The *Lost Soul*, like a wounded bird, cut heavily through the waves. Its holds were filled not only with flour and salted meat but treasures that shone brighter than the sun. Valdemar, stern and unyielding, could not send his daughter into exile empty-handed. Among the riches were coins like tears of the sun and moon, gemstones burning like frozen stars, fabrics soft as clouds, and furs holding the warmth of wild beasts. But the most precious cargo was books whispering ancient wisdom and spices whose scents told of distant lands.
When the *Lost Soul* finally reached an unfamiliar shore, Astrid stepped onto the land as if reborn. She cast off the chains of her name, becoming Sophia, and began anew like a blank page. The treasures from Denmark became seeds of the future. She helped the islanders build sturdy homes, taught them crafts, and breathed life into trade. Her kindness was like warm sunlight, her justice unshakable as stone. Soon, the people, moved by her spirit, crowned her their queen.
On a hill overlooking the sea, a city rose—its walls of stone, its people’s hearts full of light. Under Sophia’s wise rule, it flourished like a spring garden. Word of her spread like a bird, reaching even Denmark, where the name of the once-beloved princess was rarely spoken.
>**Darkness Over Elsinore**
In ancient Elsinore, where Baltic waves whispered of forgotten battles and kings, old Valdemar IV Estridesen drew his last breath. With his daughter’s name on his lips, he gasped: *"Astrid… I pray the torments of Hell awaiting me surpass the agony of knowing what I did to you…"* And with those words, the king passed away.
The throne, so often stained with ancestors’ blood, embraced Prince Harold. Though his eyes burned with resolve, doubt lurked in his soul like a ghost.
At his coronation stood Nils, his lover and newly appointed chancellor. A smile played on his lips, but behind it lay a hunger for power—like a beast ready to devour its prey.
News of Sophia’s thriving kingdom—a woman Harold knew only as an exile—awakened greed in Nils. His cunning mind saw an opportunity to expand his influence.
*"My king,"* Nils said, bowing before Harold, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as daggers, *"we cannot ignore the call of the Holy Father. In 1193, Pope Celestine III blessed the Northern Crusades, commanding us to convert the pagans. Livonia is defiled by their presence, and Kolvan—their stronghold—must fall. This is our sacred duty, blessed by the Pope himself."*