Three days passed since Ragnar lost his eye.
Three days of stale breath, bitten cloth, and surgeons pouring boiled wine into a wound that refused to close without screaming. He did not scream.
He hardly spoke at all.
When he walked again, wrapped in bandages, the training yard quieted everywhere he stepped. Some turned away. Others stared too long, flinching the moment he met their gaze with his remaining eye.
He trained again on the fourth day.
Not because he was ordered to.
But because he refused to be less than he was before.
Every movement hurt. Depth and distance distorted before his new reality adjusted. But he learned quickly. He adapted. Like a beast forced to tear the world with only one fang left.
His silence unnerved them more than his injury.
By the seventh day, whispers moved faster than drills.
"The One-Eyed Wolf…"
"He kept fighting…"
"He roared like the dead calling for blood…"
No one said Eirik Sigvaldsson's name near Ragnar now—not out of respect, but fear of consequence.
---
Two weeks later, the horn sounded again—this time for selection.
The chosen for the raid stood before Jarl Gunnar Vargr. Ragnar did not blink when his name was called. Eivor's came next. Brynja's shortly after. Hakon's as well.
Eirik's name came too—but the Jarl's tone held no warmth for him.
The pack would sail. Together.
But they would not sleep in the same lodges as the others during preparation. Their quarters were moved nearer the seasoned warriors, as if the clan could not decide whether they were trainees… or something carved for war too early.
---
On the eve of departure, Ragnar stood alone near the forge, dressed in simple furs and light leather. His bandaged eye still throbbed in the cold.
Footsteps approached.
He turned his head, left eye narrowing.
Eivor stood there, carrying something folded in her hands—a square of dark leather, shadows catching faint gold thread at the edges.
She did not speak at first. Her breath was light, steady… but her hands were tense.
"This is for you," she said finally.
She stepped forward, unrolling it.
A black leather eyepatch. But not plain.
Embroidered over the front:
A golden wolf's head, snarling forward—not in madness, but in unstoppable will.
Ragnar stared at it.
Eivor searched his face carefully. "You should not face the sea with only bandages," she said, voice even. "And if they already name you wolf… then walk as one."
Silence stretched.
Ragnar reached out… slowly… and took it.
He lifted it to his face.
As the leather settled into place, covering what had been taken, something in him clicked—not healed, but claimed.
He exhaled.
Not weakly. Not in pain.
Like a man fastening his fate.
He looked at Eivor.
His voice was low—quieter than a growl, heavier than steel.
"They will remember the wolf."
Eivor did not move.
But inside, something in her chest clenched painfully—almost frighteningly. She swallowed it down like a secret she wasn't ready to voice.
Before she could speak, Brynja's voice cut in, loud and amused. "About time he looked the part. Now he actually scares me. I like it."
Hakon stepped into view shortly after, nodding once. "The patch suits him. It is… honest."
Ragnar turned toward the docks, eyepatch gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Eivor walked beside him without a word. Brynja hummed a battle chant. Hakon walked like a shadow steadying the group's flank.
Other trainees saw them coming and stepped aside instinctively.
Not out of respect.
Out of instinctive fear.
Far off, the longships waited—prows carved as wolves lunging into unknown waters.
War drums began a slow, steady rhythm.
And with the golden-eyed wolf stitched into his face, Ragnar walked to meet the sea.
The longship rose like a wolf in carved wood—its prow snarling ahead, jaws open toward the horizon. Coils of rope lay perfectly wound. Shields lined the rails in overlapping rounds of iron-rimmed wood. Oars rested beside each warrior's station like spears waiting for a command.
The pack stood before it.
Ragnar stood at the front of the four, the black eyepatch fitted firmly over his ruined eye, the golden wolf's head catching a sliver of dawn. He did not look back toward the village. He did not need to.
Eivor walked at his right, silent as falling snow. Brynja, grinning with teeth bared, strode like the sea already called her name. Hakon followed with steady steps, calm, measuring their path with a spear balanced across his shoulders.
As they reached the ramp, a group of younger trainees paused unloading supplies onto another ship. They whispered and parted without a word.
Not for the pack to pass.
But to avoid being in their way.
Eirik Sigvaldsson was already seated at an oar station further down the same ship. His jaw clenched when he saw Ragnar board—but he said nothing. Pride forced him to stay silent. Fear forced him to remain still.
An older warrior—the ship's styrimaðr (steersman)—watched Ragnar as he stepped aboard. The man's beard was thick with grey, his eyes sharp with judgment.
"You're the one they call One-Eyed Wolf," he muttered—not asking, simply naming. "Pray the sea doesn't take the other."
Ragnar's one eye didn't flinch. "If it does," he said quietly, "I'll listen my way to slaughter."
The steersman stared for a moment, then huffed the faintest hint of respect. "Sit. We row at the sound."
The pack settled into their roles—Ragnar and Brynja in the middle row bench for power, Hakon further back protecting their flank, Eivor seated where she had quick reach to the weapon racks.
Around them, seasoned raiders murmured, sizing them up.
The horn sounded.
Oars dipped.
The sea accepted their weight.
With each pull, Ragnar felt the land loosen its grip. The scent of pine and smoke faded. Salt and chill wind took hold. Muscles burned differently now—rhythmic, unified with the ship's pulse.
Eivor's breathing steadied beside him, matching the oar strokes. Brynja laughed quietly when spray hit her face, tasting the salt like blood. Hakon whispered to himself, but only the sea heard his words.
Days bled into nights.
Discipline was different here. The sea punished uneven rhythm. The helmsman struck anyone who missed time with the flat of his staff. Food was harder, sleep shorter, silence longer.
Storms came.
Some trainees vomited and prayed. Eirik Sigvaldsson turned pale, fighting not to shame himself. Ragnar did not break rhythm. Even with only one eye, he adjusted to wave tilt and wind shift faster than expected.
He began to understand the feel of balance with half his sight gone—seeing threat in how the air moved, in how wood creaked, in how his heartbeat beat warnings into his blood.
By the second month, the pack moved naturally amid shifting tides and sudden drills atop slick decks.
When they fought with practice axes on moving boards, Brynja bellowed joy, Hakon adapted to stab through openings, Eivor maintained perfect footwork, and Ragnar moved as though one-eyed clarity made him see only what mattered—targets, openings, death.
Warriors began watching them, whispering:
"The pack moves together."
"The girl fights like a raven ready to tear eyes."
"The spear one, calm as winter."
"The axe witch laughs when storms scream."
"And the One-Eyed Wolf… does not blink."
But there were also glances of caution.
Because sometimes… late at night… Ragnar still touched the patch, feeling the ghost pain beneath.
Sometimes the wolf inside him growled when there was no enemy before him.
And Eivor saw it.
Saw him.
And feared not his rage—but what she would do to stay beside it.
---
One night, under a moon half-devoured by cloud, Ragnar stood at the prow in silence. Eivor approached, quiet as fog.
"You're adjusting," she said.
"To the sea," Ragnar replied.
"To the eye," she corrected.
He paused.
"I see enough."
She nodded.
But in her mind, she thought:
You see more than before. And I fear one day you will see straight through me.
She did not say it.
She stood with him until dawn.
The sea did not forgive the weak.
But it forged the ready.
And Ragnar's pack was almost ready.
Almost.
The storm rose without warning.
One moment, the sea was calm enough for Ragnar to feel the rhythm of the oars deep in his bones; the next, iron-grey clouds closed over the sky like a shutting jaw. The wind hit first—sharp, snapping at cloaks and beards. Then the first wave struck the hull.
Warriors moved quickly.
"Secure the mast!" the steersman bellowed.
"Row if you value breath!" shouted another.
Ragnar planted his feet, stilling himself as the ship lurched. His left eye tracked movement like a hunter. His missing right didn't hinder him—it only made the world more focused, narrower, more inevitable.
A second wave hit.
A young warrior-born, barely older than Ragnar, lost grip on his oar and was flung sideways. Ragnar caught the man's arm without looking, anchoring both of them as the water surged over the deck.
Eivor held firm two benches down, but when the third wave crashed, it slammed her sideways. She didn't cry out—but her fingers slipped on wet wood.
Her body tilted toward the edge.
A breath from falling overboard.
Before she could vanish into the black water, a blood-slicked hand shot out and clamped around her wrist—Ragnar's.
Though half-blinded, he had moved without hesitation.
His grip was iron.
He pulled her back hard, bracing against the bench with brutal, unyielding force.
For a heartbeat, she stared at him—hair soaked, breath caught between life and terror. His jaw was set, blood and rain mixing over his eyepatch.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
Her chest felt as if something wild had burst inside it.
He saw me—without seeing me.
She swallowed hard and returned to position.
Brynja roared into the wind, laughing as if daring the sea to take her. Hakon lashed rope across the central beam, calm even as others panicked.
Not all held.
Eirik Sigvaldsson, struck by a sideways wave, lost control and was hurled off his bench. He flailed until another warrior grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the mast, barking at him to "hold or drown."
Humiliation carved itself into Eirik's pale face as he clutched the beam with shaking hands.
He looked over and saw Ragnar—still steady, drenched, one-eyed, and utterly unshaken.
Eirik's jaw clenched.
His fear began to outweigh his hatred.
---
Hours later, when the storm finally passed, the ship floated in uneasy calm. All were exhausted, many bruised, but they were alive.
The helmsman raised his voice, harsh but approving. "You lived. The sea tested your worth. Remember this when you stand before steel instead of water."
One of the older warriors began to hum.
A deep, low chant.
Another joined.
Then more.
Until the deck thrummed with a war-song—old, primal, sung after surviving a storm or a slaughter. Voices rose in a guttural pulse, half growled, half chanted.
The words spoke of wolves traversing frozen hells, of ravens feasting on kings, of storms that forged beasts instead of killing them.
Ragnar sat in silence, listening.
He had not grown up with such songs.
But his breath fell into rhythm with it.
In time.
Like a heartbeat.
Like a hunt.
Like something ancient inside him remembering its name.
Eivor watched Ragnar as the chanting deepened. In the broken moonlight, the golden wolf patch gleamed like a promise. Her fingers brushed her own chest once before she forced them still.
I am not supposed to feel this.
Brynja's laughter faded into a fierce grin as she slapped Ragnar's shoulder. "If the sea couldn't shake you, you're cursed or blessed. Either way, I'll keep your back."
Hakon simply nodded once. "Wolves hunt better in storms."
Ragnar said nothing.
But something in him agreed.
As the ship sailed on through calmer waters, the coastline of a distant land emerged at the edge of sight—jagged, unfamiliar, waiting.
The sea had tested them.
The land would demand more.