Night deepened over Vargr Hold, but no one truly slept.
Not the peasants who lay awake whispering of the Wolf.
Not the children who dreamed of packs in the mist.
Not the guards who rehearsed in their minds which god to pray to if Ragnar won—or if he lost.
Not Eirik, whose eyes stayed wide in the dark, as though he feared blinking might invite the Wolf to step through shadow.
And not the Pack.
Brynja finally sheathed her axes with a satisfied hum.
Hakon tied the wooden disc of Holmgang law to his belt and double-checked the binding twice.
Sigrun finished marking Ragnar's arm-wraps and sat with closed eyes, her quiet presence holding a vigil older than temples.
Ragnar eventually lay back on his bedding—but not to sleep. Eivor settled silently beside him, not touching, but close enough that their breathing aligned in a rhythm that spoke not of peace… but readiness.
The wind changed in the final hours of darkness.
It carried the scent of frost.
The omen of a dawn where breath would rise like smoke from living throats…
…and blood would steam on the cold ground.
Somewhere, a raven cried once and fell silent.
Somewhere else, a wolf howled—not near, not far, but from the echoing heart of everything that hunted, hungered, and endured.
When the first pale thread of morning crept over the horizon, casting the faintest glimmer of grey through the longhouse slats…
Ragnar's eye opened.
He did not rise with hesitation.
He rose like a man stepping into a destiny already carved in the roots of Yggdrasil.
And so the Pack followed him into the cold.