The cave fell silent as Eivor stepped forward into the firelight.
Ragnar's chest piece rested heavy against her shoulders, slightly too large, the iron and hardened leather shifting with each breath like the weight of an oath. Brynja had fastened it tight, cinching it so it would not slip. It still bore soot, dried blood, and scoring from blade strikes. Wearing it made Eivor feel as though Ragnar's heartbeat echoed through her own.
In her right hand she gripped a single hand axe, scarred and notched from the raid—a weapon that had spilled blood beside Ragnar. In her left, she held a round shield, its edges chipped from past blows, its grip worn by her fingers over months of training and battle.
She took her place at the center of the cave floor.
Sigrun stood opposite her, spear in hand—not a heavy war-spear of brute force, but a balanced one meant for precision. She looked calm, unhurried, her breathing even. The spear tip dipped gently toward the ground, not in mockery but in readiness. There was no hatred in her eyes—only judgment and duty.
Brynja shifted, excitement crackling under her grin. "Break her or bless her," she muttered under her breath, "this will be good to watch."
Hakon said nothing, but his eyes were narrowed, assessing—not cheering nor doubting, but calculating if Eivor truly understood how to adapt, to survive.
Ragnar watched from where he sat, back against the wall, breathing slow, expression unreadable. His remaining eye did not blink.
Sigrun spoke first, voice steady. "Show me if your stance is born of training—or desperation."
Eivor exhaled slowly, raising her shield and lowering her center of gravity, stepping lightly on the balls of her feet. Left side forward, shield covering midline, axe held back and ready. A clean, disciplined shieldmaiden stance. Silent answer: I was trained. I did not cling to him. I stood beside him.
Sigrun gave the faintest nod.
Then she struck.
The spear moved like a serpent—fast, stabbing low toward Eivor's knee. Eivor dropped her shield sharply to deflect. The wood shuddered under impact, testing her balance. Sigrun immediately withdrew and swept the butt of the spear upward, striking at Eivor's ribs.
Eivor pivoted, shield absorbing the blow with a grunt. Her footing wavered for a moment—but did not break.
Sigrun circled her, spear rotating effortlessly between her hands. "You can guard," she said evenly. "But guarding is not the same as standing."
Eivor's jaw clenched. She advanced two steps, shield leading cautiously. Sigrun tapped her guard with the spear tip—not striking so much as testing tension.
Eivor struck out with her axe.
Sigrun parried it with the spear shaft like brushing aside a branch, halting Eivor's forward momentum effortlessly and pushing her backward a step.
Brynja clicked her tongue. "Too tame. Hit like you mean it," she muttered.
Sigrun pressed her again. A quick jab high, another low. Eivor blocked both—but retreated, bit by bit.
"Still hiding behind the wall," Sigrun murmured. "Will you let him fall again while you stand behind your shield?"
Eivor's breathing deepened. Her shield arm ached. But her eyes didn't waver.
Sigrun angled the spear like she was about to thrust directly for Eivor's heart.
Eivor stepped in.
She didn't back away. She slammed her shield upward to deflect the spearline before it was fully extended, closing distance as Brynja had taught her—"Inside the reach. Wolves kill from the throat in." Sigrun's eyes sharpened approvingly for a flicker of a second as Eivor tried to bring the axe down.
But Sigrun twisted with experience born of years, stepping to the side and hooking Eivor's shield edge with the spear shaft, forcing her to spin off balance.
Eivor caught herself, boots scraping against the stone floor.
She could feel her pulse hammering. The chest piece weighed on her like Ragnar's silent gaze, reminding her of the promise she'd spoken.
Not a burden. A shield.
She set herself again. No panic. No shame. But now… more fire.
Sigrun leveled the spear again.
Brynja watched her like a wolf watching another wolf decide whether to bite.
Hakon murmured quietly to himself, "She's holding back."
Ragnar remained still—but his eye was fixed on her, not blinking, as if waiting to see which version of Eivor would step forward now:
The shield that endures.
Or the storm that strikes back.
Eivor inhaled deeply.
Then, with a calm, deliberate movement, she let her shield drop to the ground.
The sound echoed in the cave like a line shattered.
Brynja grinned like a madwoman.
Hakon's eyes flickered with interest.
Even Sigrun's grip on the spear tightened slightly—not in fear, but in recognition that something just changed.
Eivor shifted her stance.
Both hands gripped her axe now.
Her breath came steadier.
Her body lowered—not into rigid training form…
…but into something looser.
More dangerous.
The fur over her shoulders rose faintly, as though stirred by the ghost of a growl.
She had stood as a shield.
Now she would strike as a beast who fought beside Ragnar on burning shores.
Sigrun lifted her spear again, ready.
Eivor stepped forward, eyes ablaze.
And the Berserker within her began to rise.
Eivor's stance shifted — no longer the disciplined guard of a shieldmaiden, but the low, prowling posture of one who fought not to defend, but to dominate. Her breathing thickened with heat, a rhythm she had learned on burning shores and blood-slick decks. The firelight flickered across her eyes, casting a feral gleam within them.
Sigrun adjusted the spear along her palm.
Then Eivor moved.
She burst forward with her axe raised in both hands, her attack fast and heavy with raw intention. Sigrun pivoted, catching the descending strike with the haft of her spear, deflecting the arc rather than stopping it. The clash rang through the cave like a struck anvil.
Eivor didn't stop.
She followed through, twisting her hips and bringing the axe around again in a vicious lateral swing. Sigrun blocked once more — but this time, her steps were not as leisurely. Her stance lowered slightly. Measured. Respectful.
Brynja grinned wide, nearly laughing. "There she is," she muttered. "Rafnraudi wakes."
Eivor snarled — not a scream, not a cry — but a guttural release of breath that came from fury buried deep within her ribs since the docks and before. Her strikes became relentless — not unthinking, but wild in their intensity. Her feet were quicker now, her responses sharper. Sigrun countered each blow with poise, but she was no longer leisurely dancing around a trainee — she was meeting a warrior.
Hakon nodded slowly, murmuring, "She's transitioned. Rage… but with rhythm."
Still, Sigrun was older, tempered by countless battles. She began pushing back, using Eivor's momentum against her. A sharp strike of the spear shaft against Eivor's ribs forced a grunt from the younger woman. Another sweep knocked her partially off-balance. Her breath came harsher now. Sweat dripped down her brow. Fury alone wouldn't be enough. Sigrun was testing her — not just strength, but control.
And then Sigrun spoke between measured blows:
"Rage is a spark," she said. "But can you shape flame into destiny?"
Eivor stumbled back a step — not in surrender, but at the weight of the words.
Her axe hung in her grip for a heartbeat.
Then she let it fall.
Brynja straightened.
Ragnar's eye sharpened.
Eivor turned, breath steady now — and walked to the cave wall where her spear rested.
A long, dark-wooded raider spear, taken from the foreign lands, its point reshaped and sharpened by her own hand until it bore her imprint. She lifted it slowly, rolling it through her fingers in a smooth motion that spoke of countless nights fighting under strange stars.
When she turned again, she moved differently.
Not as a berserker.
Not as a shieldmaiden.
But as something caught between storm and judgment — raven-winged fury with purpose.
Ragnar's chest rose slightly.
Sigrun raised her spear in acknowledgement.
Eivor struck — swift, elegant, the spear singing as it cut the air. Their weapons met again and again, this time with cleaner rhythm. No longer just rage — now timing, intention. Eivor flowed like a dark wind, spearpoint always pressing forward. Sigrun had to give ground.
But the older warrior was not outmatched — only forced to respect this evolution.
Finally, Eivor saw her opening — she feinted left, then spun the spear butt-first, tapping sharply against the inside of Sigrun's forearm just enough to knock her guard slightly open.
She could have driven the point through Sigrun's chest.
She did not.
She halted the spearpoint an inch from Sigrun's heart.
Both were breathing hard.
Silence fell like snow.
Sigrun stepped back slowly, brushing her arm where Eivor's strike had landed — a real hit, controlled, deliberate. A warrior's strike, not a desperate girl's.
She lowered her spear.
And then… she nodded.
Not once. Twice — the second deeper, carrying meaning:
You did not beg your place. You earned it.
She spoke softly, but her voice carried through the den.
"Berserker. Shieldmaiden. Valkyrie. You do not wear titles — you flow through them."
A pause.
"You may stand beside him."
Brynja whooped triumphantly. Hakon gave a single approving nod.
Eivor stood there trembling — not from fear or exhaustion, but from the release of everything she had carried alone.
She turned.
Ragnar met her gaze.
His left eye held steady — but something shifted there. A quiet acknowledgment. A primal acceptance.
He did not speak, but his breathing deepened, as though something in him settled.
In that silence, everyone felt the truth settle like a brand:
Eivor was no longer simply of his pack.
She was the one who would run beside him when the wolf rose to hunt.
She was not just shield.
She was chosen.
Mate.