Viking and The Witcher: Year 3 1.2

The weeks stretched into months as they traveled across the endless terrain, moving steadily toward their final destination. The nights were long, the days scorching, but the caravan pushed forward. Thorfinn had expected Zarah to return to his tent after that night, but when she did, he refused her. The next night, and the night after, the answer was the same. She didn't push him, but he could see the frustration in her eyes, the slight edge in her tone whenever they spoke.

He rarely spoke with anyone, preferring solitude. When Arwyn arrived at his tent, however, it was different. They never spoke of why she chose to sleep beside him, nor did they address the unspoken understanding between them. She would come in late, lay beside him, and they would drift off in silence. There were no words, no intimacy, just the quiet comfort of knowing someone familiar was there.

And then, at long last, they arrived.

It was early morning when they crested the final hill, the horizon stretching wide before them, and Yusuf reined his horse in beside Thorfinn, his face bright with pride as he gestured ahead.

"Welcome, Thorfinn," he said. "To the greatest city that ever was and ever will be."

Thorfinn squinted, eyes narrowing against the rising sun. Then he saw it.

It was enormous. Unlike anything he had ever seen, unlike anything he had even imagined.

The city sprawled along the coastline, its walls stretching farther than he could see. They were massive, higher and thicker than any fortress he had ever encountered, lined with towers and watchposts. Beyond them, the city itself was a dense maze of buildings, their rooftops gleaming in the morning light. Ships crowded the bay, more than he had ever seen in one place, their sails bright against the blue waters. At the harbor, men swarmed like ants, unloading cargo, shouting orders, pushing carts piled with goods. Bridges arched over narrow waterways that cut through the city, and strange stone channels carried water from somewhere beyond the hills.

The palaces and temples were unlike anything in the North. Some had domes of shining metal, others had towering spires that seemed to reach for the sky. The largest structure stood at the city's heart, its roof so wide it looked like it could hold an entire village beneath it. It was vast, built from pale stone, its entrances flanked by tall pillars and carvings that glowed gold in the sun.

The streets stretched endlessly, filled with people, their clothing colorful and foreign, their voices a constant hum even from this distance. There were markets spilling out into the open squares, stalls covered in bright cloth, the scent of food and spices drifting even to where they stood.

Arwyn pulled her horse beside him, her eyes wide, lips slightly parted as she took it all in.

She had never seen anything like this.

Thorfinn turned his head to look at her, seeing his own shock reflected in her face.

"This isn't real," she muttered, almost to herself.

"It is," Thorfinn said, gripping the reins tighter. "This is real."

He had thought the Second City was the greatest place he would ever see, but that place had been a ruin, a ghost of what once was. This was alive. Thriving. A place that had never fallen. He exhaled slowly, his breath steadying as he took it all in.

Yusuf clapped Thorfinn on the back, his face full of warmth and pride as he turned to him. "This is where we part ways, my friend," he said, reaching into his robes. He pulled out a leather pouch heavy with coin and pressed it into Thorfinn's hand. "Take this. Gold will open doors here, and in this city, any man can make something of himself."

Thorfinn looked down at the pouch, weighing it in his palm before glancing back at Yusuf. "I didn't do this for gold."

Yusuf chuckled. "I know. That is why I give it to you freely. You have earned more than this, but take it as a gift, not as payment." His expression grew more solemn. "This city is the center of the world. You will find anything here—power, knowledge, allies, and enemies alike. Tread carefully, Thorfinn."

He turned to Arwyn, giving her a respectful nod. "You both have my gratitude. I will see to it that your names are spoken well in my halls. May your gods watch over you."

Arwyn gave a short nod in return, and Thorfinn gripped Yusuf's forearm, exchanging a firm shake before releasing him.

With that, the Emir turned his horse, riding back toward his men who were already setting up camp, their banners rippling in the wind. The caravan had its own business in the city, but Yusuf would not be entering just yet.

Thorfinn exhaled, securing the pouch at his waist before looking at Arwyn. "Ready?"

She pulled the reins tight, her horse shifting beneath her. "I've been ready."

Thorfinn smirked, then dug his heels into his horse's side, spurring it forward. Arwyn followed close behind, and together they galloped down the dusty path toward the city gates, the massive walls looming closer with every stride.

The closer they got, the more the details sharpened—the cracks in the stones of the walls, the reinforced iron gates, the rows of guards stationed at the entrance. Merchants and travelers were streaming in, carts packed high with goods, men shouting in a dozen different tongues, the smell of spice and sweat thick in the air.

This was it.

The great city.

Constantinople.

...

Thorfinn and Arwyn rode up to the gate, joining the long line of people waiting to enter. The crowd was dense, filled with merchants, travelers, and common folk, all waiting their turn under the watchful eyes of the guards. An even larger procession of soldiers lined the walls and the entrance, their armor gleaming in the morning light.

Arwyn shifted in her saddle. "Has there been an attack?"

Thorfinn scanned the scene. There were too many camps, too many makeshift market stalls just outside the walls for that. The people seemed tense, but not panicked. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Maybe it's for security. Or maybe they're looking for someone."

Arwyn glanced at him. "You sound unsure."

"I am."

They dismounted, leading their horses forward as the line moved. The closer they got, the more they saw. A group of men was dragged from the line, their protests falling on deaf ears. The guards slammed them to the ground, kicking and beating them with clubs. One of them tried to crawl away, only for a boot to crush his hand into the dirt.

A few others suddenly broke into a run, trying to slip through the gates. It was foolish. The response was immediate. Crossbowmen positioned above fired without hesitation, their bolts slamming into the fleeing men, sending them sprawling to the ground in pools of blood.

Arwyn tensed, her hand moving beneath her cloak to rest on her sword. "We should find another way in."

Thorfinn didn't react. "It'll be fine. They aren't looking for us."

"We don't know what they're looking for," she shot back, eyes narrowing as they moved closer.

Thorfinn glanced at her, voice calm. "We have nothing to hide. Now stop acting so tense. It'll make them suspicious."

Arwyn exhaled through her nose but didn't say anything else.

The line moved, slow but steady. They waited, watching as the guards inspected each group with scrutiny. When they were finally called forward, a man in a bronze helmet spoke to them in a sharp, unfamiliar tongue. Greek.

Thorfinn didn't understand it, but he knew what language it was. Geralt had told him about it. He also told him that most of the guards here spoke Latin as a second language, or at least had someone who did.

Thorfinn switched to Latin. "Greetings."

The guard eyed him before switching to Latin as well. "Take off your hood."

Thorfinn did as he was told, pushing it back. The guard's expression shifted from suspicion to shock, his eyes widening at Thorfinn's pale skin and snow-white hair. Then, he grinned, turning to his fellow guards and muttering something in Greek.

They all started laughing.

"Look at this," the guard chuckled, stepping closer. "A spirit walks among us!"

The others laughed louder, some knocking on their breastplates as if to ward off bad omens. One spat on the ground, muttering a quick prayer.

Thorfinn didn't react. He had heard worse.

The guard, still grinning, crossed his arms. "What business do you have in the city?"

"To meet a friend. To learn."

The guard waved his hand dismissively. "I don't care." He turned and gestured to the others, who immediately went to their horses and began rummaging through the saddlebags.

Arwyn moved, stepping forward to stop them, but Thorfinn grabbed her arm and shook his head. "Let them," he muttered under his breath. "It's not worth it."

She glared but didn't resist.

The guards tossed things around carelessly, knocking items to the ground, shoving clothes and supplies aside without care. One of them smirked as he pocketed a small trinket, thinking neither of them noticed.

"One gold to enter the city," the guard said, holding out his hand.

Thorfinn pulled a gold piece from his pouch, but the man's smile widened. "Each."

Thorfinn didn't move for a moment, staring at him. A gold coin for entrance? A joke if he had ever heard one. The man was swindling them, taking advantage of the situation.

He could call it out. He could challenge them.

But he didn't.

He was tired. He just wanted to get inside.

Without another word, he handed over the gold for both of them.

The guard's grin never faded as he pocketed the coins and gestured for them to pass. "Welcome to the greatest city in the world."

Thorfinn led his horse forward, Arwyn walking beside him. When they were past the gates, she scoffed. "You let them rob you."

"It wasn't worth the trouble."

"They took from the saddlebags too."

"I know."

Arwyn sighed, shaking her head, but she didn't argue further.

They walked through a tunnel beneath the massive wall, the air cool and damp compared to the sun-baked streets outside. The tunnel was long, leading them beneath thick layers of stone, before finally opening up.

And then they stepped into the city.

The world seemed to expand before them.

Arwyn sucked in a breath, and Thorfinn slowed his steps.

The streets stretched endlessly, packed with people moving in every direction. Towers and spires reached for the sky, domes gleamed under the sun, great arches framed bustling plazas. Merchants called out from every corner, selling goods from every part of the known world. Perfumed air mixed with the scent of cooking meats and burning incense.

The sheer scale of it all made Kattegat seem small, made every city Thorfinn had seen before look like a mere village in comparison.He had traveled far. He had seen much. But nothing like this.

Arwyn exhaled as they continued down the street, the noise and sheer number of people pressing in on them from all sides. "How are we even going to find Geralt in this place?" she asked, eyes scanning the endless sprawl of buildings, the sheer immensity of it overwhelming.

Thorfinn kept walking, glancing around. "We'll ask around. He can't be too hard to find."

Arwyn gave him a flat look. "You couldn't even find him when he was hiding in Kattegat."

"That was different."

"How?"

"It just was."

"Oh, it just was," she said, mocking his tone before shaking her head and stepping ahead of him.

Thorfinn sighed, watching as she wandered toward one of the market stalls. He caught up as she stopped in front of a display of fine dresses, fabrics hanging in rich colors of blue, red, and green, the embroidery shimmering in the sunlight. She reached out, her fingers brushing over a piece of silk, her expression unreadable.

"Geralt is waiting for us," Thorfinn said, standing next to her. "He won't make himself hard to find."

Arwyn rolled her eyes and moved on. "What do we do in the meantime?" she asked.

Thorfinn sighed again. He wanted to head straight for the library, to find whatever centers of knowledge this city had to offer, but he knew that could wait. Geralt had brought them here for a reason. He hadn't seen him in a year, and it was time to find him.

"We find an inn. Preferably one with a stable. Then we start asking around."

They moved through the crowd, stopping at a few merchants and passersby, but the first few they approached only responded with blank stares or quick shakes of the head. Latin wasn't as common here as he'd hoped.

Eventually, they found a wine merchant pouring drinks for a small group of customers. He had a well-groomed beard and a round stomach, his clothes rich, but not ostentatious. When Thorfinn spoke, the man's eyes lit up, clearly recognizing the language.

"You're looking for an inn?" the merchant asked, switching to Latin easily.

"Yes," Thorfinn replied. "One with a stable."

The man smiled. "You'll want the Golden Laurel. Go straight down the main market road. You'll see the sign with the laurel wreath."

Thorfinn nodded. "Thank you." He reached into his pouch and pulled out a few coins. "Your finest bottle."

The merchant grinned, plucking a deep green bottle from behind the stall and handing it to him. "A fine choice," he said. "Welcome to the greatest city in the world."

Thorfinn tucked the bottle into his pack and led Arwyn further down the road.

They followed the merchant's directions, weaving through the thick crowds until they spotted a wooden sign hanging from a sturdy beam. A laurel wreath was carved into the wood, the words beneath it written in Greek.

A young stablehand rushed up as they approached, barely more than a boy, dressed in simple but clean clothes. He looked between them and their horses, eyes slightly wide at the sight of Thorfinn.

Thorfinn pulled out a few silver coins and handed them over. "Make sure they're fed and brushed," he said, hoping the boy understood.

The stablehand nodded quickly and took the reins, leading the horses toward the back.

Thorfinn and Arwyn stepped toward the inn's entrance, the smell of food and spiced wine wafting out from inside. The sounds of voices, laughter, and the clatter of dishes filled the air.

"Let's get a room," Thorfinn said, pushing open the door.

Thorfinn and Arwyn stepped inside, immediately hit by the thick air—sweat, alcohol, and unwashed bodies mixing into something foul. The Golden Laurel was nothing like the merchant had described. Men shouted over each other, laughter and curses blending together. The floor was filthy, covered in spilled drinks, food scraps, and what smelled like vomit in the corner.

A crash rang out as a table flipped over. A man was thrown across the floor, blood running from his broken nose. His attacker, a thick-armed brute missing a tooth, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the floorboards. The beaten man groaned, trying to push himself up, but the brute kicked him hard in the ribs, a sharp crack echoing. He grabbed a broken piece of pottery from the ground and jammed it into the man's thigh. The wounded man screamed, writhing as the brute stood over him, laughing. No one around them seemed to care.

Arwyn glanced up at Thorfinn. "This is not what that merchant described."

Thorfinn didn't look at her. "I don't care," he said, stepping over the groaning man. "As long as I get a bed."

They walked to the counter where the innkeeper stood, a broad-shouldered man with greasy hair and a stained tunic. He was counting coins, barely looking up at them.

"Room for two," Thorfinn said in Latin.

The innkeeper's eyes dragged up from his coins. He looked Thorfinn over, taking in the armor, the weapons, the scars. His gaze moved to Arwyn, lingering just a second too long before he smirked. "One room, two beds. Three gold."

Thorfinn stared at him. "Three?"

The innkeeper shrugged. "A good place isn't cheap. And space is limited."

Thorfinn exhaled through his nose. He wasn't a fool. He knew what things were worth, and a room in this pit wasn't worth a fraction of what the man was asking.

"One silver," Thorfinn said flatly.

The innkeeper laughed, shaking his head. "For a silver, you can sleep in the alley."

"One silver," Thorfinn repeated.

"Three gold," the innkeeper said again.

Thorfinn tapped his fingers against the counter. "If you don't take the silver," he said, voice calm, "then I'll kill you, then I'll kill every drunk fool in here, and I'll take whatever room I want."

The innkeeper's smirk faded. His eyes darted to Arwyn, who was already resting a hand on her sword, ready to back up every word.

The innkeeper hesitated. "Two gold."

"One silver," Thorfinn said again.

The man's jaw clenched. He glanced around the tavern, seeing no one who'd be willing to die over his profits. He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine."

Thorfinn flicked the coin onto the counter. "We'll need two mugs."

The innkeeper grabbed them quickly, eager to be rid of them.

Thorfinn pulled the bottle of wine from his pack, popped the cork, and poured a generous amount into both mugs, sliding one over to Arwyn.

They lifted their drinks and clinked them together before taking a deep swig.

Both of them immediately spit it out.

Thorfinn scowled, looking at the mug like it had personally insulted him. "What piss."

Arwyn wiped her mouth. "If that's his finest, I fear for his other customers."

She poured the rest onto the floor, and Thorfinn did the same.

"Get us something real," she said to the innkeeper.

The innkeeper grabbed a wooden jug from beneath the counter and poured them each a mug of what was on tap. The dark red liquid sloshed slightly as he set them down in front of them.

Thorfinn and Arwyn each took their mugs and drank deep before slamming them back onto the counter at the same time. They both raised an eyebrow, glancing at each other.

It was still wine. But it was better. Smoother. Not the piss they had first been given.

Thorfinn exhaled through his nose. He wasn't much of a wine drinker, but at least this wasn't completely undrinkable. Still, it wasn't what he wanted.

"I'd rather have ale. Or mead."

The innkeeper barked out a laugh. "We don't sell that barbarian swill here."

Thorfinn grunted, rolling his shoulders. The day had not started well. The guards at the gate had robbed him, the first wine had tasted like goat's piss, and now he had to put up with an innkeeper who clearly thought himself amusing. He wanted to take his knife and drive it through the man's hand just for the irritation. Maybe tomorrow. Right now, he wouldn't let it ruin his mood. He was here. Constantinople. A city that had existed to him only in books and the words of travelers. The greatest city in the world.

And yet, all he wanted was a strong drink.

Arwyn swirled the wine in her mug, staring down at it like she was contemplating something heavier than just its taste. "I haven't had ale or mead in over a year."

Thorfinn smirked slightly. "How often did you drink it back home?"

Arwyn's head snapped up, giving him a sharp look like he had said something idiotic. "You've seen me drink it many times."

"In Northumbria," he added.

The amusement in his voice made her stiffen. A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but there was something else beneath it—something he couldn't quite name. She went silent, her fingers tightening around the mug. Her knuckles turned white.

"My... father made ale from barley," she said after a moment, her voice lower, quieter. "I wasn't allowed much. I was too young."

Her voice didn't break, not exactly, but there was something strained in it. Something fragile.

Thorfinn watched her for a moment. "Tell me more about your family."

Arwyn's grip tightened further, her breathing slow, controlled. "Why?"

"You never speak of them."

She scoffed, looking at him like he was an idiot. "Because they're dead, Thorfinn."

"I know that," he said, unfazed. "Doesn't mean you can't talk about them."

Arwyn laughed, a bitter sound. "And what would you like me to say? That my father was a good man? That my mother was kind? That my sister wanted nothing more than to run far away from you?" She looked at him, her blue eyes sharp, hard. "Or should I talk about how you killed them?"

Thorfinn didn't flinch, but his fingers tensed around his mug. He held her gaze, searching it for something—anger, sadness, hatred. Maybe all three.

"You should stop talking about my family," she said, her voice low, dangerous.

Thorfinn nodded, letting it go. He took another drink, setting his cup down with a dull thud against the counter.

The silence that followed was thick. He could feel it pressing between them. He knew what he had done to her, what he had taken. He knew better than to push. But still... sometimes he wanted to.

"We should rest for a bit before heading out to look for Geralt."

"I'll go now," Arwyn said, sharp and short. She downed the rest of her drink in one go, slammed the empty mug on the counter, and walked out, her steps stiff.

Thorfinn sighed, rubbing his temple as he watched her go.

The innkeeper smirked as he wiped a cup with a rag. "Women, eh?"

Thorfinn turned his head, eyes narrowing. "Haldir spýr of fávi, en ek spýri af hnífi." (A fool asks with his mouth, but I ask with my knife.) His voice was low, dangerous.

The innkeeper's smirk faded, and he turned his attention back to his work.

Thorfinn drank the rest of his wine in one gulp, tossed half a dozen coppers onto the counter, and stood up. His body ached from travel and battle, his wounds a dull throb beneath his clothes. He had barely slept in days, and now that they were finally here, the exhaustion was catching up to him.

He made his way toward the stairs, stepping past drunken men who barely noticed him. One slumped against the bannister, half-conscious, while another bled from a gash on his forehead, laughing as his friend slapped him on the back. The stench of sweat, alcohol, and unwashed bodies thickened the air, making him grimace.

At the top of the stairs, he found his room. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was worse than he expected.

The cot in the corner looked like it had been slept in a hundred times without ever being cleaned, the sheets stained and stiff. The wooden walls were damp, likely from sweat and spilled drinks, and the air smelled of mold. A single candle flickered on the rickety table beside the bed, casting weak light across the cramped space.

Thorfinn sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

He had slept in worse.

He closed the door, locking it behind him, and sat on the edge of the bed. He wasn't sure how long they would be in this city. However long it took to find Geralt. Then what? That was the question.

Thorfinn sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. His thoughts churned in his head, circling back to Arwyn. He didn't know how to deal with her, didn't know what he was supposed to feel about her. By all the laws of gods and men, he had been right. The strong take from the weak. That was the way of the world. Her father had failed to protect his family, and that was on him. She had no right to hold onto that anger, no right to demand something that wasn't hers to demand. She should accept what happened. She should move on. That was the logical conclusion, the one that every lesson in his life told him was true.

But then there was the other part of him. The part that had seen Eowyn in the desert. The part of him that questioned what he had done—not in the sense of regret, but in the sense of understanding. Was he truly right? Did might alone make right? That side of him lingered, whispering doubt into the cracks of his mind.

He clenched his jaw and cast those thoughts aside. He didn't want to think of Eowyn. He didn't want to remember her standing over him in the sands, speaking to him as if she still lived. He had left her behind long ago. The past was done.

That still left Arwyn. What was he to do with her? Would she be happier if he let her go? If he told her to leave, to go wherever she wished, to forget about Kattegat and him and everything that came before? The thought made his chest tighten. A part of him, deep and primal, rejected it outright. The idea of her being gone, truly gone, was unbearable. He didn't know why, but he knew that much.

And yet, what was the alternative? They keep traveling together until one day they finally come to blows? Until one of them ends up dead? He scoffed at the thought. No, that wouldn't happen. No matter how tense things were between them, there was something unspoken between them. Something that held them together despite everything.

He exhaled and rested his forearms on his knees, staring down at his hands. In truth, he didn't know what to do. He had no answers. But he knew one thing—he couldn't lose her. Not like he lost Hild. Not like he lost everyone else. He wouldn't lose anyone ever again. His fists clenched at the thought.

Shaking his head, he stood up, deciding to focus on something else. The grime from travel clung to his skin, the sweat, the dirt, the blood. He needed to clean himself.

He opened the door to his room and leaned out, catching sight of a passing wench. He gestured to her, but she didn't seem to understand Latin like the innkeeper had. He had to mime his request, pretending to wash himself, pointing at a bucket. She watched him for a moment before nodding in understanding. He reached into his pouch and flipped her a copper before shutting the door.

Stripping out of his clothes, he tossed them onto the chair beside the bed. He rolled his shoulders, the aches of battle and travel still lingering in his muscles. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his beard. He'd need to shave soon.

The wench arrived a short while later, placing the bucket down beside him before giving him a nod and leaving without a word. Thorfinn knelt beside it, dipping his fingers into the water. As expected, it was ice-cold. He had been hoping it would be warmer, but instead of calling the wench back to heat it, he decided to handle it himself.

He sat back on his heels, closing his eyes for a moment. He steadied his breathing, focusing on the feeling deep inside of him—the same feeling that had erupted out of him when Hakon had nearly killed him. A faint warmth stirred in his chest, like an ember waiting to be fanned into a flame. He let it build, then willed it forward, and a small glow flickered into life in his palm.

He opened his eyes. The light hovered there, pulsing slightly. It was the same energy he had used against Hakon, the same power that had burned the creature when nothing else could. He still didn't understand it. It wasn't fire, not in the way Igni was. It didn't flicker or waver, nor did it burn the air around it. He had spent weeks after their escape from the Second City trying to summon it again, managing only small flashes at first. After a few months, he had been able to make it grow larger. Just before they reached Constantinople, he had learned to make it hotter.

Yet it did not act like fire.

Thorfinn plunged his glowing hand into the water. It should have snuffed out, just as a flame would. Instead, the light remained, steady and unwavering, and soon, the water began to bubble. The warmth spread until steam curled off the surface. He watched it for a moment longer, then closed his hand, dismissing the energy.

Whatever this power was, it had to be something far beyond him if it was enough to drive back that monster.

He grabbed the cloth, dipping it into the water before wringing it out. The warmth felt good against his skin as he ran it over his arms, wiping away the dust and grime from travel. He moved to his chest, then his back, stretching out the aches from the long ride. The water turned murky as he cleaned himself, but at least he no longer felt like he was carrying half the road with him.

Once done, he dried off and pulled on fresh clothes. A clean tunic, sturdy trousers, and his boots. He strapped his belt back around his waist before reaching for his sword. The steel rasped as he drew it from its scabbard, his brows furrowing the moment his eyes landed on the blade.

The stain was still there.

He ran his thumb along the edge, then grabbed the cloth again and tried to wipe it away, but as before, it did nothing. The dark, dried blood had seeped into the steel itself. Ever since the moment he had stabbed Hakon in the heart, no amount of scrubbing, washing, or sharpening had been able to cleanse it.

He sheathed the blade again and tied it back onto his belt. He didn't know what it meant, if it meant anything at all.

He turned to the window, looking out over the city. Constantinople stretched beyond him. Somewhere within those walls, Geralt was waiting. Finding him would be no easy task.

Thorfinn exhaled, stepping toward the door. "Might as well get started now."

___________________________

Arwyn walked through the crowded market, her fists clenched at her sides, the irritation from her conversation with Thorfinn still burning in her chest. He had no right to bring up her father. No right to speak of her family as if they were just some distant memory to be idly mentioned over a drink. He had killed them. He had been the one to burn her home to the ground, to slaughter her kin like they were nothing. And now, years later, he spoke of them as if they were just another part of his past, another story to be recounted without thought. She exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing herself to focus on her surroundings instead. The market was loud, filled with the sounds of merchants shouting over one another in a language she barely understood. She wasn't in the mood for the noise, nor the press of people, but she needed to be away from the inn. Away from him.

A man stepped in front of her, grinning wide, gold rings flashing on his fingers. He held up a small vial filled with a red liquid, shaking it slightly so the sunlight caught it. He said something in Greek, fast and eager. She stared at him, uncomprehending, before shaking her head and stepping around him. Another vendor called to her, holding up a swath of silk, running his fingers over the fabric to show its softness. Again, she ignored him.

A woman reached for her wrist, pulling her toward a stall filled with beads and jewelry. Arwyn stiffened, yanking herself free, and the woman scowled, muttering something under her breath before turning to another potential customer.

She was sick of it already. Sick of the voices, sick of the unfamiliar words, sick of the way people kept trying to get her attention. She just wanted to walk.

She didn't want to think of anything yet she couldn't help the rush of thoughts that streamed through her mind. Thorfinn had killed her family. That was an unshakable fact. And yet, despite everything, she had stayed at his side. She had fought beside him, had slept next to him, had trusted him with her life more times than she could count. It made no sense. By all rights, she should hate him. Should have hated him from the moment she had been taken from her home.

Yet she didn't. Not truly. Not anymore.

She hated herself for that. She hated herself for the fact that she felt closer to him after spending two years being practically joined ag the hip. She hated how much she loved his touch, how much she tried to reason the death of her own family.

She stopped in front of a stall, realizing too late that she had no idea what the merchant was selling. Small, round objects lay in baskets, but their scent was unfamiliar. He gestured for her to come closer, saying something she didn't understand, and she shook her head, stepping away. She needed to clear her mind. Needed to stop thinking about Thorfinn, about the past, about everything that had been gnawing at her since they'd arrived in this city.

Arwyn exhaled sharply and slapped her cheeks, shaking her head. Enough sulking. She was in the greatest city in the world. A year in the desert, seeing nothing but endless sand and scorching sun, had been enough. She deserved to enjoy herself.

Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn't eaten much since arriving. She scanned the food stalls, the scent of spiced meats, roasted nuts, and freshly baked bread thick in the air. She approached the nearest one, eyeing the skewered meat sizzling over the fire. The merchant said something in Greek, gesturing to the food. She didn't understand a word, but she reached into her pouch and pulled out a few coins, dropping them in his palm. He seemed pleased, handing her a skewer in return. She bit into the meat, surprised by the burst of flavor.

It was good. Probably cost her more than it should have, but she didn't care. She had taken Thorfinn's purse before leaving the inn. If some random guards could rob him at the gate, then surely he wouldn't mind her doing the same.

She continued walking, buying whatever caught her eye—a sweet pastry filled with nuts and honey, a cup of some fruity drink, a roasted fig wrapped in cured meat. Each time, she handed over more coins than necessary, knowing she was likely being swindled but too amused to care.

After finishing the last of her food, she found herself in a different part of the city. The streets were wider, cleaner. The people here moved with a slower grace, their clothing finer, their jewelry more extravagant. There were more guards, standing at intervals along the streets, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd.

Her gaze was drawn to a massive fountain in the center of the square. It was twice the size of the longhouse at Thorfinn's farm, a masterpiece of carved stone. Water gushed from the mouths of statues, cascading down into the basin below. It sparkled under the midday sun, a sight unlike anything she had ever seen.

Her eyes widened as she stepped forward, wanting to get a closer look.

Then she felt it.

Eyes on her.

The laughter came first—soft snickers and hushed whispers from the finely dressed women seated on a nearby stone bench. A group of men spoke in low voices, glancing at her before turning to the guards.

She frowned and looked down. Her dress was a mess.

She hadn't had much clothing in the desert, and what she did have had been worn thin, torn in places, the edges fraying. She hadn't cared before, not when survival had been more important. Now, standing here among these people, she felt self-conscious for the first time in years.

A few of the nobles gestured toward her, speaking to the guards.

She left before they could make any trouble.

As she walked away, she thought about her clothing. She had never cared much for dresses growing up, but there had been a time when she had envied Alfrida, the lady of the house, for her fine gowns. She and Eowyn had once tried to steal one, sneaking into the chambers where they were kept, only to be caught and scolded by their father. In Kattegat, clothing had mattered only in function. Warmth was more important than appearance. If you had both, it was a sign of wealth, but it was never as important as it was here.

But now she wasn't in either place. She reached into her pouch, feeling the weight of the gold coins inside.

A small smile crossed her lips.

Why not?

___________________________

Thorfinn stepped out of the inn, adjusting the sleeves of his new tunic. The material was clean and comfortable, but his mood was sour. His main coin pouch was gone. There was only one person who could have taken it. Damn woman. He clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. He'd get her back for that, but right now, it wasn't important. He still had an emergency stash. Finding Geralt was what mattered.

Before leaving, he stopped by the innkeeper, leaning on the counter. "Have you ever seen a man with hair like mine, but a bit older?" he asked in Latin.

The innkeeper scoffed, shaking his head. "I would remember such a strange-looking man." He glanced at Thorfinn's pale features and white hair, smirking. "I've never seen someone like you before. Another like you? I'd think I was cursed."

Thorfinn grunted and walked out. He stepped into the street, the noise of the city pressing in on him immediately, voices shouting over one another, merchants haggling, the smell of spiced meats, sweat, and filth thick in the air. He started moving, weaving through the crowds, stopping at stall after stall, describing Geralt, repeating himself over and over. He spoke in Latin when he could. Most people just stared at him blankly, shaking their heads, eyes scanning over him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

The first merchant, an older man selling dried dates and figs, scratched at his graying beard as he thought. "No. No one like that. Not here."

Another, a younger man with a stall filled with bolts of silk and linen, barely looked at him before waving him off. "I do not know who that is."

A butcher, hands red with blood as he hacked apart a slab of lamb, sneered as he answered. "I don't talk to foreigners. Get lost."

At a spice stall, an old woman frowned, her wrinkled face pinched in thought before she finally shook her head. "A man with hair like yours? I would remember. But no, I have not seen him."

A jeweler, polishing a bracelet, laughed when Thorfinn asked. "Your brother?" he joked, flashing gold teeth. "Perhaps he is dead in the gutter somewhere. This is not a kind city to those without coin."

Thorfinn clenched his jaw and walked away.

Everywhere he asked, he got the same answer. No one had seen him. No one had heard of him. Some even acted like the question itself was ridiculous.

Geralt had been with them when the ship went down. He should have reached land. He should have been here. But as the hours dragged on, as the rejections piled up, a thought settled in the back of Thorfinn's mind, one he had been avoiding since the start.

Maybe Geralt hadn't survived the sea. Maybe he had drowned somewhere in those endless black waters, his body lost to the waves, his bones resting at the bottom of the world. Maybe Thorfinn had been chasing a ghost this entire time. Or worse—maybe he had survived but had simply moved on. Left. Abandoned whatever plan he had for them and disappeared into this massive city, never intending to be found.

The frustration built in his chest, creeping up his throat, thick and bitter. He had wasted an entire fucking year, marching through the desert, barely surviving, for what? For nothing?

He shoved the thoughts down, kept moving, kept asking.

A baker shook his head. "No."

A scribe in the forum laughed. "Why would I know such a man?"

A slave trader barely glanced at him before walking away.

Nothing.

Thorfinn turned a corner, running a hand down his face, exhaling slowly through his nose, the tension making his shoulders stiff. He needed a moment to think, to figure out what the fuck to do next. He leaned against a post, letting his eyes scan the street, watching the flow of the crowd, looking for anything—any sign that he had missed something.

Then he saw him.

A man, leaning against the wall by an alley, dressed in rags, the filth clinging to his clothes making him look like a beggar. But something was off. His posture, the way he carried himself, the muscles hidden beneath the layers of grime. His teeth were too clean, his eyes too sharp. Thorfinn had spent enough time around fighters to know one when he saw one, no matter how well they tried to hide it.

The beggar tilted his head, speaking in Latin. "Not wise to speak of Witchers in this city." His voice was low, casual, but there was something behind it, something pointed. "They are not welcome here. And once the inner guard finds you, they will take you as well."

Thorfinn straightened, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Who the fuck are you?"

The beggar didn't answer. He turned and walked into the alley, disappearing into the shadows.

Thorfinn clenched his jaw. "Wait," he said, pushing off the post, following.

Then he felt it.

A slight pressure at his waist, the sudden absence of weight.

He spun.

A child—small, quick—was already darting away, a dagger still in his hand, the severed end of Thorfinn's sword belt hanging loose. Another child, older, snatched the sword and took off running in the opposite direction.

Thorfinn's blood boiled.

He looked back at the alley, saw the beggar turning a corner, then looked at the fleeing children.

"Fuck," he growled.

He ran.

Thorfinn's boots slammed against the stone, his weight pushing into each step as he ran, his breath hard but controlled. The fucking bastards were fast. Their feet barely touched the ground as they twisted through the crowd, slipping past stalls, diving between carts, always just ahead, never in reach.

"Get the fuck back here!" he bellowed, but the children didn't even look back.

One of them veered right, squeezing between two fat merchants, their robes brushing against his skinny frame as he vanished through the gap. Thorfinn tried to follow, shouldering his way through, but his broad frame caught against their bulk. He growled, shoved harder, the merchants cursing as they stumbled aside, toppling into a stack of clay pots. By the time he was through, the sword was already gone, tossed through the air, caught by another child perched on the ledge of a balcony. Thorfinn's eyes snapped up just as the boy grinned and took off, feet hammering the wooden planks.

Thorfinn ran.

He reached the wall and jumped, his boots scraping against the stone as his hands caught the railing. His muscles tensed, pulling himself up, but he misjudged the weight of his own momentum. His knee clipped the ledge. His grip slipped. He swung wildly, his fingers barely latching onto the edge before he could fall back onto the street. His arms burned as he pulled himself up, rolling onto the balcony with a grunt.

He was losing time.

The kid was already at the rooftop's edge, and then—gone. Thorfinn pushed off, running hard, the boards creaking under his boots, the entire structure shaking beneath his weight. He reached the end, saw the boy landing on the next roof, rolling with the impact, light as a damn feather.

Thorfinn jumped.

His boots hit the tiles. They cracked. His ankle twisted, pain lancing through his foot as he stumbled, nearly pitching forward. He barely caught himself, his knee slamming down, the rooftop shaking beneath him. He sucked in a breath, ignored the pain, pushed up, kept running. The rooftops were uneven, the gaps growing wider, each jump more reckless than the last. He was too heavy, too slow. His landings were awkward, his feet sliding, his balance breaking with every rough impact. He hit a slanted roof too fast, his boot slipping as he tried to stop. His body pitched forward, gravity pulling him down before his fingers barely caught the ledge. He hung there, arms burning, legs kicking against nothing. Below, the street swarmed with life—merchants, traders, horses weaving through the chaos, carts rolling over uneven stone. If he fell, he wouldn't land clean. He'd break something, maybe his skull, maybe his spine.

He growled, forcing his arms to work, pulling himself up. His muscles screamed, his chest heaving by the time he swung a leg over the ledge and rolled onto solid footing again.

He didn't stop.

The kid was ahead, turning a corner, and then another, disappearing behind the edge of a bell tower. Thorfinn forced himself forward, ignoring the sting in his ankle, the burn in his thighs. He sprinted hard, the heat rising in his chest, the same feeling from before, the same raw energy that had welled up inside him when he fought Hakon. But nothing burst out of him, no blinding flash of light, no searing heat spilling from his hands. Though he found his legs start to burn.

He ran faster than he ever had before, his breath steady despite the pain, his focus sharpened to a knife's edge. His footfalls grew lighter, his movements less clumsy, his body adjusting, adapting, pushing past the ache, past the fear of falling, past the missteps. He found himself easily outpacing a horses gallop and was able to get back on their trail before they disappeared.

He saw the sword change hands again, another child catching it mid-run, twisting in a different direction, diving down into the streets below. Thorfinn growled, reaching the edge, looking down.

Too far to jump.

No time to find another way down.

The kid was slipping away.

Thorfinn spotted a clothesline strung between two buildings, heavy with damp sheets swaying in the wind. He grabbed the line and jumped.

His fingers barely latched on before the rope snapped.

He fell.

His back slammed against an awning, the cloth stretching under his weight before tearing completely. He crashed through a second one, his descent barely slowed before he hit the ground hard, his body rolling across the stone. His vision blurred from the impact, dust kicking up around him as he groaned, pain flaring through his side.

He didn't stop.

He shoved himself up, coughed, spat blood, then ran.

The kid was just ahead, cutting through an alley, turning sharply. Thorfinn pushed himself harder, his speed reckless now, dangerous, his movements fueled by frustration and rage. He reached the alley just as the boy tried to slip through a narrow gap.

Thorfinn lunged.

His hand locked around the back of the kid's neck.

The boy let out a sharp yelp, his body jerking as Thorfinn slammed him against the wall, not hard enough to break anything, though he wouldn't doubt that the little shit would be feeling it tomorrow. The sword was still in his hands, fingers curled tight around the grip, but there was no fight left in him now, no chance to run, no chance to pass it off again.

Thorfinn barely looked at him however.

He felt it before he saw them.

A shift in the air. A presence behind him.

Shadows moved in the alley.

Men stepped out from the darkness.

Seven of them.

Thorfinn's grip tightened on the kid's neck. The boy whimpered, not struggling, but shaking, his wide eyes darting from Thorfinn to the men surrounding them. The first man stepped forward. His face was sharp, his expression easy, relaxed, but his stance was not. It was poised, balanced, the way a fighter carried himself before a strike. The man tilted his head, shifting his stance slightly, rolling his shoulders like he was getting comfortable. His smirk widened, his fingers tapping against the hilt of the sword at his hip.

"This sword?" he asked, He looked at it, then back at Thorfinn, his expression mockingly curious. "I don't know... doesn't look like yours to me."

The others laughed, a low, jeering sound that echoed through the narrow alley. One of them spat on the ground, shaking his head. Another cracked his knuckles, grinning.

"You think every blade in this city belongs to you, barbarian?" the man continued. "You're in Constantinople now. Things work differently here."

Thorfinn didn't react. His breath was steady. His muscles ached from the chase, but he stood still, unmoving, watching.

The man stepped closer, tilting his head as if studying him.

"Here's how it works," he said. "Drop the kid. Drop whatever else you've got. Walk away." His smirk turned sharp, eyes glinting. "Otherwise, you won't be leaving at all."

The laughter rose again, filling the alley, bouncing off the walls.

Thorfinn felt the weight of the entire day pressing down on him. The guards robbing him at the gate, the piss-poor wine, Arwyn lifting, the smug bastard at the inn charging him extra just because he could, the little shits stealing his sword, the chase, the failures, the fucking stupidity of it all. It piled up, pressing against the inside of his skull like a hammer striking stone, the cracks spreading, widening, the pressure building.

He felt his body tremble.

His hair fell over his eyes as he looked down.

The laughter didn't stop. The men made jokes at his expense, mocking his silence, his stillness.

But the boy in his grip wasn't laughing.

The kid's body went rigid, every muscle in him locking up. He wasn't stupid. He could feel it. Something was wrong. His little fingers clawed at Thorfinn's wrist, his legs kicked weakly, panic setting in. His breathing turned to short, desperate gasps, his head shaking frantically.

"Please," the boy whimpered, his voice small, cracking. "Help—help, please, I—I didn't—"

The man ignored him.

"Too dumb to understand your choices, Northman?" he mocked. "Or maybe you—"

Thorfinn exhaled slowly.

"You insult me," he breathed out.

The laughter stilled.

"I am a Viking," he hissed.

Snap.

The sound echoed through the alley, sharp and final.

Silence.

The boy hung limply in his grip, his body sagging against the wall, his head twisted at a grotesque angle. His eyes were still open, but they saw nothing. A thin stream of piss darkened his trousers, pooling onto the stone beneath him.

The men stared.

The leader's smirk vanished. His mouth hung slightly open, like his brain was struggling to process what had just happened. His eyes flickered from the corpse to Thorfinn, his expression shifting from shock to rage.

"Kill him!" the man screamed.

That snapped them out of it.

They charged.

Thorfinn let the body drop, his hand flashing out as he grabbed his sword from the kid's limp grip. His other hand shot forward, fingers splaying open. The air cracked as Ard blasted outward. The force slammed into half of them, their bodies whipping back against the stone wall, knocking the wind from their lungs.

The first man still came.

Thorfinn moved fast, twisting as he lunged, letting the sword rush out of its sheath just far enough to slice across the man's throat before pivoting around him. The thug gasped, hands flying to his neck, blood spilling between his fingers. He staggered, his mouth opening in a wet choking sound. Thorfinn didn't wait—he stepped around him, drawing his sword fully, and with a single swing, nearly took his head clean off.

The body collapsed, blood spraying across the alley walls.

The second man came at him from the side.

Thorfinn flicked his wrist, parrying the strike, twisting his sword down in a sharp movement before driving the tip straight into the man's throat. The thug made a wet, gurgling sound, hands weakly grasping at the steel lodged inside him.

Thorfinn stepped in, grabbed the back of the dying man's tunic, and threw him into the next attacker.

The third thug caught his friend, stumbling.

Didn't matter.

Thorfinn's left hand flared with energy—a small white sphere formed in his palm. He flung it forward. The impact hit the tangled men like a battering ram, their bodies slamming into the stone wall. The force knocked them senseless, their heads lolling, their limbs twitching.

Thorfinn kicked the fallen man's sword up with his boot, caught it, and threw it with everything he had.

The blade spun end over end, flashing in the dim light before impaling both of them through the chest, pinning them to the wall like skewered meat.

RAAAAGH!

Another came, roaring.

Thorfinn sidestepped the first swing, the second, then ducked under the third. As he moved, his hand shot out, grabbing the man's wrist, twisting the attack.

The thug barely had time to register before his own blade sliced into his friend.

Thorfinn's fingers curled.

Igni flared.

Flames erupted, catching on the man's clothes, climbing fast. He screamed, his body thrashing, hands slapping at the fire as his flesh seared. His eyes bulged in agony, his mouth open in a soundless shriek before he collapsed, rolling, twitching, the fire consuming him.

"You bastard! I'll kill you!" the last thug screamed in Greek.

Thorfinn exhaled.

"Let me guess," he said, voice blank, empty. "You want to kill me."

The man came fast, swinging wildly.

Thorfinn barely moved. He pivoted, dodging, weaving, stepping just enough for each strike to miss by inches. He felt the wall at his back, but it didn't matter.

The thug swung down, an overhead arc meant to split him in two.

Thorfinn twisted out of the way.

Steel met stone.

Sparks flew as the sword buried itself in the wall, the thug's grip faltering.

Thorfinn's hand shot forward, grabbing the man's head.

He slammed it against the wall.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Blood smeared across the stone, his nose crunching under the impact. His body twitched, hands weakly grasping.

Thorfinn yanked him back and smashed the pommel of his sword into the man's face, shattering his teeth, blood pouring from his ruined mouth.

His fingers curled around the man's throat.

A small white glow formed in his palm.

The thug's eyes widened.

Then his head burst apart.

A wet, sickening pop filled the alley. Bone, blood, and brain matter splattered against the wall.

Thorfinn let the body drop.

Twung.

Pain ripped through his shoulder.

He growled, his body turning.

The leader stood at the alley entrance, a crossbow in his grip.

The bastard saw that Thorfinn wasn't dead.

Dropped the weapon.

Ran like a coward.

Thorfinn exhaled sharply. The bastard wasn't worth it.

He slumped down in the alley, gripping the bolt. He ripped it free, sucking in a sharp breath as blood spilled down his arm. He dropped the bolt, watched it clatter.

Fire flared in his palm.

Pressed it against the wound.

The scent of burning flesh filled the air. He barely flinched.

The pain faded.

He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulder. It would hold.

Time to find Arwyn.

Maybe she'd had better luck.

...

Thorfinn stepped out of the alley, his sheathed sword hanging loosely in his grip, glad to have the only heirloom of his family back. His breath was steady, his muscles ached, but the heat in his chest was fading. The fight was done. He wasn't thinking about the bodies behind him, the blood pooling in the cracks of the stone, the limp corpse of the boy. He wasn't thinking about much at all. He barely noticed the eyes on him as he stepped out onto the street, the way people looked, the way they whispered. Only when he saw a woman pull her child away, clutching the boy's arm tight and crossing herself, did he glance down at himself. His tunic was soaked, the fabric dark and heavy. His arms, his hands, his boots were all covered in it. The blood was drying, stiffening, flaking off in places, but it was still thick in others, still dripping from his fingers, still smeared across his skin. He hadn't even noticed.

A trough sat at the edge of the street, the water still, reflecting the midday light. He walked to it, ignoring the stares, and leaned over, cupping his hands, splashing the water over his face, rubbing it over his arms, his chest, trying to clean what he could. The water darkened immediately, the surface rippling as the blood mixed with it, spreading in thin, curling tendrils. It wasn't enough. He scrubbed again, harder this time, wiping at the stains, but he already knew it was pointless. He could wash his hands, his face, his forearms, but his tunic was ruined, his boots were soaked, the smell of blood was in his hair, in his skin.

He exhaled through his nose and straightened. He still needed to find Arwyn. She wouldn't have gone far. The Main Street was the most likely place, and even if it wasn't, he couldn't afford to get lost trying to take side paths. He didn't know the city. He didn't know its alleys, its shortcuts, its hidden routes. He also didn't think Arwyn was foolish enough to disappear into the alleyways of the city.

He walked through the street, his steps steady, his grip on his sword firm. The whispers followed him. People moved aside. They talked. Some pointed, others stared, a few averted their gaze, heads down, shoulders hunched. He understood why. He was tall, broad, his arms thick with muscle, and now he was drenched in blood, moving through their city with a sword in hand. He must have looked like the monsters they told their children about, the raiders from the north, the men who came from the sea to burn their homes, to take their women, to butcher their sons. The stories weren't wrong. He had done all those things.

A hand grabbed at his sleeve. He turned, his fingers tightening around the sheath, but the man backed off immediately, hands raised, muttering something in Greek. He didn't care what. Another tried to stop him, stepping into his path, reaching for him. Thorfinn shoved him back without thinking, sending the man stumbling, nearly knocking him into a stall. Someone else moved to grab him, a man with a dagger on his hip, his fingers twitching toward the hilt.

Thorfinn didn't hesitate.

He swung his sheathed sword up, fast, brutal, the weight behind it sending the end slamming into the man's face. Bone cracked. The man's head snapped back, blood spraying from his shattered nose, his body collapsing onto the street, his legs twitching. A woman screamed. Someone else shouted. He kept walking.

His thoughts were steady, his focus singular. He needed to find Arwyn. That was all that mattered. He wasn't listening to the voices, wasn't hearing the sounds around him, wasn't thinking about anything except moving forward. He didn't stop. He didn't slow. His eyes scanned every face, every person, looking for her.

He wasn't thinking about Geralt. He wasn't thinking about anything he'd learned over the past year. The reasoning, the patience, the discipline—it was gone, stripped away piece by piece over the course of the day, worn down by frustration, by anger, by the sheer exhaustion of dealing with this place, these people, their rules, their expectations. He didn't care.

He had snapped that boy's neck without hesitation, without remorse, without even thinking about it. It had been easy. It had been natural. It had been like breathing.

That was who he was. That was what he had always been.

The street opened into a wide square, a massive fountain sitting at its center, water spilling from the mouths of carved stone figures, cascading down into the pool below. People gathered around it, sitting on its edges, speaking in soft voices, some dipping their hands in the water, others simply watching. He saw her before he realized what he was seeing.

Arwyn.

She was standing near the fountain, talking to a man.

She wasn't dressed in her usual gear. The simple tunic, the practical boots, and the worn belt were absent. Instead, she wore something far more opulent. The fabric was tight, clinging to her body, highlighting her curves with an expensive silk. It was a dress with long, fitted sleeves, a high neckline that still managed to hint at her cleavage, and a waist that was cinched to show off her slender form. Her hair was styled in a way she'd never done before, pulled up into complex braids, interwoven with gold threads, and pinned up in a high, Byzantine fashion.

Her breasts were pushed up by the corseted bodice, making them look fuller, her nipples pressing slightly against the material. The dress hugged her hips, accentuating the roundness of her ass. The fabric draped over her legs, suggesting their length and shape beneath. She looked stunning, her body transformed by this new, exotic attire.

And she was standing beside another man.

His clothes matched hers—expensive, refined, a robe draped over his shoulders, gold at his wrists, his fingers adorned with rings. His hair was dark, neatly combed, his beard well-groomed, his posture relaxed. He was smiling. Speaking. Looking at her in a way that made Thorfinn's breath slow, his grip tighten, his blood start to boil.

He didn't think.

He moved.

(AN: Second part of the chapter. Expect the third and final part soon. But tbf this is only part 1 of Constantinople. Anyway hope you enjoyed it).

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