The raids did not end with the fishing outpost.
They multiplied.
One settlement turned into three. Three into six. Some were defended by hardened warriors. Others fell quickly, but none fell quietly.
Each battle left a mark—not only on the villagers who died, but on those who spilled their blood.
On Ragnar's pack.
---
Ragnar grew far more dangerous with every strike. His dual axes carved through shieldbearers with precision, not frenzy. He never roared mid-battle like some berserkers. He killed silently, even when drenched in blood.
The veterans took note.
"He does not need two eyes. He sees through fear."
"When he moves, there is no waste. Only death."
"The One-Eyed Wolf does not chase prey. He corners it."
And as winter approached the foreign shores, Ragnar began to lead small flanking teams during raids. Warriors followed his calls without questioning. They never admitted he led them—but no one else issued orders when he did.
---
Eivor's shield became a weapon as sharp as any blade. She struck without hesitation, her footwork adapting perfectly to Ragnar's movement.
In one raid, she sliced a defender's hamstring and decapitated another before they realized she'd moved behind them.
A veteran muttered afterward:
"She fights like a raven that already knows where you'll fall."
Whispers named her Raven-Eyed.
But her eyes returned, again and again, to Ragnar's back—watching, guarding… and feeling something stronger each time he stood victorious.
---
Hakon killed rarely—but precisely. He did not rush, roar, or boast. Yet each time Ragnar seemed in danger, Hakon's spear was there—sliding through an enemy's throat, pinning a leg, saving a life.
Warriors began leaving gaps open for Hakon without speaking, instinctively trusting his calm presence.
"He speaks only when the spear must."
They whispered his name alongside Ragnar's: The Silent Spear.
---
If Ragnar was cold steel, Brynja was the storm that broke shields.
In one brutal raid, she leapt atop a shieldwall, cutting through the captain before landing in a spray of blood and laughter.
Warriors began shouting "Storm-Axe!" when she entered battle. Some feared her. Others loved her. She didn't care either way.
---
Eirik Sigvaldsson fought well. He was skilled, clean, precise. But each time Ragnar stepped forward and men followed… Eirik's grip on his sword tightened.
He tried to prove himself by winning duels among warriors—but eyes still drifted to Ragnar.
He started sleeping lighter. Watching the pack with a mix of hate and dread.
And Brynja, grinning, once muttered loud enough for him to hear:
"Careful, Sigvaldsson. Wolves smell fear before blood."
Eirik said nothing. But his jaw clenched until it hurt.
By the third month, Ragnar no longer felt like a trainee among warriors.
He was something… separate.
Eivor moved in instinct beside him. Hakon watched his angles. Brynja drew strength from his lead.
Veterans who once called them "the young ones" now gave them nods before battle.
Other raiders, blood-soaked and panting after fights, sometimes glanced at Ragnar before delivering killing blows—as though asking silent permission.
He did not speak much.
But death often followed his steps.
They camped beside a river the color of steel, its waters cold enough to sting the skin into wakefulness. The fires burned down to embers, and most warriors slept heavy with exhaustion, bellies full of stolen meat and ale.
Ragnar sat sharpening his axes, the firelight catching the golden wolf on his eyepatch like a silent warning. Hakon lay nearby with his spear across his knees, silent as always but awake, listening to the night.
Eivor and Brynja left the camp quietly.
They moved without words through the trees and slipped into the river where the current was gentle and shallow enough to sit. The cold struck first—but after three months of blood and smoke, the water felt like rebirth, even if temporary.
Steam curled faintly from their bodies as heat left them in exhale.
For a while, they simply sat in silence with only river-sounds and breath between them.
Then Brynja broke the quiet.
"Feels strange to have water wash blood off instead of drinking it in my mouth during battle."
Eivor huffed, not quite a laugh—but close.
Brynja watched her a moment. "You're quiet."
"We just survived our seventh raid," Eivor said. "Quiet feels earned."
Brynja smirked. "Or… you're thinking again."
"About what?"
Brynja turned her head slightly, eyebrow raised. "The Wolf."
Eivor stiffened—but only for a moment. "I watch his back."
"Mm." Brynja leaned against a smooth river rock. "You watch him, all right. With big, serious raven eyes like you're afraid he'll fall… or afraid he won't."
Eivor said nothing but looked away, jaw tight.
Brynja let that hang a moment before continuing, voice softer but unflinchingly direct. "He's different now. You see it."
Eivor swallowed. "We all are."
"But Ragnar more than most," Brynja said. "The more he kills, the more controlled he becomes. That eye he lost? Took the boy he was with it."
Eivor's grip tightened slightly against the rock.
Brynja's next words were unexpectedly steady, almost thoughtful. "If you love something like him… it will either devour you… or force you to learn how to howl beside it."
Eivor slowly turned to her, wide-eyed—not expecting the sudden seriousness.
The silence stretched—
Then Brynja grinned wickedly and added:
"Honestly, if he looked at me the way he looks at you in battle, I might let him devour me."
Eivor choked on breath and splashed water in Brynja's direction. "Brynja!"
Brynja burst into roaring laughter that echoed off the riverbank. "There it is! Knew that would get a reaction out of you, little raven!"
Eivor turned away, cheeks warming despite the cold water. "You're disgusting."
"Oh, I absolutely am," Brynja said proudly. "But you're not denying it."
Eivor didn't answer.
Her silence said enough.
After laughter faded, Brynja watched the river drift. "For what it's worth… if anyone could stand beside a wolf like him without losing themself… I think it'd be you."
Eivor blinked.
Brynja stood, water falling in rivulets down scarred skin. "Come. Before Ragnar sends Hakon to find us like a silent mother hen."
Eivor lingered a moment longer, water swirling around her.
Her chest felt too tight.
Devour me… why does that not frighten me as much as it should?
She rose.
---
Later That Night
As they returned, Ragnar looked up. His one good eye met Eivor's for half a heartbeat.
He said nothing.
But something in her stomach tightened.
Brynja smirked as she passed him. "She's clean now. Try not to bloody her too much tomorrow, Wolf."
Ragnar glanced briefly at Eivor before returning to his axes.
Eivor glared daggers at Brynja's back.
She couldn't sleep for a long while.