The ruined settlement lay quiet beneath a bruised grey sky, wind weaving through scorched timber and collapsed roofs. Smoke drifted in slow ribbons — the scent of old fear clinging to the ruins.
"Eivor Hrafnsdottir," the raid captain said, tossing her a signal token. "You take a squad. Sweep the interior. Gather spoils, check for survivors or hidden blades. Wolf's orders."
Ragnar had gone ahead to scout enemy regrouping sites.
But he had looked at Eivor when the squad was assigned.
He didn't speak. But he nodded.
And then he said to Hakon and Brynja quietly:
"Shadow them."
Not her. Them. Because he could never admit aloud that she was the only one that truly concerned him.
Eirik Sigvaldsson stood among those assigned to her unit — along with four of his loyal men. His jaw clenched when he realized she was in command.
He stepped forward as they entered a broken longhouse.
"You give the orders?" His voice was laced with mock disbelief.
Eivor's expression was ice. "Aye. You follow them."
Eirik smirked. "A lowborn… a woman… and Ragnar's pet raven leads warriors now?"
Eivor turned toward him fully. "You will act under my command — or beneath my boot. Choose quickly."
One of Eirik's men scoffed. "I don't take orders from soft flesh who hides behind Ragnar's shadow."
Eivor moved before he finished speaking — her axe flashed, slashing a deep cut across his forearm. He stumbled back screaming.
"Next one is the throat," she growled.
For a breath, silence.
Then slow, ugly laughter spread across Eirik's lips.
"That was a mistake," he whispered.
He moved first.
Eivor deflected his strike and slammed her shield into his chest. But the others closed in — two grabbing her arms, another grappling her from behind.
She fought like a cornered wolf, headbutting one man bloody, kicking another in the knee until bone cracked. But numbers overpowered her. Her weapons were torn free. She was forced down, chest pressed against debris-strewn floorboards, her cheek cut by splintered wood.
Eirik knelt beside her, breathing hard — not with lust, but venomous need to break something Ragnar valued.
"You command no one," he hissed, gripping her jaw. "Let's see how proud you are when you're stripped of—"
A whisper of motion behind him.
A blur of spearpoint.
A piercing thud.
A spear buried itself in the timbered post beside Eirik's head — so close that a lock of his hair was sliced against the wood.
The vibration of impact hummed like a death sentence in the floorboards. Everyone froze.
Eirik's breath caught.
Slowly, every man turned toward the longhouse entrance.
Ragnar stood there.
One eye burning.
Jaw clenched.
His hand was still outstretched from the throw.
Behind him, Brynja stood with axe in hand, fury in her eyes. Hakon lingered at the doorway, calm — but his spear was already turning toward Eirik's men.
Ragnar walked forward without a word.
Eivor forced herself to her feet, bruised and breathing heavily, arm trembling from strain — but standing before anyone could claim she couldn't.
Ragnar's voice, when it came, was quiet.
Deadly.
"She fights beside me."
He stepped closer.
"You lay hands on her again—"
He seized Eirik by the front of his armor, yanking him close.
"—and I take yours."
Silence.
Then Ragnar hurled Eirik backward. He crashed hard into the wall, gasping.
No one moved.
Not because they couldn't — but because something darker than rage was inside Ragnar's gaze.
Eirik's men backed away slowly, pale with fear.
Brynja was grinning like a wolf with a fresh kill.
Hakon's grip eased on his spear as Eivor glanced at him in silent thanks.
Ragnar turned slightly toward Eivor, as if to confirm she was unbroken.
She held his gaze.
Still standing.
He nodded once — barely — before stepping past her and Covering her Exposed Skin With his Wolf Pelt Cloak.
Eirik stayed against the wall, chest heaving, hatred and fear twisting inside him.
He said nothing.
Not now.
But the hatred no longer came from envy alone.
Now it carried terror.
---
They walked out of the longhouse as a Pack — Ragnar at the front, Hakon and Brynja flanking, Eivor walking with blood on her lip but her back straight.
No one dared challenge her authority again.
Least of all Eirik.
The day after the longhouse incident, the raiding fleet made ready to leave foreign shores.
Victory should have brought roaring celebration. But Ragnar's pack moved in heavy silence.
Eivor's tunic had been torn to worthless shreds during the struggle, stained with blood that was partly her own. When she'd tried to brush everyone off and go about as if nothing was wrong, Ragnar had simply removed his own fur cloak and draped it over her shoulders without a word.
She didn't argue.
It was large on her — heavy, wolf-fur lined, still carrying the faint scent of salt, metal, and him.
For the first few hours, she clutched it only for warmth.
Later, she held it like armor she trusted more than any forged steel.
---
The ships cast off.
Warriors shouted. Oars dug into the water. The wind took the sails.
But Ragnar said nothing.
He stood near the prow, watching the shoreline shrink, jaw locked, one eye fixed somewhere far deeper than the horizon.
Brynja stayed near Eivor the first day, making loud threats about feeding Eirik his own tongue. Hakon remained vigilant, quiet beside them like an unspoken wall.
Eirik kept his distance.
Not out of guilt.
But because every time Ragnar turned even slightly in his direction, Eirik felt a death sentence tightening around his throat.
---
That first night on the deck, Ragnar sat with his back against the ship's railing, sharpening an axe in slow, measured strokes. He barely blinked.
Eivor tried to sleep with Brynja and Hakon nearby, but every small creak of wood or gruff voice in the dark made her flinch.
She eventually sat up, breathing hard.
Her chest felt tight.
She hated it.
Her eyes moved of their own accord — to Ragnar's unmoving figure, illuminated faintly by moonlight.
He had not slept since they boarded.
She hesitated… then gathered his cloak tighter around herself and moved slowly to where he sat.
He didn't look at her when she settled a short distance away.
But after a few minutes, she leaned back against the railing beside him.
His hand paused on his axe for half a breath — then resumed sharpening.
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
But later, without realizing, she fell asleep sitting upright, shoulder just barely touching his.
And for the first time since the attack, her breathing remained even.
---
The next night, she didn't try to sleep away from him.
Ragnar noticed.
This time, Ragnar paused sharpening before she approached, as if expecting it — though he didn't understand why.
She sat beside him again. But when the ship rocked harder due to rougher waves, she lost balance and Ragnar instinctively caught her by the forearm to steady her.
She stayed leaned lightly against him afterward.
He didn't pull away.
Eventually, she shifted to rest partially against his side beneath the cloak, exhaustion conquering fear.
Ragnar stayed rigid for a long time, unsure how one was supposed to breathe with another person trusting them so fully.
He wasn't used to anyone being close willingly.
But as the hours stretched, he… allowed it.
Somewhere in the early dawn, his chin had lowered slightly — not fully asleep, but resting.
---
By the third night, as the ship drifted under a pale moon, Eivor didn't fight sleep. She walked directly to him after training on deck, dropped down beside him, wrapped in his cloak.
Ragnar watched her for a moment — not objecting when she shifted close again.
But when the ship lurched suddenly and she startled awake, he reacted on instinct — his arm moving around her waist to steady her. She clutched at his forearm briefly, breathing fast… then calmer.
After that… neither of them moved.
She fell asleep with his arm wrapped loosely around her, cheek resting against his chest.
For the first time since leaving the foreign shores, Ragnar's breathing slowed enough that his head rested briefly back against the ship's rail — not fully asleep, but close.
---
Brynja saw them on the fourth morning and grinned wide like she had just discovered a saga unfolding.
Hakon glanced once, nodded quietly to himself, and continued checking the weapons.
Even some warriors who passed by gave small looks — not of mockery, but of quiet understanding: what is broken sometimes seeks warmth in the strongest flame it trusts not to burn it.
Eirik saw it too — saw Eivor sleeping under Ragnar's fur, Ragnar's arm still around her even after dawn — and something twisted painfully in his pride.
It was no longer just Ragnar's strength or fame that consumed him.
Now Ragnar had taken something else he believed he should have had — not Eivor herself, but authority, dominance, the right to command, to own fear, respect… and devotion.
Eirik turned away, jaw clenched, a silent oath forming like poison.
The Wolf will not reach home alive.
The sea became their world again — an endless stretch of steel-grey water, creaking timber, and the quiet breathing of warriors who had seen too much.
Days passed.
And the pack adjusted to a new rhythm.
Ragnar drilled with Eivor daily as if the longhouse attack had never happened — but something had changed.
She still moved like a warrior, fierce and sharp, but she was quieter now when no battle raged. She trained as though each swing of her axe was a demand to never be overpowered again.
During one sparring session, she went in too aggressively. Ragnar blocked her and caught her by the waist to correct her footing before she fell.
His hand stayed there a moment longer than necessary… flat against her stomach beneath the heavy fur cloak that she now constantly wore. His calloused thumb almost brushed the line of her ribs.
Eivor's breath caught.
Her freckles darkened under the heat of her blush, copper hair clinging to her forehead as she tried not to look at him.
Ragnar blinked slowly, realizing his hand remained there. He withdrew it with a slight frown, not in shame — but confusion. Something in his chest had tightened, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Eivor muttered a stiff, "Again," and refused to look at him for several minutes.
Ragnar agreed, but he found himself watching her too closely — not just her technique, but the way her hair caught the sunlight and the stubborn set of her jaw.
She is… different now. ...No. I see her differently. Why?
It bothered him.
He didn't know why it bothered him.
---
Later that day, Brynja dropped onto a crate beside Ragnar while he sharpened his axe.
"She's staring at you again," Brynja said casually.
Ragnar didn't look up. "She watches everyone."
"Not like that." Brynja grinned, picking something from between her teeth. "She watches you like a starving wolf that finally found something it can't quite name but doesn't want to lose."
Ragnar's jaw tightened. "You speak nonsense."
"Hah. Of course I do." Brynja chuckled. "You're a dumb wolf. You wouldn't notice even if she carved a rune on your forehead that said 'Look at me, idiot.'"
Ragnar paused in sharpening.
He still said nothing.
But he didn't deny it this time.
---
Brynja hopped down and approached Hakon, who was coiling rope with disciplined focus.
"Your brother-wolf is blind," she said with a smirk.
Hakon didn't answer.
"And the girl?" she added. "She's already halfway lost to him, whether she knows it or not."
Hakon looked at Brynja then — just one long, flat stare warning her to shut up.
Brynja's grin only widened. "Keep glaring at me like that, spear-man, and I'll think you're trying to court me with your eyes."
Hakon held her gaze for one more heartbeat… then turned away to continue coiling rope.
Brynja laughed as if she had just declared war and won.
---
Nights fell colder.
Eivor returned silently to Ragnar's side each time. He no longer questioned it.
This time, she sat down beside him and pulled his cloak tightly around herself — and after a quiet moment, leaned against his side without asking.
When she fell asleep, Ragnar adjusted his arm so her head rested more easily against his chest.
He did not intend to pull her closer.
He simply did.
Her breathing calmed quickly.
For a long while, he watched the rise and fall of her shoulders under his fur, the slight twitch of her brows as old fear tried to pull her back into nightmares.
I will not let it take you again, he thought without meaning to form words.
At some point, his hand drifted to rest gently on her bruised shoulder — thumb brushing over one faded mark left by Eirik's men.
A muscle in his jaw flexed.
These scars exist because I was not fast enough.
His fingers curled slightly, as though holding a vow:
Next time, I will not warn. I will kill.
Eivor stirred but did not wake. She unconsciously shifted, nestling closer into his chest.
Ragnar hesitated…
…and then let her stay there.
Sleep finally reached him — slow, cautious, but real.
---
On the opposite side of the ship, Eirik stood in the shadows.
He saw the wolf cloak covering her.
He saw Ragnar's arm around her.
He saw her resting against him like she belonged there.
And he understood:
This was no longer just Ragnar defeating him in combat, leadership, or respect.
Now Ragnar had claimed loyalty, strength, and even closeness that should have been denied to someone like him.
Eirik's pride could not survive Ragnar's existence much longer.
He watched Ragnar's sleeping form, hatred burning so deeply it felt like sickness.
In the dark, his hand closed around a hidden dagger.
The Wolf must die before he reaches land.
---
The next morning, Ragnar woke before she did.
He eased out of her hold carefully, but his hand lingered at her side before pulling away. She curled in instinctively as if reaching for warmth lost.
He watched her a moment — his gaze unreadable.
She is not just Pack anymore.
He didn't know what that meant yet.
But the truth had taken root.
And when the coastline finally came into view days later, Ragnar stood at the prow with one hand resting lightly — unconsciously — near Eivor's back.
She stood beside him.
Eirik stood far behind, hidden among men — a dagger hidden and murder festering.
The Wolf was coming home.
Not to peace.
But to betrayal.