Eirik Sigvaldsson drank like a man who believed nothing in the world could touch him.
The longhouse chamber had been polished to match his ego — furs draped over carved benches, ironwork lining the walls, three shields mounted behind his seat: his own, and two taken from fallen rivals he'd claimed in "honor duels" staged under convenient witnesses. A silver ring hung on his belt, etched with the sigil of Thane — the title he flaunted relentlessly these days.
He was leaning back now, boots on a low table, goblet in hand, recounting a tale of his "glory in foreign raids" to two lesser warriors hoping to gain his favor. He embellished often — about how he supposedly rallied frightened men while their leader was struck down.
He never named that leader.
And no one dared to.
He was laughing at his own boast when footsteps pounded down the hall outside — frantic, stumbling, uneven.
The goblet paused at his lips. Eirik frowned.
The doors burst open.
One of his housecarls nearly fell to his knees as he forced words through panting breaths. "My Thane— the— the horn— they— they say—"
Eirik rolled his eyes. "Spit it out before I have you flogged for choking on your own tongue."
The man's voice dropped to a broken whisper:
"He's here."
Eirik's expression remained flat for a moment.
"…Who?"
"Vargr…" the housecarl gasped. "The— the One-Eyed Wolf—Ragnar Vargrson—"
Eirik stood so abruptly his goblet hit the floor, wine splashing like spilled blood.
"Impossible," he snarled.
But then he heard it.
From beyond the walls, carried on the air like the distant roll of thunder, came the voices of people gathering — whispers rippling in panic and awe:
"The Wolf…"
"The One-Eyed Wolf…"
"He walks… he walks…"
Eirik's heartbeat spiked, caged behind his ribs.
He forced a scoff, though there was a crack of panic underneath. "Hearsay. Fear-talk. Some raider with an eyepatch—"
"Thane…" the housecarl stammered, voice shaking. "Astrid and Viggo saw them arrive. The Earls have confirmed Holmgang law stands. You have been… summoned at dawn."
Eirik's blood went cold.
For a pulse of silence, nothing in him moved.
Then old fear slithered back into his bones — not fresh, not new, but remembered. From years ago. From a dirt ring where a boy bled from the eye and howled like a wolf that would devour the world.
No. No, this was impossible. Ragnar died that night. Or on the raid. Or drowned. Or bled out. Or something.
Or maybe Eirik had only prayed it so hard he'd believed it.
He snapped at his guards, voice sharper than his panic. "Summon my armorer. I fight at dawn. And fetch me more wine."
He sat back down.
His hand trembled when he reached for his cup.
So he clenched his fist until his knuckles went white.
And told himself:
He is a ghost. A story. A boy broken years ago.
He said it again.
And again.
Until the words felt thinner than frost on steel.
The dusk before a Holmgang was unlike any other night.
Even the air felt cautious.
The Pack remained within their assigned longhouse — a structure near the edge of the hold, traditionally given to warriors about to face the circle. The guards posted outside did not attempt to enter. None dared cross the threshold without reason. Whether out of law or fear, even they weren't sure.
Inside, quiet was not peace — it was sharpening.
Brynja sat by the low firepit, her axes laid across her thighs, sliding a whetstone across their edges in long, slow strokes. The sound was rhythmic, intimate — like something alive being coaxed awake. Her lips curled slightly with each pass, as though imagining the blade parting flesh. Not Eirik's flesh — she knew Ragnar would spill that — but anyone foolish enough to stand in the way tomorrow.
"Soon," she murmured, almost lovingly to the steel.
Hakon knelt at the longhouse table, reviewing a carved wooden disc etched with the rules of Holmgang in old runic script. He'd memorized them years ago, but tonight repetition was armor. His eyes were calm, cold, focused — not on the fight itself but the battlefield that lay beyond it. The pack's fate would hinge on this victory. Ragnar would rise. Or they would be hunted as beasts. He had no intention of allowing the latter.
Sigrun stood near the half-open shutters, letting the cold night air brush against her skin. She wasn't chanting. Not yet. But she held Ragnar's old arm wraps in her hands and was softly tracing runes along them in a mix of ash and crushed herbs. Not spells — protections. Not to give strength, but to remind the gods they were being watched too.
Her lips moved with words too ancient for casual ears.
"The High One sees. Let blood fall with witness."
Ragnar had not spoken since leaving the gates. He sat at the opposite end of the fire from Brynja, one knee bent, forearm resting loosely atop it. His breathing was slow. Purposeful. Not anxious. Not calm. Something in between — like a storm building patience before it broke.
Eivor stood behind him for a time, watching his shoulders rise and fall with quiet intensity. She could read his breath better than any poem, and tonight it was steady… but coiled.
She glanced at Brynja — whose anticipation crackled like lightning.
She glanced at Hakon — whose mind was already ten steps into the aftermath.
She glanced at Sigrun — who had accepted this path long before Ragnar had stepped upon it.
Then she looked back to Ragnar.
And without words, he knew she was there.
He lifted his head.
Turned it slightly.
Met her gaze.
And something unspooled in her chest.
Eivor stepped closer, quiet as falling snow.
Sigrun finished her runes.
Brynja smiled into the fire.
Hakon exhaled once.
Outside, a wind rose, cold and promising.
The Pack did not tremble.
They waited.
For dawn would not simply bring battle.
It would bring judgment — and coronation through blood.
The firelight flickered low, painting gold along Ragnar's jaw as he rose from the bench in silence.
He didn't speak—but he didn't need to. Eivor stepped away from the others without needing a signal, as though this moment had already been waiting since the day he first lost blood for her on foreign soil.
They left the longhouse without a word, moving into the night where the wind smelled faintly of pine and iron. The moon was thin, like a blade drawn across the sky. Snow had not fallen yet—but it felt close.
They stopped beside a quiet stretch of wooden fencing, far from the torches that lit the main path. The world around them held its breath.
Eivor stood facing him.
Ragnar towered in front of her, broad and silent, his long braids stirring slightly in the wind. The runes Sigrun painted on his wraps still glistened faintly, like fading lightning trapped beneath skin.
His single eye met hers. Calm. Ready. Already in the circle in his mind.
Eivor hated it.
Hated how certain he looked. How resolved. As if he had already accepted every outcome—including the one where he didn't walk back out.
She stepped closer.
He started to speak, low and controlled. "At dawn—"
That was as far as he got.
She grabbed him by the front of his furs and pulled him down into a kiss that wasn't gentle, wasn't soft—wasn't anything but a storm tearing across both their skins.
It was hungry.
It was territorial.
It was desperate and furious and claiming.
Ragnar froze—a hitch in breath, surprise flashing just briefly in his eye—then he answered with force, one hand closing firmly around her waist, dragging her against him as though anchoring himself.
His other hand tangled in her hair, not rough enough to hurt, but firm enough that she could feel his pulse in his grip.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing like they'd just escaped drowning, Eivor's voice trembled—not with fear, but fire.
"You better come back to me, Wolf…" she whispered, gaze blazing into his. "Because if you don't—I'll tear open Hel's gates myself and drag you back by the hair."
Ragnar didn't smile.
But his voice was low, dangerous, certain.
"Then wait for me at those gates," he murmured, thumb pressing just once against her jawline, "and I'll return—with blood on my hands and a place beside me kept warm for you."
Her breath shuddered—in relief, in terror, in devotion.
Neither said "I love you."
They had never needed the words.
Ragnar lowered his forehead just briefly to hers—not tender, but grounding—then stepped back.
Eivor's fingers slid away from his furs reluctantly, as though pulling away from flame.
She let him go.
But the kiss lingered like a brand.
And the gods, wherever they were watching, understood:
Tomorrow's battle would not be fought by a lone wolf.
It would be fought by a Wolf who had something to return to…
—and a Raven who would burn the world to bring him back if he didn't.
Sleep did not come for Eirik Sigvaldsson.
He dismissed his attendants, snapped at his housecarls until they left him alone, and paced his chamber like a man walking the perimeter of his own grave.
He tried to steady his breathing, to recall his rise, his victories, his title. Thane. The word should have brought him strength. Instead, it felt thin—cheap next to the memory of Ragnar Vargrson's howl years ago in the training ring.
He remembered that day all too clearly.
Ragnar bleeding from his eye, clutching a shield slick with blood.
Eirik had thought he'd broken him.
Then Ragnar roared—raw, agonized, primal—and for a moment Eirik had felt something deep and ancient recoil inside him.
He had told himself it was shock.
Not fear.
Then Ragnar vanished, presumed dead. And Eirik told the story so many times that eventually he believed his own lie: Ragnar was gone. Ragnar was weak. Ragnar was never coming back.
But now…
Now Ragnar had walked into the hold like a king returning to his chair.
Not limping.
Not pleading.
Simply walking—with that patch and that glare, with a pack behind him and a storm beneath his skin—as though the Holmgang were not a trial…
…but an execution long overdue.
Eirik splashed cold water on his face.
It didn't help.
He tried to drink.
The mead turned sour on his tongue.
He slammed the cup down hard, chest rising with shaky breath.
"He's just a man," he whispered to himself. "A brute. A savage. I am Thane. I am trained. I am blessed. I earned my place."
But behind every word, his mind whispered a louder truth:
You stole it. And now he's come to take it back.
He paced again, steps uneven.
Time blurred. Candlelight wavered.
When he finally dared look into the polished steel plate on the wall—a mock mirror—he didn't see a Thane.
He saw a boy again.
A boy watching another boy scream through blood and betrayal.
A boy who ran even after winning.
A boy who has never stopped running.
He pressed his hand against the metal surface.
It shook.
"He's just a man," he repeated.
But in the darkness behind his reflection, he could almost see the shape of a wolf standing behind him…
…waiting.
Eirik did not sleep.
He sat awake in his chamber, armor untouched beside him, staring toward the door with wide eyes—
—as if he feared Ragnar would come for him before dawn even arrived.