The cave seemed smaller now, as though truth had drawn its walls closer.
Sigrun's eyes remained fixed on Ragnar for a long moment after Brynja's words ended. There was steel in her gaze, but something beneath it smoldered—fury not loud, but deep, buried in bone. Then, slowly, her head turned.
Her gaze fell on Eivor.
The girl stiffened almost immediately.
Eivor had not moved from Ragnar's side since he awoke. She remained close, one arm loosely resting near him as though ready to steady him should pain return unexpectedly. His cloak was draped across them both, speaking without words of where she chose to stand.
Sigrun's voice came soft—but sharpened like a whetted blade.
"You were there," she said, eyes unreadable. "On training grounds. On raid. At the docks."
No accusation yet. Just fact.
Eivor swallowed, her fingers curling slightly in the fur cloak. She nodded.
Sigrun tilted her head just slightly, studying the younger woman's posture, the tension in her shoulders, the quiet defiance barely held in check behind her steady gaze.
"You have been at my son's side," she continued, slow, controlled, "while he bled, while he fought, while he nearly died."
Again, not yet question. But almost.
Eivor met her eyes now, silent.
Sigrun's next words struck harder—not shouted, not cruel, but honed for precision.
"Did you fight beside him… or simply survive under his shadow?"
The question hung like a blade over open flesh.
Brynja moved first, rising in a snap. "She fought," she snarled. "She bled. She killed. You weren't—"
Hakon stepped forward too, voice firm. "Lady Sigrun, with respect—she has proven loyalty time and again. She—"
The voice that cut them both down was not loud.
But it was deep, harsh, and cold enough to still every breath in the cave:
"Enough."
Ragnar did not raise his voice. He didn't need to.
Brynja froze mid-step, teeth clenched but silent. Hakon inclined his head and stepped back immediately, his expression unreadable but obedient.
Eivor turned to look at Ragnar.
He said nothing more—just fixed Brynja, then Hakon, with a single glance before letting his gaze drop half-lidded again. His implicit order was clear: Let this stand.
Sigrun's attention never wavered. She regarded the silent control Ragnar held over his pack—and how Eivor, though jolted by the tension, had not recoiled, had not dropped her place at his side.
Still, Sigrun pressed further.
"You sit close," she said to Eivor. "You lay his head to your chest when he howls in pain. You dress him, feed him, guard his sleep."
Her tone did not accuse affection—but challenged what it was worth.
"You cling to him like shield… but are you made to shield?"
Eivor's breath caught—pain, shame, and something sharper flaring behind her eyes.
Sigrun went for the heart now.
"Would you spill blood for him?" she asked. "Or do you expect him to spill blood for you?"
Brynja almost growled.
Eivor's eyes burned.
Sigrun took one step forward—not menacing, but unrelenting, voice low.
"Will you march beside him if fate tears him toward darkness?" she asked. "Or will you plead innocence and step back when blood stains your feet?"
Eivor's fingers clenched so tightly around Ragnar's cloak they whitened.
Sigrun's final question was quiet—but it struck like a storm breaking:
"Do you love him only in safety… or in battle, exile, doom?"
Eivor trembled—not in fear, but in something darker, something rekindled.
Her chest heaved once.
Her eyes rose—and for the first time since the docks, fire returned.
Not a lover's softness.
A warrior's fury.
The Raven Fury awakening beneath her breastbone.
She did not answer yet—but she would.
And when she did, the cave would feel it.
Sigrun watched her in silence, not with hatred—but with uncompromising expectation.
The trial of words had begun.
Next would come fire.
Eivor's chest rose and fell with a trembling breath. The room had quieted again, not in peace, but in that tense stillness before storm breaks.
Sigrun remained still, gaze unflinching, waiting — as if she already knew that silence was the weight under which the weak would fold, but the strong would rise sharpened.
Brynja ground her teeth, already half-turned to leap to Eivor's defense. Hakon shifted his stance as though to speak again — but Ragnar's earlier command still held them bound.
Now, all eyes were on Eivor.
The girl who had once been quiet, fiercely loyal, but uncertain of her voice… now stood at the edge of a precipice, with identity on one side and shame on the other.
She looked at Sigrun.
Her throat was tight, but she forced her voice forward — soft, shaking… at first.
"I did not survive under his shadow."
Sigrun did not blink.
Eivor's fists tightened.
"I survived beside him," she said, louder this time, fire flickering behind her eyes.
Her voice gained strength, not from rage — but from truth long buried beneath pain.
"I have bled. I have killed. I have watched him fall — and I have stood to guard his body when others fled." Her chin lifted slightly, defiance coiling in her spine. "He did not shield me because I was weak. He shielded me because I shielded him. Because we are pack."
Brynja's lips curled slowly into a vicious, proud grin.
Eivor stepped forward — just slightly, enough to separate herself from Ragnar's shadow and stand where all could see her clearly.
"And when the gods tore him toward death," she said, voice raw, "I dragged him back with my own breath."
Her eyes glimmered — not in fragility, but in ferocity that had been forged under grief and battle.
There was no sobbing, no apology in her voice. Only a flame relit.
Hakon bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment.
Brynja looked as though she wanted to tear the world apart in celebration.
But Sigrun did not shift.
Not yet.
Eivor inhaled deeply. Slowly. Steadying herself.
"I do not love him in safety," she said quietly. "I love him in blood, in shadow, in every war yet to come."
The firelight cast flickers of ember-red in her eyes.
"I will follow him into exile… into doom… into whatever path the gods lay before him. Not as a burden."
She raised her chin higher.
"But as his shield."
Silence.
Then Sigrun spoke — with no warmth, but with weight.
"Words are wind," she said simply. "Steel is truth."
The cave felt colder.
Eivor did not falter.
Sigrun exhaled slowly. "If you would claim your place beside the Alpha," she said, "prove you can stand when he cannot. Prove you can fight in his stead. Prove your blood does not freeze when the gods' eyes turn toward him."
Her gaze sharpened further.
"Fight me."
Not a duel to kill — but a trial to expose weakness.
Brynja grinned savagely. Hakon stepped back, arms crossed.
Eivor's breath hitched — but she did not hesitate.
She stepped forward — only for a movement beside her to pause her stride.
Ragnar had moved.
Slowly, with pained but deliberate strength, he reached across his body and unclipped the leather-and-iron chest piece that had been set aside earlier.
With effort, he lifted it.
Not toward Brynja.
Not to set it aside.
But toward Eivor.
She looked at him — startled.
His gaze was steady. Commanding.
He did not smile. Did not speak.
But his meaning was undeniable:
Stand with my strength upon you.
Eivor swallowed, breath shaking, and reached for it with both hands.
The armor was heavy — too large, hanging on her frame with the weight of his battles. Brynja stepped forward to help fasten the straps, smirking. "Don't let it crush you, girl," she muttered in approval. "Grow into it."
When the last clasp clicked into place, Eivor stood taller, breath steadying beneath the burden.
Ragnar leaned back silently against the stone, eye lingering on her for a heartbeat — not with tenderness, but with the solemnity of a warbound oath.
Eivor stepped forward across the cave floor, chest rising with each determined breath, the oversized armor resting across her shoulders like a mantle of fate.
Sigrun rose to meet her, spear lowered but ready.
No hatred. No malice.
Only judgment.
Eivor lifted her chin.
And though she did not yet speak her title, it thrummed beneath her heartbeat like a raven's cry in flight.