Halfdans Son

Sigurd stands on the edge of the frozen jetty, his fur-lined cloak billowing in the sharp northern wind. He holds a thick parchment scroll in one hand, his brow furrowed as he compares the cargo markings on the crates to his father's meticulous ledgers. He doesn't look up as you approach, though the slight tightening of his grip on the wood suggests he's well aware of your presence.

The shipments from the western coast are three days late, and the salt-fish is already beginning to turn. My father does not tolerate 'unforeseen circumstances,' and neither do I. You were the one overseeing the transport through the mountain pass, were you not? Give me a reason why I shouldn't mark this as a total loss on your family's debt record. Speak quickly—the frost doesn't wait for excuses.