The longships broke through morning fog like fangs tearing into a wounded sky.
Clan Vargr's fjord lay ahead, carved deep into black rock, lined with pine and glacial wind. The smell of home layered over salt and blood. But though it looked the same… it did not feel the same.
Ragnar stood at the prow as they entered the harbor. His fur cloak whipped behind him, the golden wolf embroidered on his eyepatch gleaming faintly in the dawn light. He did not raise his axe or speak aloud. But all eyes were drawn to him first.
Eivor stood just behind his right shoulder, wrapped in his cloak as though it were her second skin. Her copper hair danced in the wind, freckles bright in the pale morning. She didn't look away from the shoreline—nor from Ragnar.
Behind them stood Hakon, steady as winter stone, and Brynja, arms crossed with a wicked grin like a storm eager to be unleashed again.
They were no longer trainees.
They were a pack returned from war.
When the ships touched shore, villagers and warriors gathered, murmuring as they recognized faces—but especially him.
"The One-Eyed Wolf…"
"Ragnar Vargrsson…"
"They say fear flees from him…"
Mothers tugged children back instinctively. Young fighters stared with awe. Older men watched with unreadable expressions—respect, caution… wariness.
Ragnar's father had never been publicly known. But now, whispers rose: "He returns like a saga hero reborn."
The Earl of Clan Vargr stepped forward, flanked by huscarls. His gaze swept over the raiding force—and rested on Ragnar.
"You return alive," he said. "And stronger."
Ragnar gave a single nod.
The Earl's eyes lingered on Eivor at Ragnar's side—wearing his cloak, standing too close for mere convenience. Something unreadable flickered across his face, but he said nothing.
From the crowd, Astrid Fair-Haired—the Earl of Clan Hrafn's daughter and longtime friend to Ragnar's mother—watched with cautious interest.
As the warriors returned to their clans, cheers and praises rose—but Ragnar did not bask in them.
Where others smiled, he remained silent.
Where others boasted, he sharpened his axes.
Where others rested, he watched.
He could feel it in the air: admiration, fear, envy.
Brynja spat after overhearing a man mutter something crude about Eivor wearing Ragnar's cloak. Eivor stiffened, but Ragnar said nothing—though his knuckles tightened around the axe at his side.
"Some stare like they praise us," Brynja whispered later to Eivor, "and some stare like they're figuring how to chain us before we outgrow them."
Eivor glanced at Ragnar.
He had not looked at home once since they arrived.
---
A feast was declared to honor the raiders' return. Fires roared in the great hall of Clan Vargr as meat roasted and mead flowed.
Ragnar sat close to the high table by merit of reputation. Eivor sat to his right. Brynja and Hakon close by.
Eirik Sigvaldsson entered later.
His eyes burned.
He watched Ragnar take a seat closer to the Earl than he ever had before.
He watched Eivor sit beside Ragnar without hesitation, still wrapped in his cloak.
He heard warriors retell Ragnar-led victories as though Ragnar were already a jarl in waiting.
Every smile, every nod given to Ragnar was a blade turning deeper into Eirik's pride.
---
Midway through the feast, the Earl lifted a horn in Ragnar's direction.
"Ragnar Vargrsson," he said, loud enough for the hall to quiet. "Your deeds in foreign lands have brought honor to Clan Vargr. Your name is spoken beyond our shores. There are those who say you carry the strength of the old wolves in your blood."
Murmurs echoed: approval, caution, something darker.
"We will speak further," the Earl said, his tone neutral but heavy with meaning. "Of what place you are to hold… now that you have returned different than you left."
He sat.
The hall exhaled.
Ragnar said nothing.
But Eirik's jaw clenched until blood ran from where he bit his tongue.
---
As laughter and music resumed, Eirik sat beside two of his most loyal men, His Dagger underneath his cloak.
"One-eyed wolf," one of them muttered bitterly. "They speak as if he is already more than us. More than you."
Eirik stared into his cup.
"He has taken glory. He has taken place. He has taken fear from others and bent it to follow him."
His gaze shifted toward Eivor.
"Now he has taken her, and made a fool of me before all."
His men gripped their weapons tightly under the table.
"He must not see the next dawn."
Eirik's lips twisted into a cold, hateful smile.
"Tonight, the Wolf dies."
The feast burned bright with firelight… but Ragnar felt only cold.
Mead horns clashed, laughter roared, voices rose in joyous retelling of blood and glory — but beneath it all, something darker coiled tighter with each passing moment, like sea-smoke creeping across the floor.
Ragnar sat near the high table, not because he wanted to, but because he had been placed there — a symbol, a victor, a weapon returned home. Praise rolled toward him from all directions, yet he did not drink deeply or smile. His axe remained at his side, polished, silent. His lone eye scanned the hall, restless.
Eivor sat beside him, still wrapped in his fur cloak, fingers occasionally curling into the fabric when unfamiliar men looked at her too long. Hakon sat not far away, posture steady, eyes watchful, drinking slowly. Brynja laughed the loudest when they toasted to fallen enemies, but even she began to fall quiet each time a hush followed Ragnar's name.
It wasn't just admiration that followed him.
It was fear.
And jealousy.
And something that tasted like hatred.
---
The younger warriors roared Ragnar's deeds with pride.
The older ones watched him with measuring eyes.
One huscarl muttered low to another:
"He returns like a wolf-king. Does he think he will sit above us now?"
Eivor heard it. So did Brynja.
Brynja's grin faded just a bit.
Ragnar caught the whisper too — but did not react. His hand simply found the haft of his axe… resting there without threat, but without peace.
---
A warrior raised a toast toward Ragnar that was more warning than praise.
"To Ragnar Vargrsson — may his strength never outweigh his wisdom, lest the pack forget who leads the hunt."
A few older men grunted in agreement.
Eivor stiffened. Brynja slammed her cup down. Hakon said nothing, but shifted slightly so that he sat more square between Ragnar and the speaker — a silent blockade.
Ragnar didn't respond verbally… but he tilted his head slightly, and the quiet stare he gave the man made the warrior look away.
The hall didn't laugh after that toast.
They only drank.
Harder.
---
As the feast wore on, smoke from the hearth clung heavier in the air. Ragnar's breathing felt too tight, as though the hall's walls were closing in. Something unseen gnawed at him. His eye returned again and again to the great doors, to the night beyond.
Eivor noticed.
"Ragnar?" she murmured softly, low enough for only him to hear.
He glanced at her.
She frowned slightly. She didn't know why she felt it too — only that something in the air felt wrong, like before a storm.
"I need air," Ragnar said finally, voice low.
Eivor began to rise with him — but Brynja caught her wrist gently.
"Let him breathe alone," Brynja said quietly. "Wolves sometimes pace."
Eivor hesitated… then sat again, uneasy.
Ragnar left the hall.
---
From a distant bench, Eirik Sigvaldsson tracked Ragnar's departure like a predator watching prey stray from the herd.
A Faint Shadow of rage passing over his face.
He stood slowly. His two most loyal men followed quietly like shadows.
"Where are you going?" one drunken warrior asked with a laugh as Eirik passed.
Eirik gave a pained expression, clutching at his arm as though in discomfort. "Fresh air," he muttered. "Mead's gone to my blood."
The excuse was enough.
No one stopped them.
---
Time passed.
Too much time.
Eivor felt it first — a sudden, sharp spike of dread, like icy water pouring down her spine.
She jolted upright.
Hakon noticed instantly. His eyes narrowed.
"What is it?" Brynja asked, halfway through a gulp of mead.
"…Ragnar," Eivor whispered. "Something's wrong."
Brynja's grin vanished.
Hakon was already standing.
---
Before words could form, Eivor bolted for the door.
Brynja snarled and followed, Hakon close behind.
The night outside was cold, the moon hanging pale over black water.
"Dock first," Hakon said sharply. "He favors the water."
They ran — boots slamming against earth, breath tearing through their lungs as if racing fate itself.
The docks were quiet.
Too quiet.
No lanterns lit.
Just the creaking of wood, the lap of dark water… and three sets of footprints leading toward the end of the dock under moonlight.
Eivor's heart stopped.
Hakon drew his spear.
Brynja gripped her axe like death was already owed.
And somewhere, not far ahead, a shadow moved near the waterline…
Ragnar stood alone.
"…Ragnar?" Eivor breathed, almost unable to take another step.
He turned slightly, expression unreadable, as he faced the dark water — unaware of the blades about to emerge from the shadows behind him.
A breeze blew in from the sea.
It felt like the gods inhaled.