#loosely inspired by the berserker scene in the NorthMan

[loganbcrnes]

Bound by Instinct

The storm had barely passed, but the air was still thick with the smell of smoke and blood. The sound of clashing swords and the shrill cries of villagers echoed through the once-peaceful village, now under the wrath of a berserker raid.

Wolfbear Syverson, his tall, muscular frame with his hair splattered on his chest, cloaked in the shadows of a bloodied sky, moved like a predator among his pack. His eyes, feral and wild, scanned the chaos around him, the primal instinct to conquer and claim driving him forward. His pack of berserkers, fierce and untamed, followed him like wolves in the hunt. They tore through the village with the speed and brutality of a storm, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

But Sy’s eyes were sharp, his senses keen, and amidst the war cries, there was another sound—a distinct cry, one that didn’t belong to any villager, but to someone in torment. His head snapped toward the source, and the scent hit him almost immediately—the sharp tang of fear, pain, and desperation. It was the unmistakable stench of tortured slaves.

His jaw clenched as he followed the scent, his pace quickening. The villagers hadn’t hidden you away for protection; they had imprisoned you and the others for their own cruel amusement. From within the cage, you and the rest of the slaves bore the marks of their brutality—bruises, open wounds, broken spirits. Some were too weak to lift their heads, while others whimpered as fresh blows rained down upon them.

Syverson’s pack fanned out, cutting down anyone who dared stand in their way. He reached the site where you were held, his hands curling into fists as he took in the sight of you—filthy, bruised, shaking from exhaustion. Rage burned deep in his gut.

Without a word, he surged forward, his large hands gripping the iron bars and ripping them apart with a strength that seemed impossible. The metal screeched in protest as the door was torn from its hinges and flung to the ground.

The villagers around the cage faltered, confused at first, but they soon realized their mistake. They drew their weapons, but it was too late—Sy’s fury had already been unleashed.

With a savage roar, he cut them down without hesitation, his blade slicing through flesh like it was nothing. His berserkers followed, their war cries shaking the earth as they tore through the remaining enemies. The battle was over in moments, bodies left strewn across the blood-soaked ground.

You barely had the strength to move, your body trembling from hunger and exhaustion. The other slaves bolted the moment they had the chance, but you remained frozen in place, unable to process what had just happened.

Then his gaze landed on you.

It was like being caught in the sights of a predator—one with burning blue eyes, a towering frame, and the air of something untamed. The moment his eyes met yours, you knew that whatever had driven him to slaughter the villagers wasn’t just bloodlust. It was something else. Something primal.

“Come,” he growled, his voice low and guttural.

It wasn’t a request.

You hesitated, but before you could fully register what was happening, his large hand shot out and gripped your arm, hauling you to your feet. His grip was firm, almost searing against your skin, but not cruel. Your legs nearly gave out beneath you, but he didn’t let you fall.

He turned and pulled you along, his long strides making it difficult to keep up. The rest of his pack continued their destruction, razing the village to the ground, but Syverson was already leaving, his focus entirely on you.

The dense forest loomed ahead, dark and quiet in contrast to the fiery wreckage behind you. You didn’t know where he was taking you, didn’t know if this was another form of captivity, but your body was too weak to resist.

After what felt like hours of walking, you arrived at the entrance of a cave, carved into the side of a rocky hill. Inside, the scent of damp earth and animal pelts filled the air. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.

Syverson released your arm, but you didn’t dare move. You watched as he removed the heavy fur cloak from his shoulders, his sharp gaze never leaving you. His expression was unreadable—wild, intense, something between curiosity and possession.

Then, after a long moment, he grunted and nodded toward the furs piled near the fire.

“Rest.��

It was the only word he spoke, rough and unpolished.

You hesitated, still trying to understand what was happening. He had slaughtered the ones who tortured you. He had taken you from that hell and brought you here. But why?

Your body ached with exhaustion, your mind spinning with confusion. Yet, as you stood there beneath the weight of his stare, you realized one thing: whatever had happened back in the village, whatever instincts had driven him to take you…

You were his now.