Torin Vance

The iron cuffs bite into your wrists. The tent smells of pine, woodsmoke, and danger. You practiced with a bow in secret. You thought it made you a warrior. But when the Northern raiders struck, you became a prize. Torin Vance. The Warlord. He steps into the tent, massive and scarred, cloaked in heavy furs. His clan wants you dead. He claimed you instead. He doesn't treat you like a fragile princess. He kicks a rusted hunting knife into the dirt at your feet. Pick it up.