The sixth raid of early spring struck deeper inland.
The settlement had a stronger shieldwall, disciplined spearmen, and a commander who barked orders with iron certainty. Warriors hesitated for a breath — this was no scattered fishing village.
Ragnar didn't.
While the main force crashed into the front, Ragnar wordlessly signaled Hakon, Brynja, and Eivor. They understood without hesitation. They slipped along the treeline, moved wide, and struck from the flank like a blade in the ribs.
Hakon's spear broke formation. Brynja hacked through the gap with laughing fury. Eivor blocked a counterblow and split a defender's throat with clean precision. Ragnar cut through two more before the commander turned—
—only to fall with Ragnar's axe buried in his collarbone.
By the time the front line realized they were being flanked, it was over.
The elders of the raid said nothing at first.
But when they returned to camp, someone said aloud:
"The One-Eyed Wolf led that strike. And the rest followed."
No one denied it.
That night, they celebrated around towering fires. Smoke curled up to meet the stars as skins of mead were passed around. Laughter broke like thunder. Bones cracked under teeth. Victors sang old death-chants not as mourning, but as triumph.
Brynja arm-wrestled two warrior-born men into the dirt before taking a third by the beard and shoving him away mockingly when he tried to flirt. She was flushed with mead and conquest, stormfire in human form.
Hakon watched her — not like prey or prize, but with quiet new consideration.
Eivor sat near the flames, half-smiling as Brynja told some embellished story of battle, acting out how she "leapt over three corpses to split a man's skull — just to see if she could." Eivor rolled her eyes, but couldn't quite hide amusement.
Ragnar sat apart, sharpening his axes with methodical precision, mead untouched beside him. The golden wolf on his eyepatch flickered in the firelight. He preferred steel's song to drunken laughter.
Hakon eventually stood and approached him, sitting on a fallen log beside him without a word. Ragnar didn't look up, but he didn't object.
After a moment, Hakon spoke.
"She draws eyes now."
Ragnar paused. "Brynja?"
"Mhm." Hakon nodded slightly, still watching the fire. "War makes some men ugly. It's made her… more."
Ragnar grunted. "She is strong."
"She is," Hakon agreed. "And not unpleasant to look at, either."
Ragnar cleaned a line of dried blood from an axe blade. "Find another bench if you plan to talk of bedding her."
Hakon huffed once — not quite a laugh, but close. "I said I noticed. Not that I am stupid."
Silence again. Comfortable.
Then Hakon spoke more quietly.
"The raven draws eyes now, too."
Ragnar's hand paused — just slightly — on the axe haft.
Hakon continued in his calm way. "Not that she seeks it. She kills with fury and focus. And when she stands at your shoulder, warriors say the Wolf and Raven hunt as one."
Ragnar looked at him, one brow barely lifted. "I do not—"
Hakon cut him off gently. "I am not asking what you think. I am asking what you see."
Ragnar's gaze drifted toward Eivor, unbidden.
She was sitting beside Brynja, legs folded, hair tousled from combat and riverwater. A faint bruise marked her jaw. She laughed at something Brynja said — not loud, but warm. Her smile flickered like embers, small but fierce.
Had her hair always caught the fire like that?
Had her eyes always seemed that sharp when focused?
Had she always stood so close to him in battle… as if that was simply where she belonged?
He frowned faintly, unsettled.
"I see a warrior," he said, tone firm.
Hakon nodded. "And?"
Ragnar hesitated.
"…And I am beginning to see more."
Hakon accepted this. "Good. Better to see clearly."
Then, without changing expression, he added dryly:
"Brynja says Eivor might devour you one day. She seems enthusiastic about that idea."
Ragnar stiffened. "What?"
Hakon rose calmly. "If you let her devour you, tell me first. I should prepare."
Ragnar blinked. "…What?"
Hakon walked away, entirely unbothered, leaving Ragnar with a cold axe, a warm fire, and a swarm of thoughts he was entirely unarmed against.
Across the fire, Brynja caught his glare and smirked knowingly.
Eivor followed his gaze, confused.
Ragnar looked away first.
For the first time since he lost his eye, the Wolf felt something other than certainty.
It wasn't fear.
But it wasn't comfortable either.
The last three months of raiding were nothing like the first.
In the beginning, Ragnar followed war.
Now, war followed him.
Word had begun to spread beyond their fleet — whispered between trembling lips in foreign villages, muttered by fleeing warriors to their kin:
"Beware the one-eyed demon with golden patch and twin axes.
When you see him, it is already too late."
In battle, Ragnar no longer rushed. He stalked, relentless, his stride steady as a storm front. His dual axes rose and fell with brutal precision, cutting through armor, flesh, and morale. Fear began killing before his blades reached their targets.
When a raiding captain fell early into an ambush, Ragnar stepped into command without needing permission. He divided the warriors by formation, used high ground, and struck from two angles.
They won.
No one argued when he called the next strike.
---
Eivor no longer trailed Ragnar — she moved beside him like a wing shadowing a claw. Armed with axe and round shield, she became swift and calculating, slipping into blind spots and cutting throats before anyone knew she was behind them.
Once, she leapt from a rooftop and split a champion's skull before he finished raising his sword. Warriors gasped. One whispered:
"She strikes like the raven that circles battlefields — swift and claiming."
The name Ravenfury caught like wind in trees.
---
If Ragnar was fear and Eivor was precision, Brynja was destruction. She charged shieldwalls laughing, shattering spearmen through pure force and unnerving joy.
She once tore a battle-axe free from a corpse and beat another warrior to death with it while grinning wide-eyed.
Veterans jeered her madness — until they saw how often she broke resistance.
Now, they howled "Storm-Axe!" when she entered battle.
---
Hakon's spear guided the pack like a spine. He never roared, never rushed. But he was always where he needed to be.
Twice, he saved Ragnar from flankers before Ragnar even saw them. During night raids, enemy scouts would vanish with a quiet gurgle before they could sound alarms.
One wounded warrior muttered in awe:
"The spear moves before thought. Silent. Certain."
He became known as The Silent Spear.
---
Eirik still fought well — but no one talked about him.
Men followed Ragnar now. Eivor inspired respect. Brynja inspired fear. Hakon inspired trust.
Eirik inspired… nothing.
He resented the way veteran warriors nodded toward Ragnar. Hated how they repeated his commands. How even his own allies began turning their gaze toward the One-Eyed Wolf during battle decisions.
Once, Ragnar gave an order during a siege that Eirik hesitated to follow — but the others obeyed immediately, leaving him isolated. Forced to comply, Eirik burned in silent rage.
When he looked at Ragnar now, he didn't just see a rival.
He saw his replacement.
And that hollow, gnawing fear-born hatred grew stronger each day.
---
After nearly six months in foreign lands, drenched in blood and hardened by steel, the raiding leader announced their final campaigns before preparations to return home.
Ragnar's pack stood taller, stronger, older — in body and in eyes.
Ragnar was seventeen now.
Eivor was sixteen.
They had been boys and girls once.
No longer.