Steel scraped and clattered as the war-guard of Vargr Hold moved into position. Rows of shields overlapped like a wall of barked orders, spears angled forward with shaking certainty. The horn-call still echoed among the longhouses, drawing nobles, household retainers, and commoners alike to vantage points.
The pack's footfalls were steady and unbroken. Ragnar did not slow, did not posture. He simply walked through the mist as though nothing on earth had the right to stand between him and the place he once bled for.
At his right, Eivor's spear rested loosely in hand, her wolf-marked eye fixed dead ahead, unreadable. Hakon walked left with quiet precision, eyes already measuring defense lines and tactical response times. Brynja paced half a step behind Ragnar, smiling like a starving wolf that had just scented fear. And Sigrun came last, stride unhurried, gaze grave—it was the walk of a mother who had followed her child through hell and returned to witness who he had become.
Whispers spread like wildfire among the gathered:
"Is that… is that Ragnar Vargrson?"
"He died—wasn't he accused—"
"Eirik said he drowned—"
"The Wolf had only one eye… that one wears an iron patch…"
"That red-haired woman—gods, look at the markings—"
"Her face—like a wolf's—and the raven on her chest—"
"The pack… this must be them… the pack who vanished…"
Children watched with parted lips. Men gripped their weapons tighter, unsure whether to fear or worship. Some lowborn trainees stepped forward unconsciously, as though drawn by a calling older than clan laws.
Atop the watch platform, a senior guard barked, "Hold the line! If they are raiders or revenants, we strike first!"
But even as he shouted, his voice lacked conviction. No raider marched so boldly without banners. No draugr walked with such awareness. Whatever had come from the trees… had chosen to be seen.
Then, a figure approached from the interior gate with controlled urgency—broad, scarred, wearing the armor of high command.
Thane Viggo Stormhand.
He stepped onto the platform overseeing the guards, his hard-set jaw tightening at the sight of the approaching pack. He took in Ragnar's immense size. His eye. His stance. The deliberate presence, calm as a sharpened blade awaiting a target.
Viggo did not call for attack.
He squinted… then his lips parted ever so slightly.
"…Vargrson?" he murmured, barely believing it.
Another presence appeared at his side. A woman in fine dark furs, golden-blonde hair braided in noble fashion, face marked by strength rather than softness.
Astrid Fair-haired.
She had not run—but come swiftly, knowing a horn summoning full arms meant crisis or omen.
She glanced at Viggo, then at the figures walking steadily toward the gates.
She froze a moment as her gaze fell to the rear—where Sigrun walked.
Astrid's breath caught.
"Sigrun…?"
And her eyes widened further as she looked back to the front—to the towering man, scarred, wreathed in runes, wearing the wolf's head paint and that unmistakable eye-patch.
She whispered, voice nearly lost to wind:
"No… it cannot be…"
But he kept walking.
And realization settled like thunder in her bones.
He had returned.
Then Ragnar stopped.
Not because the guards blocked passage, but because he had reached the precise place where he intended to speak.
The entire hold held its breath.
Eivor stood firm beside him, head high.
Brynja crossed her arms in boredom, as if waiting for someone to say something foolish so she could start killing.
Hakon stayed inscrutable.
Sigrun looked up toward Astrid—and the Earl's house behind her—with a gaze full of inevitability.
Ragnar said nothing yet.
He simply stood—and let the weight of his presence fall like a silent blow.
And those who watched felt in their marrow what Sigurd and Torva had whispered:
The Wolf did not return to ask permission.
He came to claim what was owed.