own supply crews, granted free provisions at designated stalls.

  Yet their manner of landing was near hostile:

  the warship slammed the dock, wood and iron booming. No gangplank—only raw muscle and impossible leaps over the rail.

  The scene resembled raiders arriving, not recipients of charity.

  The youths—boys and girls—were built like stone despite their age.

  Cold autumn wind bit through the air, yet they wore only handmade short leather tops and rough shorts, barefoot on the frozen stone. Faces striped in black and white pigment, clubs and knives at their belts, eyes sharp as beasts.

  Their leader stood at the front—scarred cheek, wolf pelt cloak, boots burnished from use. Barely past twenty, casual arrogance sat easily on him, but power radiated from his stance.

  People whispered at the sight—fear mixed with fascination.

  The Viking name still inspired dread, yet Roman shields were near; terror softened into curiosity. Others stepped aside.

  Only Ga watched from the shield wall’s edge, emerald eyes glinting with nostalgia and unease.

  “Delinquents…”

  “Rapists, murderers, cannibals…”

  “Get off Roman ground!”

  “Look at them posing tough—worthless brats.”

  “Strong bodies, no use—living off us for free!”

  Some Romans, once victims of Viking raids, hurled their venom from behind the guards’ shields.

  The orphans clenched fists and teeth—rage trembling through them—yet none broke formation, as though some shared conviction anchored them. They lifted their goods and returned the way they came.

  “Tch! Think you’re tough? Try this!”

  One fool hurled a cucumber, striking a youth.

  The boy finally snapped—dropping his load and charging several steps, snarling like a wolf torn from its chain.

  “Oh gods! They’re going to kill us! Imperial soldiers! Save us! Use your spears—kill them!”

  The man collapsed and wailed, but disciplined Roman troops did not move without orders.

  The Viking youth paused, smirk tugging his lip—pleased with the fear he’d caused.

  “Awooo!”

  A strange yelp sounded beneath the guard line—like a puppy growling.

  Silence rippled outward.

  The Viking boy crouched to look. So did his companions.

  Even the Romans craned their necks.

  There—Ga.

  She had crawled through the soldiers’ legs to the front.

  On all fours, face scrunched into a fierce snarl—trying to challenge the Viking like some wild beast.

  But tiny, barefoot Ga looked ridiculous—more kitten than wolf.

  Laughter erupted from the Vikings.

  “Hahaha! Stupid Romans—this the kind of children you breed?!”

  Their howls rang like wolves across stone, until the wolf-pelt leader raised a hand and quiet returned.

  Moments later, the same youth burst into song, and the orphans joined:

  “Spears up,

  Blades drawn,

  Bows sighted,

  Shields lifted—

  The Vikings come

  Bearing Víearr’s wrath!

  Offer treasure—offer entrails—

  Feed the dusk of your peace!

  Death awaits you—

  And your gods will fall!”

  Even without knowing the language, the crowd felt the violence pulsing through their throats.

  Ga stood on tiptoe, neck stretched, emerald eyes shining with longing, watching the Viking youths disappear down the road.